“No.”
“Dr. Vecchio?” a familiar voice asked. “What are you doing here?”
He turned, surprised to see Beatrice De Novo standing in front of a Leger painting in one of the contemporary rooms; an older woman standing next to her. The young student’s typical uniform of black was broken by the deep red shirt she wore and demure black flats replaced her combat boots, as he thought of them.
“Beatrice? How unexpected to see you here.” He wasn’t sure why seeing her at the museum caught him off guard. It was a popular destination for students, and he tried to convince himself it was purely serendipitous she was here on the evening after he had been speaking about her. “A pleasant surprise, of course.”
The older woman looking at the Leger painting turned, and he saw the history of Beatrice’s slight accent in front of him as he examined the older woman. Spanish blood seemed dominant in her handsome features, and he looked into a pair of clear green eyes. She smiled and took Beatrice’s arm.
“¿Es el profesor guapo, Beatriz?”
Her accent, he noted, was educated, and from the Guadalajara region of Mexico.
Beatrice laughed nervously at her grandmother’s question. He smiled, happy that the girl had referred to him as ‘the handsome professor.’ Blushing, she smiled at Giovanni. “Dr. Vecchio, this is my grandmother, Isadora.”
Giovanni bowed his head toward the older woman, charmed by the graceful formality she seemed to exude.
“Mucho gusto, Señora. Me llamo Giovanni Vecchio. Your granddaughter has been a great help to me at the library.”
“And of course he speaks Spanish,” he heard Beatrice mumble.
“Beatrice, manners please,” Isadora chided. “Dr. Vecchio, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Are you a lover of contemporary art?”
He smiled and nodded, tucking his hands carefully in his pockets. “I am. I was just visiting the Rothko Chapel before it closed and thought I would take a walk through the main collection before I left. Are you a fan of Leger?”
“I am. Though I love the surrealist collection here as well. We live near Rice, so I’m able to visit quite frequently. You are doing research at the university?”
He nodded. “Yes, though really more as a favor to a friend who studies Tibetan religious history. She lives in China and I’m transcribing a document for her.”
“A lot of work for a favor.” She paused, but he did not explain further, so she asked, “Are you a professor?”
Giovanni caught the curious angle of the girl’s head as she listened for his response. He knew he was the focus of some speculation at the library, though he also knew even the best researcher would find nothing about him that he didn’t want found.
“I am not. My family is in rare books, Señora De Novo. I work mostly in that area.”
“Oh? How interesting! Are you a collector yourself? Of books? Or art?” Beatrice’s grandmother nodded toward the modern portrait on the wall next to them.
He smiled enigmatically. “I have my own book collection, of course. One my family has added to for many years. I enjoy art, but I don’t have a collection, per se.”
“My grandmother is a very talented painter, Dr. Vecchio.”
Giovanni turned to Beatrice, who had been standing, listening to their conversation. “It must be a pleasure visiting the collection with an artist.”
She smiled and took the elderly woman’s arm. “It is.”
“Would you like to join us?” Isadora asked.
He looked at Beatrice and smiled. He decided it was a perfect opportunity to gather more information.
“Of course, it would be my pleasure.”
He felt lighter as he strolled with the two women. He felt his expression-the intense concentration his friends often needled him about-soften, and Giovanni could even feel his posture relax they walked. Like her granddaughter, Isadora was charming and very intelligent.
He glanced at Beatrice as they walked through the Menil Collection. He noticed the affectionate and familiar way the two women spoke to each other and recalled a few of the major points in Caspar’s report on the girl.
Beatrice De Novo, born July 2, 1980, in Houston, Texas.
Daughter of Stephen De Novo, deceased, and Holly Cranson, whereabouts unknown.
Adopted at twelve by her paternal grandparents, Hector De Novo and Isadora Alvarez, plumber and homemaker/artist.
Senior at Houston University in the English Literature department. Accepted to the graduate program in Information Studies at the University of California, Los Angeles.
According to Caspar’s sources, Beatrice had been working in the Special Collections and Archives department of the university library since her sophomore year. Apparently, she had called the department weekly for three months asking if any position had become open since her last phone call. The young woman so impressed the staid director, Dr. Christiansen, he eventually created a position for her as a reward for her persistence.
“Do you enjoy folk art, Dr. Vecchio?” he heard Isadora ask.
He turned his attention back to her. “I do.”
“You should join us for the art center’s Dia de los Muertos celebration tomorrow night, then.”
“Grandma-” Beatrice tried to break in, but Isadora shot her a look. No doubt, she had not missed Giovanni’s quiet examination of her granddaughter.
“I would love to, Señora.” He smirked at Beatrice’s shocked expression and slight blush. “But I don’t want to intrude on a family outing.”
“Nonsense!” Her small hand fluttered like a butterfly in dismissal of his objections. “It’s like a fair. Everyone is welcome. It’s been too long since I’ve had a handsome escort who enjoys art as much as I do.” Her eyes twinkled at him and he smiled.
“Well then,” he replied, “how can I refuse? But I insist you call me Giovanni, Señora De Novo.” He was pleased the opportunity for further research had presented itself so conveniently. “If I’m going to escort you for the evening, that is.”
“You must call me Isadora, then.”
“Oh brother,” Giovanni heard Beatrice mutter, as she chuckled and shook her head.
“Are you from Houston originally?” Isadora asked.
He glanced with a smile from Beatrice to a Warhol painting on his left. “I grew up primarily in Northern Italy, though my father traveled frequently for his work and I often went with him. I moved to Houston three years ago,” he replied, turning to meet Isadora’s keen gaze. They measured each other for a few moments in the bright light of the gallery.
“Grandma,” Beatrice broke in. “We’ll be late for dinner if we don’t leave soon.”
Isadora’s gaze finally left Giovanni’s, and she smiled at her granddaughter. “Of course. It was such a pleasure meeting you. The art center on Main Street tomorrow? We’ll be there around seven o’clock.”
“I’ll look forward to it. Such a pleasure to meet you, and to see you, Beatrice.” He nodded at them and allowed his eyes to meet Beatrice’s dark brown ones. They were narrowed in annoyance or amusement, he couldn’t quite tell, but he winked at her before she turned and led her grandmother toward the lobby.
He stayed at the museum until closing, planning his objectives for the following night. He suspected Beatrice’s grandmother thought she was playing matchmaker between Beatrice and the handsome book-dealer. He was more than happy to play along, as a grandmother would readily give information to a polite young man interested in her attractive granddaughter.
She was also more likely to have information on her son and what he had been working on in Italy. Beatrice had only been a child when her father was killed, but Isadora had not.
As he swam laps that evening, he thought about the girl. She was far too young for him, even if he appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. Her behavior was a curious mix of innocence and wariness, and he wondered how much experience she had with men. She kept to herself, but he had the distinct impression she was no wallflower.