“Do.” He picked up her hand, lightly kissing it. “You could talk a dog off a meat wagon, you know.”
“You flatter me but, Sean, something like this does have political value. Especially in these times. You understand these things.”
Pleased with the compliment, he subtly raised an eyebrow. “Tuesday? I’ll call. Dad is free Tuesday.”
“I’m very excited. I think you will be, too.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Haristeen.” He slightly bowed to her, very slightly, very Southern, and left.
Marvella glowed. “I’ll give you a copy. Said I would. Some of the work is quite extraordinary. One thinks of Russia separate from Europe, languishing in the far northern latitudes. But over the last three centuries, even with the interruption and destruction of the arts by the Soviets, the artists were as polished as any European nation. It’s quite extraordinary.” She paused. “A thumb drive is easier than all those catalogs.” She then said, “That was Sean Rankin.”
“I figured that out and I forgot to tell you when we spoke by phone that a fellow who used to work for Rankin Construction was murdered last week. Gary Gardner.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know him, but I’m sorry to hear he was murdered.”
“He was designing a special workshed for me. He said he wanted to build La Petite Trianon but I was too practical.” Harry smiled. “Anyway, he was an architect, obviously, and designed some of the early high-rise buildings here. Left in 1984 to come to Crozet. Said he grew tired of building big boxes.”
“Sean’s father was one of the early proponents of modern architecture, modern materials. Of course, the early stuff was and remains hideous. Just hideous. Not just here but everywhere.”
“The fads turned me away from perhaps appreciating the work as much as I might. When I was in grade school the rash of reflecting buildings began. Shiny windows in bronze or light blue or like mirrors. They are still being constructed,” Harry said.
“Well, who is to say that flying buttresses weren’t a fad? However, they have stood for more than a thousand years.”
“They have.” Harry smiled.
“Given Richmond’s building codes, the new structures will stand. Unfortunately, most are undistinguished.”
“Everywhere, don’t you think?”
Marvella nodded. “One of the ways I know buildings are well constructed here is when the Kushner Building was torn down it proved difficult. It was built by Rankin back in the eighties. They will be building the replacement, the Cloudcroft Building. Forty stories. A Z shape. Very unusual with green space along the spine of the Z. At least it’s imaginative.” She exhaled.
“Was there resistance?” Harry’s curiosity awoke.
“On traffic problems, the time it will take to build the thing. A tax break for Cloudcroft for bringing business to Richmond has some people infuriated. They want tax breaks for themselves. We even have a group that is opposed to changing the Richmond skyline. I was unaware that there was one.” She slyly smiled.
“The Federal Reserve building.” Harry smiled back. “That really is about it. Take comfort in saving the tobacco warehouses.”
“I do, but they are rarely above two stories. I take that back, some were large, down by the river where the tobacco was held before being shipped out. I quite like them.”
“Save the skyline,” Harry mused, returning to the skyline complaint.
“Almost forgot. There is an environmental criticism but I don’t know their exact problem. I would think we’ve done all the environmental damage we can do.” Marvella laughed.
On and on they talked, bouncing between current events, the spiritual meanings of colors in medieval art, Marvella’s urging Harry to travel to other museums, perhaps even to once again take classes.
They became quite entranced by the thought of what perspective in art meant, how it changed painting, the movement of the eye.
After all this, Harry followed Marvella to the gorgeous, understated old home that she and Tinsdale owned right on Monument Avenue, where she picked up the thumb drive.
As Harry stood by the door to go home, Marvella encouraged her. “Now you call me the minute you see them. I must hear what you think.”
“I will. You’ve made me curious about Cloudcroft. A Z structure.”
Marvella waved her hand. “You’ll see for yourself. Next visit. If the weather’s good we’ll walk to the excavation. On the outside wall Rankin has painted the building’s exterior, the landscaping for the green spaces. The wall surrounds the big dig. Each side has a painting. One is the interior, a look at the glamorous lights. Another is the penthouse. The last one is the Richmond skyline with the Z lit up. That word again. Skyline.”
16
March 16, 1787
Friday
She sat across from her father, her shawl loose around her shoulders. The warmth from the fire proved sufficient.
“You’ll want to read this one.” She handed him a letter, paper heavy, well laid, gorgeous handwriting on the envelope.
He reached, checked the front. “Ah, the baron. He’s in the middle of everything.”
When a young man on the Grand Tour of Europe, Ewing, in France, had met Baron Necker, also young, interested in the New World. The two men, eyes to the future, hopes high, became friends. Both became important in their nations. As for Baron Necker, he was born to it. Ewing made his own way, although his father gave him the advantage of a superior education and at his death bequeathed to him the tobacco lands south of the James. The baron would always compliment Ewing by saying that the Virginian had made his own way.
Perching his spectacles on his nose, Ewing read, gasped.