The dinner guests began arriving a little after six. The first were a middle-aged couple named Joe and Martha Henry, then three more arrived: a man of about sixty, beautifully dressed and sporting an open-necked shirt with an ascot, something Stone could pull off, and a younger couple — an athletic-looking man of around thirty and his date.
“Stone,” Morgan said, indicating the older man, “this is Angelo Farina. And this is his son, Pio, and Pio’s friend Ann Kusch. All three of them are artists.”
Drinks were served, and people warmed themselves before the fire. When they were well thawed and well oiled everyone became gregarious, and Stone enjoyed their company.
At dinner, Stone was seated between Morgan and Ann Kusch, who seemed curious about him. “Where have I heard your name?” she asked.
“You tell me,” he replied.
“What do you do?”
“I’m an attorney, with Woodman & Weld.”
“My father, Antony Kusch, was a partner there until he retired a few years ago.”
“I remember him,” Stone said, “though I didn’t know him well. I work out of a home office, so I don’t see much of the partners.”
“Why do you work out of a home office?”
“When I first joined the firm I had already established my office, and I didn’t bother to move. It’s worked out well, though. I’m very comfortable there.”
“Now I know where I’ve heard your name — you were mentioned in a magazine piece about Holly Barker.”
“You know the secretary of state?” Morgan asked before Stone could blush and stammer a reply.
“We’re old friends,” Stone said.
Then someone changed the subject, for which Stone was grateful.
After dinner, over brandy, Stone and Angelo Farina fell into conversation. “You’re a painter, are you not?”
“I am,” Farina said.
“My mother was a painter — Matilda Stone.”
“Oh, yes, I know her work. She had a remarkable gift for bringing New York City to life in her paintings, particularly Greenwich Village.”
“Thank you,” Stone said. “I’d like to see your work sometime.”
“I live just down the road. Why don’t you come around for coffee tomorrow morning? I’ll show you my studio.”
“I’d like that,” Stone said, then Ann Kusch came around again, and Stone turned his attention back to her.
That night in bed, when they had exhausted themselves, Morgan said, “You and Angelo got on very well. He doesn’t like many people.”
“He invited me around to his studio for coffee tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, good, then I’ll be rid of you while I’m talking with my decorator about curtains for the guest rooms.”
“Have you seen a lot of Angelo’s work?”
“Oh, yes, he and Mark were good friends. He used to be an art forger, you know.”
“Ah, that’s where I’ve heard the name.”
“He does his own work now, but he’ll whip you up a Monet, if you like, or an old master. He’s really quite brilliant.”
15
The following morning, after a good breakfast, Stone pulled on his sheepskin coat and gloves against the wind, and put on a soft trilby, then he walked past the tennis court/helipad and followed a stone path for five minutes until he came to an inviting stone-and-shingle cottage. Angelo Farina answered the door wearing a well-smeared painter’s smock.
“Good morning, Stone, come in and get warm.” He hung Stone’s coat and hat in a hall closet and led the way through a well-used living room and into a large studio that had been attached to the rear of the house. There were dozens of paintings and drawings and a few sculptures, as well as many empty frames of all sizes and shapes. On a large easel rested a newly begun painting of a haystack. “This one will be ‘after Monet,’” he said. “I was a very serious forger in my youth, but now I have to be careful to distinguish between my work and that of the original and make it just a tiny bit different, to protect myself from damnation.” He poured Stone a mug of coffee. “How would you like it?”
“Just black,” Stone replied, accepting the mug. “May I look around?”
“Of course, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Stone took a sip of the coffee. “That and the coffee, which is excellent.” He started at his left and walked slowly around the big room. “It’s like being in a museum,” he said. “So many old friends — Rubens, Leonardo, Matisse, and I love the Picasso Blue Period things.”
“Who is your favorite painter?” Farina asked as he brushed at his canvas.
“After my mother, I particularly like Amedeo Modigliani, and of course van Gogh — everybody loves van Gogh.”
“Of course,” Farina said. “Let me show you something.” He went to a cupboard and removed a canvas covered with a cloth and set it on an easel. “Perhaps you know this one.” He pulled away the cloth, revealing Modigliani’s Reclining Nude. “It sold at auction a couple of years ago for nearly half a billion dollars.”
Stone stared at the woman; her skin was creamy, her pose, welcoming. He wanted to crawl into bed with her. Her eyes, he noted, were closed. “It’s breathtaking,” he said, “but weren’t her eyes open?”
“They were, but it would be too easy to let someone have it who might try to resell it as the original. It’s a defensive move.”
“May I buy it?”
“Please accept it as my gift,” Farina said. “I’ll choose a suitable period frame from my collection and send it to your home.”
“You are very kind,” Stone said, and he meant it.
“It will be my pleasure.”
Stone looked around some more. “Could you paint me a van Gogh?” he asked.
“I’ve never done a van Gogh,” Farina said, “but it would be an interesting exercise. What would you like? Some irises? A portrait, perhaps a self-portrait? Pre- or post-ear?”
Stone laughed. “A van Gogh to order,” he said. “I like it.” He looked some more. “Perhaps a landscape, a bit of sunny Provence?”
“Let me look through my books and find something to, ah, inspire me. I expect I could have something done for you in a couple of weeks, perhaps sooner. Quick and dirty, as they say.”
“And this time, it must come with a bill,” Stone said. “You’ve been too generous already.”
“As you wish.”
Stone accepted a second mug of coffee, then sat down and watched Farina paint, as he had so often as a boy watched his mother. The man was astonishingly quick. Consulting a large art book on a separate easel, he held the brush and it flew around the canvas, and as Stone watched, a Monet haystack emerged. By the time Stone rose it appeared finished. “I promised Morgan I’d be back for lunch,” he said, “so I should go.”
“I’m so glad you could come over,” Farina said. “May I have your address for the Modigliani?”
They exchanged cards. “I’ll look forward to hanging it,” Stone said. “I’ll go home and start clearing a perfect place for it.”
Farina got him his coat and hat and walked him to the door. “Drop in anytime,” he said. “I enjoy performing for an audience.”
They shook hands, and Stone walked back to Morgan’s house, where interesting aromas were emanating from the kitchen.
“Sea bass for lunch,” Morgan said, kissing him. “It slept last night in the ocean.”
Stone hung up his things.
“Would you like a drink before lunch?”
“I’ll wait and have a glass of wine with the fish.”
They sat down on a sofa. “Did you enjoy seeing Angelo’s work?”
“I certainly did. I watched him paint a Monet haystack, and he gave me a Modigliani.”