The broker, a brisk woman who clearly takes a page out of Lydia’s book, shows us to the corner, where the painting is set on an easel by the windows.
“And here we are,” she says grandly. “Sailboats at dusk.”
I stand there, staring in awe. The painting shows a boat bobbing gently on the Venice canals. I did a unit on Manet at college, and I recognize the signature striped poles and blue water in the foreground and the white walls and lighted windows of the city buildings of Venice in the background.
Coates claps his hands together. “Remarkable, just remarkable. I assume the canvas and paint have been age-tested?”
“Of course.” The broker presents a folder filled with authentication paperwork, photos, official looking seals and other documents as Pemberly steps up to the masterpiece, pulling out his monocle.
“It’s breathtaking,” Pemberly says, examining the canvas up close. “Breathtaking.”
Coates examines the paperwork, nodding. “Everything looks in order.” He moves in for his turn at the canvas.
Pemberly beams. “Definitely a Manet. What an exquisite find, Mr. St. Clair.”
Coates looks up from the painting. “Absolutely. A dream find. A dream investment.”
Pemberly says, “We’ll have an unveiling in the city in a few months, build the buzz before then.”
I expect Charles to charge ahead and celebrate, but instead, he’s watching me. “Grace?” he asks. “What do you think?”
I’m not sure what else I can add, but I step forward to take a closer look. The painting really is beautiful, and the rest of the room seems to melt away as I absorb the painting, take in its intricate brushstrokes, Impressionist work at its best.
It looks authentic, and everything about the movement of the paint and the indentations in the canvas says it’s from Manet’s time period, and yet…
I pause.
“What is it, Grace?” Charles says, coming closer. “What do you see?”
“Well…” I look up and find all those expectant eyes on me, the looks of skepticism on the older men’s faces. I step back and shake my head. “It’s probably nothing.”
St. Clair gives me a look. “Tell me.”
I really don’t want to, but when I think of the alternative – him buying this possibly inauthentic painting – I have to speak up.
“Okay.” I sigh. Here goes. Please don’t hate me. “I think…it’s a forgery.”
The broker gasps. “Never!”
Coates laughs out loud. “Who is this girl?” he says. “I assure you, the paperwork is sound.”
“I’m probably wrong,” I say quickly, embarrassed. “Sorry.”
St. Clair takes my arm and draws me aside. “What makes you think it’s not authentic?” “I don’t know, I just feel it in my gut.”
Coates interrupts, “The tests have all been conclusive.”
Pemberly shows St. Clair the file. “The pigments in the paint, the composition of the canvas threads—it’s all from 1850-1890, which fits the timeline for Manet.”
“But those are the best forgeries,” I say, unable to stop myself. “Right? Forgers would paint fakes during the same time period and hand them down through the generations until someone could finally pass it off as the artist’s actual work.”
“But the signature is perfect,” Permeberly says, pointing it out in the bottom left hand corner of the painting. “Flawless.”
“Actually,” I go on, feeling my pulse quicken. Why stop now? It’s all or nothing. “It’s the signature that makes me wonder.”
The fussy men still look skeptical, but I have St. Clair’s attention, and he’s the only one who matters.
“Show me,” he says, leaning in.
I point at the T. “See how the brushstroke that crosses the T goes left to right? Manet’s real signature has the T crossed from right to left.”
The art advisors are unconvinced. “That’s not confirmed on every piece,” Coates says.
“It’s a tiny detail,” I agree, “but this painting doesn’t have the usual provenance. Just being discovered after all this time? It’s a one-in-a-million chance.”
“So either I’m really lucky, or someone wants me to think I am,” St. Clair says slowly.
He leans back and surveys the painting, thoughtful, then finally announces, “I’ll take it.”
The broker lets out a sigh of relief. “Wonderful.”
“Excellent choice,” the others pitch in, but I feel his words like a betrayal.
He doesn’t believe me.
I’m crushed. Tears are forming in my eyes, and I’m too close to embarrassing myself even further, so I say, “Excuse me,” and walk through the old house and out into the sunshine.
It’s okay, I tell myself. So what if he believed those experienced art advisors over me? Wouldn’t any smart person do the same? Especially with a large investment like that?
“Grace?” I jump at the sound of my name, but it’s Charles, looking concerned. “Are you okay?”
“I’m so sorry,” I flush again. “I feel like such an idiot.”
He sits beside me. “Don’t be. I believe you—you were right about the cross on the T.”
I jerk my head up in surprise. “You think it’s a fake, too? Then why did you buy it?”
“Because it’s still a beautiful painting.” He smiles. “Why should one painting be worth more just because it’s by a certain person and not another? Isn’t it still amazing, regardless of who painted it?”
I can’t believe it. He really doesn’t care about the names and labels.
“It’s getting late,” he says, looking up at the dusky sky. “How would you feel about staying the night out here rather than driving back? I have a place nearby.”
Blood rushes to turn my face beet-red faster than I can form a complete thought. “Oh.” OMG is more like it. Did he just ask me to spend the night?
“I have plenty of guestrooms available,” he says quickly, but there’s a moment when our eyes catch. Electric.
A night alone with him, away from everything…it’s tempting, unpredictable, and probably way out of my depth. But being around him makes me want to take a risk.
“Yes,” I tell him, and take the leap. “I’ll stay.”
CHAPTER 10
I don’t know exactly what I was expecting—some kind of English castle—but when we drive around the hill and pull up in front of St. Clair’s place, I find a modern, sleek house. It’s really more of an estate, a huge glass, steel, and stone building nestled in the hills above a beautiful vineyard.
“Your place is gorgeous,” I breathe, following him through the front door. It’s all open plan, with massive windows looking out over the hills. The kitchen is bigger than my entire apartment, a spacious expanse of stainless steel appliances and a wide granite-topped island.
I turn to take it all in, and then I see it: a real-life Rothko painting on the wall. My jaw drops. “This was at the LACMA last year. I wanted to go so badly. How did you get it?” I almost squeal when I get close. “The color in this is exquisite.”
St. Clair smiles. Then I notice a de Koons. And oh my God. “Is that a real Andy Warhol?!” I exclaim, running over to look. “Oh my God, it is!” I hear the excitement in my voice and force myself to stop, painfully aware I’m swooning like a teenage girl at a boyband show. “Sorry, I’ve never seen anyone actually own art like this. It’s always just been in galleries and museums.”
But St. Clair doesn’t seem to mind my enthusiasm. “No, it’s great. Most people don’t even notice the art itself, they just want to clock the artist and the value and move on.”
“This is an incredible collection.” I look around some more, a giddy lightness coming into my chest as I examine each piece, unable to wipe the smile off my face. I stop when I see him staring at me again.