Chapter 29
Fowler Townsend lived on one of the more prestigious squares of downtown Savannah. His historic red brick home boasted a wide porch and graceful archways under its roof. Tourists and locals alike would often pause in front of his home and take pictures of this idyllic leftover from the past.
“If you can get him off to the side to push him for information, I’ll search his study to see if I can find anything. Grace usually meets Fowler here to discuss our family business. And other business, too, apparently.”
“I hardly had to push at all for this invite. I think he wants us here.” Blake’s eyebrows climbed.
“Based on what we just witnessed between the two of them, I wonder if he and Grace don’t agree when it comes to all the secrecy.” I suggested.
“We’ll find out.” Blake looked upward toward the second floor, even though he couldn’t physically see the next floor from where we stood on the front porch. “The house feels haunted.”
“Every house in Savannah has a ghost story attached to it. Sally Anne Hunter still inhabits the upstairs of this one. She lived here with her husband in 1861 until she caught him raping one of their slaves, then she shot his head off. Or most of it anyway. What else do you think Grace has shared with him? Fowler, that is.” The doorbell’s melody carried throughout the inside of the house.
“They appear to be close. Grace is also pretty shrewd, so it’s hard to say,” Blake said just before the front door opened.
“Mr. Townsend is expecting you, Ms. Montgomery, Mr. Greenwood. Right this way, please.”
Smith, Fowler’s butler, was a tall, thin man with creases a tad deeper at the corners of his eyes than I had remembered. His classic British accent never failed to make me smile. Not the least because of the perfection of it all. Fowler’s home was wall-to-wall finery. Anything less than an English butler was simply unimaginable.
Today my grin was a little wider than usual.
“Is that a toupee?” Blake whispered in my ear while we wended our way across Fowler’s Persian rugs. “And is it blue?”
“Actually, I think it’s just so black that it appears to be blue.” I stifled a laugh. The shade really didn’t fit his pale complexion and suggested a misfired attempt to recapture his youth. It was also slightly crooked on his head, and I fought the urge to straighten it for him.
“Ms. Montgomery and Mr. Greenwood, sir,” Smith said when we walked into the library. Fowler stood near the warmth of the fireplace, with a scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other. Fowler had tied a yellow ascot around his neck and tucked it into his white shirt and black sweater, and was wearing a pair of black round-framed glasses.
“Addie, Blake, how marvelous!” Fowler said. He kissed each of my cheeks and then shook Blake’s hand as if he hadn’t just seen us an hour earlier.
“Come in, come in,” he said and adjusted his glasses. “The Monet is just here in my study.”
The beauty of Claude Monet's L'lle aux Orties was breathtaking in its isolated position on the largest wall of Fowler’s study. The purples spoke first, followed by the subtle blues, and then the greens. In perfect harmony, the reflection in the water revealed itself next, drawing the eye to the blues of the water, then the sky and back to the purple blooms.
Color and light had always been Monet’s crowning achievements.
Blake walked to the painting and eyed its various brushstrokes up close. I stepped toward the painting with him and ached to put my fingertips on the paint. I’d never read a Monet before.
“Exquisite,” Blake said.
All I could do was take it in. Monet left me speechless.
“Addie, I’ve wanted to show you this Monet for some time, now.”
“You have?” I remembered his suggestion to Grace that I could work with the Monet and that would keep me away from Otto. I had no idea what he meant by that.
“Eight million, was it?” Blake asked.
“Eight point one,” Fowler leaned against the doorway, his now-extinguished cigar perched in the corner of his wide smile. “A bargain compared to the Picasso.” He covertly checked the time on his watch.
“The Picasso?” Blake asked. He searched the walls for evidence of the artist.
“I keep it upstairs. In the sitting area between floors. Keeps things unexpected. Would you like to see it?” Fowler smiled, ever the gracious host.
“I would.” Blake put his hands in his pockets and smiled slightly.
Fowler was beating him to the punch at every turn, there was no need for Blake to push. I knew we both thought it odd.
“Make yourself at home.” Fowler gestured to me, and across his office.
“Take your time,” I said, and noticed that Fowler wasn’t the least bit concerned that I stood so close to his Monet. Which was unusual for a collector with such an expensive piece.
Before he turned the corner with Fowler, Blake raised an eyebrow at me. I shrugged, then set out to find anything that might help me find more about my father’s and grandfather’s location.
Fowler’s antique walnut writing desk with the green marble inlays sat guard in front of the picturesque, antebellum window, and I ran my fingertips along the wood grain to see what was there. Plenty of information relating to his law clients and art deals, some information about my family business, but nothing about my father and grandfather. His papers were stacked in short piles, sparsely placed. The drawers were locked, and a light jerk on several of the handles confirmed it.
My fingers inspected upholstered high-back chairs, polished tables, lamp shades, framed portraits of his horses, and even lumbar pillows and flower vases, but there weren’t any clues that helped me. Apparently, he didn’t talk with Grace about these particular family issues in here. There were no personal effects lying around. Not even pens or pieces of pocket change. What I wouldn’t give for access to Fowler’s wristwatch. Hopefully, Blake was getting some answers.
The late day sun shone through the window and highlighted a section of the bookshelf that covered the far end of the room. There wasn’t any seating over there, so I thought it unlikely that any objects would have captured conversational details, especially if the front side of the office had not. I walked there, nonetheless.
Antique books were the backdrop for a littering of photographs of Fowler with prominent politicians and various celebrities. I stifled an urge to take one of the books from the shelf, crack it open, and take a deep sniff.
The sizable crystal chandelier that hung from the middle of the ceiling gave the room a candlelit glow, and his office felt to me like a tiny jewel box that was stuck in some better place in time. My fingers walked against the faded spines that surveyed the room from the middle shelf. There was a chatter amongst the books, their stories murmured tidbits of importance that were trapped on the pages. Each one of the books were anxious to be read.
This was so unlike the art I usually read, which imparted emotions first and then the stories that came through in pictures. I often sensed details about the artist, their history, and their intent for the art. Usually. There was immediate information about its authenticity, what the canvas absorbed or witnessed from its position on the wall, and on and on. The details I could obtain from a piece of art were simply endless.
I traced the gold titling that still shone bright against the muted fabrics of blues and greens. My fingers paused for a few seconds on one title before moving to the next. Like a record player’s needle that read the spinning vinyl, each book responded to my touch and spoke its story with a strong voice. Authentic and clear.
“Of course the books would speak in words first,” I said, and instinctively let my fingers scan for the strongest voice on the shelf.
I landed on a blue linen-grain cloth with its spine lettered in gilt. The book all but sang its story to the last balcony seat when I felt its texture. I leaned forward and tugged the book from its home that was positioned near too tight between its neighbors.
“The Great Gatsby,”
I said, and studied the familiar cover. The book crackled when I opened it. A first edition. Its value must have been close to $200,000, or maybe even more.
It must not have been touched often because I could have sworn I felt F. Scott Fitzgerald’s vibe coming off of the book. His mercurial nature and star-powered social life glistened in bright images, feelings, and sounds across my awareness. His laughter filled the room so loudly it startled me, and I fumbled the book in response. I quietly slid the book back into its home and resumed my self-guided tour.
A black and white photograph in a simple silver frame grabbed my attention from its far-cornered home. Two of the four people looked strangely familiar, and the scene appeared more intimate than the other publicity-type photos in the room.
There were two elegant couples who sat around a white-topped, ornately iron based table in what resembled a Parisian cafe. They drank and laughed and raised their glasses in a toast to the photographer. The first couple on the left was immediately recognizable. Their photos had been spread across the world for nearly a century. His center part, the thin lips, and light blue eyes. Her wavy blond hair, almond-shaped eyes, and babydoll mouth. They were the most popular couple in literary history, and certainly throughout the 1920s.
They were F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald.
This wasn’t the couple who surprised me. No, it was the other man and woman at the table. Her pearl necklace was looped three times around her neck. Once close to her throat, the second time just below her décolletage, and the third longest loop disappeared behind the table. His black hair was shinier and combed into a different style, one more befitting the era. It sported the same dark waves I’d always known him to have.
Grandmother Grace and Fowler Townsend sat closely, his arm around her back. Neither Grace nor Townsend were more than a few years younger than they were today. However, they were resplendent in mid-1920s fashion and partying hard with literary royalty.
Chapter 30
Old demons rapped at the recesses of my mind. The same ones who had leashed my gifts and thought processes whenever I was about to see something I didn’t want to. No longer because it would shatter some misplaced need for normal, but because I had that feeling that I was dancing too close to the fire.
“This doesn’t make sense,” I said with a quick peek and a sharp listen into the quiet to make sure no one was coming. Then I released the latches from the back of the frame with a few clicks so that I could touch the photograph directly.
“Get a grip.” My breathing picked up its pace. “This is no time to wig.”
My left hand’s four fingers laid lightly on the front of the photo, and I reassured myself that this was an editing trick. Perhaps a party favor from a swishy New Year’s Eve party. But the energy rose up from the photo, the movie played, and there was no mistaking the fact that the four of them were friends. Old friends. As in, this is not their first time visiting with one another kind of friends.
I sat in one of the two high-back chairs positioned in front of the Monet, my fingers traced the photo again and again, and I tried to find some flaw in what I’d seen. Obviously, I’d made a mistake and allowed myself to be fooled by what the external appearance was, as opposed to seeing what the real story was.
Surely.
Problem was, the only story I could see was the one where Fowler and Grace were old friends with F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald.
“Ha!” I laughed and shook my head.
I put the frameless photo on the small round table that lived between the two chairs, leaned forward with my chin on my fingers, and stared at the Monet.
Mentally I walked through the history I’d read and tried to make sense of it. Though, sense wouldn’t come because I couldn’t find where this wasn’t true.
Grandmother Grace was one of the most powerful psychics, if not the most powerful, I’d ever known. As a young girl she visited France with her mother and studied for years with a shaman, where she learned impressive energy work. She had always been a wealth of secrets. I’d known her all of my life, and I was still unraveling her mysteries.
I glanced at the photo again and realized that the old saying was true. Watched pots never boiled, and answers didn’t reveal themselves just because you needed them to. Grace’s smile gleamed and my irritation with her burned. It was impossible to know if she was keeping yet another fantastic secret, or had managed to fool my gifts with some kind of trick.
I walked close to the Monet and eyed the brushstrokes, delved into the beauty of the colors. Anything to take my mind away from the photo I had yet to figure out. Even a short break would help bring clarity. Two pair of white gloves stretched neatly on the console nearby and I slipped one on. Like the scent of coffee beans at a wine tasting, a tiny touch of this masterpiece would refresh my psychic receptors.
With one hand gloved and the other half so, I glanced at the photo on the table. Fowler would be down in a few minutes with Blake, and I would ask Fowler about it. Placing it in front of him would be enough of a question.
With gloves intact, I stood square in front of the Monet and traveled along the greens and lavenders. The movement Monet had created in the water currents and gentle breezes made me sway hypnotically, and the scenery came alive. Energy currents jumped in arcs along Monet’s brushstrokes like dolphins playing in the waves of the Atlantic.
The ring finger of my left hand laid on this motion, and Monet’s story rose to my touch first. For some reason I thought he would be someone whose gift was more obvious, perhaps even burdensome as mine had been. Though it was more casual to him. His gift did as he commanded it to. Creating this image to appear like that and evoke the other. To channel his experience was more like he was a child playing in the sand at the beach than a world-renowned artist creating a masterpiece. He simply did what he knew how to do. And he enjoyed it.
Unlike most artists I’d read, Monet wasn’t interested in telling a story—his focus was to capture the beauty and the light. In terms of how precisely the painting matched the object, well, he was more intent upon creating an emotional expression for the viewers. As with any artist, he would bring himself into the painting. “No one would know,” he’d thought as he painted subjective detail here and there. “Besides, it should appear this way,” he said as he added yellow where there was none on the landscape.
Coolness surrounded me, a light breeze that came from the painting. I opened my eyes and expected to see a ghost interfering with my reading. Instead I saw something far more alarming.
Chapter 31
I wiggled my fingers and found that I could. They were there—I could feel them rub against the soft white cotton of the glove. I just couldn’t see them. Which was quickly becoming the least of my problems.
There was a tingling, like low-grade electricity, that crawled up my arm and created a drag, a force that tugged evenly on everything it covered. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant feeling, except for the fact that the drag was stronger than I could resist, and my arm now disappeared up to my elbow. Disappeared into the painting, that is.
My head spun with a dizzying sensation when I moved forward, though I was certain that my feet were firmly on the floor. Because at least I could see those.
Perhaps this was a new type of reading my gifts were morphing into. A deeper reading. Or maybe it was the painting itself that offered more information. No, not offered. Led. It guided me to new depths of information. Normally, when I read a painting, the information simply lifted to my touch. Its story presented itself to me like words on a page or stars in the sky. This information, however, was drawing me into it as if it wanted me to be a part of it.
I moved my hand back and forth inside the painting, and found a connection with several avenues of information. It seemed I could go in any direction I wanted with these different options, and I stepped forward so that I could see them better. All but my left foot buzzed with this electricity. Only a little bit of me remained in the house with Fowler and Blake.
As if the sun had ducked behind a cloud, a cool darkness fell on the painting and the interesting options were lost to an unexpected murkiness that blurred my vision. Sudden crosswinds blew through the area, the dark energies of Monet’s more difficult emotions—hopelessness, self-doubt, and depression—carried on these fierce winds and clung to me as if I could offer them salvation.
Gale-force currents of his insecurities, his indecision about his work, and the disappointments of his life sucked me deeper within its ominous grasp, and like a drowning victim I felt panic that I would not escape. With the more positive avenues gone, there was nothing left to reach for, nothing to hang on to and I drifted further into the well worn pathways of his deep sadness that were imbued into each brushstroke. I floundered and choked on wails that filled the air while Monet still mourned the loss of his first wife, and felt them as my own. I felt, just as his depression insisted, that there were no answers.
Fully prostrate into the winds of the emotional storm now, I prayed for help. Reading art had always been my stronghold, the one way I could use my gifts that never failed. Now this betrayed me, too. I screamed in frustration then felt the top of my foot hit something cold and hard, like a railing. The frame. I flexed my foot against it, and it was no exaggeration—I held on for dear life.
“I think I will take that drink. Scotch, please. Yes, straight up. Thanks.” I heard Blake’s voice from a long distance. Then I felt hands intertwined around my ankle.
Somewhere in Time Page 15