False Impressions

by Laura Caldwell

  “I like to just wait and see what happens,” she said.

  I could see again what Mayburn meant when he told me Madeline lived for her gallery. Madeline Saga lit up when she talked about art. Her eyes were wide with wonder, her words faster than their usual calm cadence. “Some of the brilliance of these artists,” she continued, “the professional brilliance—combined with their creativity…well, that, for me, is dazzling. I don’t often see that in street art.”

  I thought I understood what she meant. I told Madeline about the sculpture that Maggie bought at the art fair. It was round and made with white plaster, on which the artist had placed broken white tiles, forming a mosaic pattern. It was a perfect accent for Maggie’s sleek, light and modern South Loop apartment. Although maybe that would change, since Maggie was now living with Bernard, a Filipino professional musician, whose tastes tended toward a black-and-red Asian style.

  “This sculpture my friend bought cost around a hundred and fifty dollars,” I told Madeline. “So I suppose that’s different than—” I looked down at the pictures “—a sculpture such as this one.”

  “Yes. But of course, there are so many facets of art appreciation.” She lifted one of the photos to her face. “It isn’t simply about price. The price is based on the techniques employed, as I mentioned, but also on the complexity the art carries in its message. Then there’s also the question of whether it’s derivative of another artist.”

  “Like art that was recently painted but looks like an Andy Warhol,” I said, remembering something else I’d seen at an art fair.

  “Exactly,” Madeline said.

  “Thank you for teaching me about this.”

  “It is my distinct pleasure.” She paused and put a hand over mine that was on the table. Her hand felt so light, as if most of Madeline Saga was filled with air.

  We heard the trill of a bell then, indicating someone had come in the front door.

  “He’s here,” she said.

  “Who’s here?”

  Madeline clapped. “Let’s go.”

  11

  Madeline led me into the gallery. I stalled for a second, standing next to the jeweled tree sculpture, taking in the man who’d just entered.

  He was gorgeous. You could see that, even from the side. He appeared like any normal guy, wearing jeans and a brown velvety jacket and standing near the painting of the woman in two different times. But like Madeline, something was different in the air because of him. Something felt fun, electric. Or maybe it was Madeline’s reaction to him.

  “Isabel Smith,” she said, “this is Jeremy Breslin.”

  Jeremy Breslin turned, took some steps toward me and shook my hand. I looked up at him, and into bright, navy blue eyes. Mesmerizing.

  I started to pull my hand away, afraid that if I kept gazing into those eyes, I might say something silly. But he held on to my hand. He looked at me, very curiously.

  He’s looking at all of me. I don’t know why I thought that, but that’s what it felt like. Again, it reminded me of Madeline, the way she took in the whole of things.

  Madeline explained that Jeremy operated a hedge fund, that he was originally from Boston and his wife’s family had been clients of hers for years.

  During this introduction, Jeremy kept holding my hand. When Madeline stopped, he seemed to realize it and let my hand go. It felt cold without his touch.

  “My apologies for staring at you,” he said. Then, as if for explanation, “My first girlfriend was a redhead.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Well, you know the redhead rules.”

  He smiled. “What are the rules?”

  “Let me ask you this, that first girlfriend of yours—would you say she was your first love?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “One of the rules says that if the first person you fell in love with was a redhead, or the first person you had…ah…you know, adult relations with was a redhead, then—” I shrugged “—you’ll always have a thing for redheads.”

  He laughed. “You’re right. I have a thing for redheads.”

  “Sounds like you’re doomed.”

  “Happily,” he said.

  “So, Isabel,” she said, “Jeremy is the one who—” She glanced around the gallery. No one else was there. “Jeremy,” she said, turning back to us, “is the one who discovered…” She cleared her throat. “Some improprieties with the paintings.”

  “Oh, the…?” I said.

  “Yes,” Madeline continued, “Jeremy was the one who discovered the issue of forgery from some work he had bought from my gallery.”

  “How?” I asked him.

  “I’m getting divorced, so we had to have our assets valued. My lawyer found an art appraiser to review what we’d collected.”

  “He determined you had fakes?”

  “Yes. At first, he told us that something was bothering him about the pigment on the piece, something he didn’t expect to see. He had it tested and found that the pigment hadn’t been available—didn’t even exist—when those pieces were done. It was very new. Therefore, they were forged.”

  “They? How many paintings were forged?”

  “Two.”

  “And you bought both of those from…”

  He nodded.

  “Both from me,” Madeline said, taking full responsibility. Madeline turned to Jeremy. “Isabel will be helping me at the gallery, so I wanted her to know everything.”

  “Of course,” Jeremy said. “Having you work here will be wonderful.” As he spoke, his eyes lighted on me again, and I felt some kind of current travel up my spine. I stopped myself from quivering visibly. I’m not really a quivering kind of girl, so the moment was odd.

  Jeremy held my eyes a little longer. If he was upset about discovering that some precious artwork had been forged, he didn’t show it.

  “Izzy.” He paused. “Is it okay if I call you Izzy?”

  I nodded. “That’s what most people call me.”

  “Even though ‘Isabel’ is much more beautiful,” Madeline added, smiling.

  Jeremy nodded. “Well.” He paused. “Izzy, this may seem a little quick, but could I take you out sometime? Just for a drink?”

  “Oh, I don’t know…” My eyes shot to Madeline.

  “You should!” Madeline said. “Jeremy has traveled everywhere, done so many things.” She took a few steps and put a friendly hand on his arm. “He’s a charming conversationalist. You can speak with him about anything. Absolutely anything.”

  It was those last two words, spoken firmly, that made me realize Madeline very much wanted me to go out with Jeremy. And even more importantly, to discuss the issue of the forged paintings with him.

  I looked back at Jeremy Breslin.

  “Tomorrow, perhaps?” he said.

  “I’d love to.”

  12

  Madeline Saga’s oddly shaped gallery was well situated for frequent walks past the place, either on Michigan Avenue on one side or on the narrow pedestrian mall on the other. Both provided large windows to see the artwork inside, of course, but also to see Madeline.

  These frequent, somewhat obsessive walks were an attempt to soothe ever-mounting emotions—toxic, hateful emotions—connected to Madeline Saga.

  From inside the gallery, the glare of the glass made it hard to see pedestrians outside. And so it was simple to walk by, back and forth, to see what Madeline was doing. Everyone who had dealt with her knew how Madeline got when she was working at the gallery. But of course, Madeline didn’t see the gallery as a job. It was her life.

  And now Madeline could be seen through the Michigan Avenue windows, through the snow, growing lighter, while the skies grew yellow with sun. And, yes, there she was, introducing her assistant to Jeremy Breslin, of all people, the one who had discovered the fakes.

  But how brazen, how bold, this introduction, as if Madeline felt no remorse.

  Madeline didn’t seem to notice people watching her—whether through her windows or in person. She didn
’t notice because they didn’t matter to her, whether they were full of awe or hate or anything in between. Art mattered to her, her gallery.

  But neither would be part of Madeline’s life for long. They might be the end of her altogether.

  13

  I met my father for lunch. In addition to Charlie’s news about his potential move, I wanted to ask him about the Madeline Saga case.

  My father had developed this dining game of sorts; in every restaurant, he wanted to try something he’d never had before. I wasn’t sure how he’d struck upon this, but I was happier than usual about it that day, since it gave the impression that he liked Chicago, that he would not be moving, and therefore I wouldn’t have to decide how I felt about that.

  This time, he’d picked the Bongo Room in Wicker Park. Currently my father was cutting into—I kid you not about this—Pumpkin Spice and Chocolate Chunk Cheesecake Flapjacks. And that wasn’t all that was in the dish—there were graham crackers, too, and vanilla cream and all sorts of stuff.

  I’d gotten a chicken and avocado salad that had melted provolone on it. I never thought I’d use the word decadent when referring to a salad, but that’s what it tasted like.

  “How is it?” I asked my dad after watching him take a few bites.

  “I do not know.” He took another bite, chewing it slowly. “Odd,” he said.

  Since no other information seemed forthcoming, and I wasn’t quite ready to launch into the topic of his moving, I brought up Madeline Saga. “Mayburn said he had you do some general research,” I said. “What did you find?”

  “What I found was the defeating fact that art crimes usually aren’t solved,” he said. “So, Izzy, you’re fighting an uphill battle with this one. Only around ten percent of stolen art is ever recovered. And the prosecution rates are even lower.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said. “Seems like it would be relatively simple to have security cameras these days and see everything that happens to a painting.”

  “Yes. If the art simply stayed on one wall. But removal is often needed for cleaning, for transporting to other galleries or museums, for an exhibition or relocation in the gallery itself.”

  “Madeline moved from Bucktown to Michigan Avenue last year.”

  “Well, then there are many danger points.”

  “Danger points?”

  “In the moving process alone, there are many points where criminals can get in. There’s the crating of art, there’s leaving those crates standing until they can be shipped, there’s loading of the crates into a truck, there’s the driving part of the journey, there’s the unloading. And then the art sits wherever it’s been unloaded until it’s unpacked. And then it sits there until it’s installed.”

  “Wow.” I felt overwhelmed at the realization. “So I should be tracking down and talking to everyone who was involved, even in the slightest, with the move of the gallery.”

  “You got it. I’d guess there were probably five to ten people involved. At a minimum.”

  He asked me what I did when I was at Madeline’s gallery.

  When there were no clients in the store, I told him, I tried to study what I could. Madeline had a binder for each artist she represented, almost like a catalogue, listing their bios, their previous shows and exhibitions, PR pieces and more. These files also contained manifests from each time a piece was shipped. I studied the information from the two forged works, hoping to find some sort of discrepancy or clue. As yet, I’d found nothing.

  But I had begun to cobble together not only some understanding of art but also of the art world.

  My father listened closely, taking occasional bites of his flapjacks. “You’re learning,” he said. “But it also sounds as if you’ve begun to nurse a healthy new appreciation.”

  “Exactly!” I said, thrilled to connect with my dad on something. “I not only know more, I appreciate more.”

  He nodded. “That’s how your Aunt Elena learned about art, as well. Maybe you do have something from my family in your making.” There was something so sad about the way he’d said those words—as if he was not only defeated but resigned to the fact that his kids were not like him, since he hadn’t been around to raise them.

  “Of course I have traits from the McNeils. We share the same name, after all.” I smiled to show him I was making light of the situation. He had a hard time reading sarcasm or irony, I’d noticed.

  He smiled. “That’s good to hear.”

  I told him more then about the gallery itself—a sparkly and interesting space. The gallery was nearly triangular in shape, and two full walls were glass windows, facing different directions. As such, there were always odd angles of light, even when it was gray out.

  When it was sunny, the light was filtered by the museum-quality film on the glass, so as not to fade the paintings. Many times, the sun seemed to create an orangey flash outside the gallery. Whenever I stepped closer to the glass, though, tried to look more intently, it had disappeared.

  He asked me more questions about the gallery. We continued to eat. At some point our conversation lapsed.

  “I heard from Theo,” I said, apropos of nothing. “A postcard. He’s in Thailand.”

  My father made a face. “That’s one of the most patience-trying places in the entire world. Why is he there?”

  “Mostly to escape. I think also to surf.”

  Another face. “Not much surfing there, except near Phuket.”

  When, I wondered, had my father spent enough time in Thailand, or reading about it, to know exactly where one could surf?

  I thought of the postcard. “I think that’s where he is,” I said. “Phuket. He mentioned there was lots of diving and rock climbing. He’s into that, too.”

  My father nodded.

  “He asked if I was dating,” I said. Why I was telling my father this, I had no idea. But it felt pretty okay.

  “And what will you tell him?”

  “The truth. I haven’t been really ready to date anyone.” I paused to see how this further emotional disclosure felt. And again—pretty okay. I thought of Jeremy. “But I feel like I could be ready to do that again.”

  My father nodded. Said nothing. So I changed the topic to the one I now felt prepared for. “I hear you might be moving.”

  He looked at me, from one eye to another, as if he were trying to look inside them, to read my reaction to the concept.

  When I opened my mouth, I found out how I felt about it. “I don’t want you to leave.”

  Was that a smile on my father’s face? His facial expressions changed little from one to another, but I thought I saw his eyes crinkle a little under his coppery glasses.

  “Is it possible you’ll stick around Chicago for a while?” I asked.

  “It’s possible.” He smiled again. I could tell that time.

  “I don’t want you to go,” I said.

  “Thank you, Izzy.”

  “Hey, maybe you should start dating, too,” I said.

  He groaned.

  “No, really. When is the last time you dated?”

  “Suffice to say, a long time.”

  It was my turn to raise my eyebrows. “A long time, as in years?”

  “Yes, a long, long while.”

  “Well, that’s it, then. You don’t need to move. You need to date a little, see if you’re ready. Just like I need to do.”

  He laughed, gave a small shrug. “Well, then, Izzy, I suppose, for once, we’re in the same place,” my father said.

  And I really liked the sound of that.

  14

  When Jeremy texted about the location of our date, he suggested Girl and the Goat, an intriguingly named restaurant that was one of the hottest in town.

  Isn’t that place hard to get into? I texted back.

  I know a few people there. I’ll take care of it.

  Now, in the cab heading to the restaurant, I started experiencing a jittery kind of nervousness, realizing that I was, essentially—since I’d met the g
uy for all of ten minutes—headed to a blind date. I rearranged the lavender silk scarf under my hairline and tightened the belt on my long, hound’s-tooth-patterned coat.

  The restaurant was on Randolph, just west of Halsted, and black-framed windows showed happily dining customers. Inside, most of the walls were brick, the floors dark hardwood, the ceilings beamed. A fantastical painting hung on a side wall featuring—interestingly enough—a girl and a goat. It dawned on me that I might not have noticed the painting before I started working in Madeline’s gallery. Or I might have noticed, but that would have been the extent of it. Being in the gallery made me want to look closer at anything having to do with art.

  I didn’t see Jeremy, so I took a few steps toward the painting—a huge, square canvas painted in bold reds, greens and golds. The primary focus was a little girl with big eyes and a pink dress running after a galloping goat with equally large eyes.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. “What do you think of the painting?”

  I turned, smiled. Jeremy was still gorgeous, dressed now in gray jeans and a black corduroy jacket.

  I managed to tear my eyes off him to look back at the painting. “I think it’s a little crazy, and I think it’s great.”

  When I looked back at him again, he was grinning, showing white teeth. “That’s exactly what I think. Bizarre, but excellent.”

  “So then the question is, which came first, the painting or the name of the restaurant?” I’d noticed that Madeline often spoke about the genesis of a painting, the history behind it.

  Jeremy looked at the painting. “I don’t want to know. I like it so much I don’t need to hear more.”

  Just then the manager greeted Jeremy with some happy thumps on the back. “Haven’t seen you for a while, bud,” he said.

  The waitress, too, greeted him warmly as we were seated. “What are we drinking?” she said.

  Jeremy looked at me for an answer. Out of habit, I almost asked for a Blue Moon, but that’s what Sam and I used to drink together. And I was moving past that, wanting to try something new. “Red wine?”

  “Perfect.” Jeremy and the waitress discussed and decided on a bottle of pinot noir.