by Kris Tualla
“Interesting.” The signatures were not exact matches, but then signing a painting with an oil brush versus a quick note in charcoal could easily explain the subtle differences.
“Who are you, Benjamin Meyer…” Hollis whispered as she started an internet search. She made a face when she saw the results. “Dang, there are a lot of Ben Meyers out there.”
Benjamin Meyer painter.
Hollis scrolled through the first three pages of hits. Nothing.
“Hmm. That’s weird. How about, Benjamin Meyer artist.”
Still nothing helpful.
“Might as well go all in,” she muttered. “Benjamin Meyer painting nineteen-thirty-eight.”
What topped the list sent a shock through Hollis’s languid day. A link on StolenJewishArt.com listed a painting called Rachel by Benjamin Meyer, and dated nineteen-thirty-eight, as Nazi-looted property in Berlin. Unfortunately there was no photo or estimated value, but there was a claim number on the listing and a toll-free contact phone number.
“Well, I’ll be.” Hollis screen-captured the page for her own reference, then sent the link to Tom with her thank-you email.
Great job, Tom! But don’t tell Miranda or Benton about what I found until I have a chance to do more research. No sense in getting everyone all in an uproar yet. When I come in next week I’ll make the calls.
H
*****
When Sveyn woke up the sky was already darkening. He stretched gingerly and ran his hand over the tender incision in the front of his body. He was still amazed that it was possible to make the stitches invisible and even more amazed that they would simply dissolve.
He swung his feet to the ground and stood. Hollis appeared at the bedroom door and switched on the light. “Oh good, you’re awake.”
“I am. Is there something you needed?”
She shook her head and walked to the room. “I just had an interesting thing happen with Ezra’s hoard.”
Sveyn walked carefully around the bed and toward the bathroom. “Tell me.”
Hollis stayed in her room while Sveyn relieved himself. “It turns out that one of the paintings in his collection was stolen from a Jewish painter in Berlin.”
Sveyn flushed and stepped to the sink to wash his hands. “Why was it stolen?”
“The Nazis stole everything the Jews had, especially if it had any value.”
Yes. I remember this now. “Is the painting valuable?”
“Don’t know yet.”
Sveyn stopped in the doorway and looked down into Hollis’s beautiful blue eyes. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Her smile faded. “What’s wrong?”
Sveyn hesitated, wondering how honest he should be. “I am worried about earning enough money to take care of you.”
Hollis flipped her hand. “I can take care of myself. Don’t worry about that.”
“But I will be your husband,” he said slowly. “It will be my duty to protect you and provide for you.”
“Sveyn—this is the twenty-first century. We aren’t concerned about who makes the money anymore.”
Sveyn wagged his head. “No. When we have children, I want to be able to provide for my family.”
Hollis’s eyes widened at the mention of offspring. “How many children?”
“I do not know. I never considered being a father since Linge.” He thought back to his previous manifestations and what he saw in those bedrooms. “There are ways to prevent conception, if that is what worries you.”
Hollis smiled. “Yes, there are. And much better ones than you ever learned about.”
That was surprising—preventing pregnancy had not changed for as long as he could remember. “Better condoms?”
She laughed now. “Come on. We’ll do some research on the internet and I’ll show you.”
Sveyn followed her out of the bedroom. “Can we eat first? I am starving.”
*****
Hollis tamped down the panic that surged through her when Sveyn mentioned children. It’s not that she didn’t want any—it’s that she was still in the let’s make sure we’re compatible now that you have a body stage.
She loved the Sveyn she knew, that wasn’t the issue; but this new Sveyn was a big adjustment. Having the former Viking as a flesh-and-blood roommate was completely different than having an apparition who never ate or slept.
This old-fashioned view of women was probably just the first of many conflicts they would have to overcome as they blended viewpoints forged a millennium apart.
Hopefully they would be successful.
After Sveyn’s enlightening and humorous lesson on modern-day birth control, Hollis ordered Chinese for dinner.
Sveyn sat at the table tasting everything and enjoying his second glass of chardonnay. He wasn’t very talkative, which was unusual. Something was on his mind.
Hollis reached out and laid her hand over his, glad that urge was finally possible to fulfill. “What’s on your mind, Sveyn?”
His eyes met hers, his expression drawn. “You say I will work at the museum?”
“Yes. Probably as a guard.” She tilted her head. “Is that acceptable to you?”
“How much money will I make?”
Hollis sucked a shallow breath. Sveyn was still worried about providing for her.
Of course he was.
He is a man of honor.
The sharp ache in her chest reminded her it was time to blow in the plastic thing. “I believe that’s an hourly position,”
“This means I am paid for each hour?” Sveyn clarified. “Not like you.”
“Right. I’m on salary, so I get paid the same amount twice a month, even if I work extra hours, or if there are days I don’t work.”
“How much money will I be paid for each hour?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” she added truthfully.
“Would it be enough to buy a house?” He was really pushing the point now.
As much as Hollis wanted him to let it go for the time being, the strength of his convictions—a trait he displayed from the beginning—always impressed her. And the Viking was stubborn. There was no point in trying to deflect him because she wasn’t going to succeed.
“No,” she admitted. “I don’t think so.”
Sveyn nodded like that was the answer he expected. “And so I will need another job.”
This was going to be moment of truth, and Hollis braced herself. “Sveyn, you don’t have any training or skills. Or maybe I should say, there isn’t a use for the skills you do have.”
“I could work at the Renaissance Faire,” he suggested. “I could train men to be careful where they throw their hammers.”
Hollis smiled at that. “That would be helpful—and possible. But the Faire is only in Arizona for two-and-a-half months.”
His expression sobered. “I did not know this.”
“It’s too late for this year. Maybe you could do that next year,” she offered. “We could look into it.”
“Perhaps. But that does not help me now.” Sveyn combed his fingers through his hair.
Hollis noticed the bulge of his biceps when he bent his arms and another idea occurred to her. It was unusual, but… “When I first saw you, I thought you were a model, remember?”
His hands dropped to his lap. “Yes.”
“Maybe you could actually be one.”
Sveyn looked skeptical. “What does a model do?”
“They get paid to be in catalogs, advertisements, or on anything really.” This idea was showing merit. After all, Sveyn was tall, trim, and gorgeous. “You get paid by the hour to be photographed wearing or doing whatever it is that the company is promoting. Sometimes you get paid to appear in public as their representative.”
He leaned forward. “Does this pay more for an hour than being a guard?”
“Yeah—a ton more. Like hundreds of dollars an hour to start. But you’d work less hours, of course.” Hollis leaned forward as well. “You could probably do both.
Work at the museum, and then take modeling jobs around that schedule.”
Sveyn’s brow wrinkled. “Are you certain someone will want to take my picture?”
“Oh, yes.” Hollis sighed. “I’ve told you before that you are a very handsome man. And you’re tall. Nicely built. And your long hair gives you a great look.”
Sveyn ran his fingers through his hair again, looking a little self-conscious. “How do I start this modeling?”
“You have to find a modeling agency and sign a contract with them. Then they get a percentage of your pay in exchange for finding you jobs.” Hollis reached for her laptop. “If you’re finished eating, we could look now.”
Sveyn nodded and scooted his chair closer. “How much percentage?”
“Fifteen or twenty, I think.” Hollis typed in Phoenix modeling agency and hit enter. “The key is to find a legitimate agency, which is one that doesn’t require you to pay them for classes or whatever.”
While Sveyn looked over her shoulder, Hollis clicked on several websites. Together, they narrowed his options to three that looked promising.
“This one has an open call every Thursday. You should start there.” Hollis tapped the screen. “And it’s close.”
Sveyn winced. “Tomorrow?”
“No—wait a couple weeks until you’re more recovered. And hopefully by then, George will have made you legal. You’ll need that paperwork to take any job,” she reminded him.
“Yes.” Sveyn smiled. “I will do this.”
“Good.” Another thought occurred to her. “If you’re going to get a job, you’re going to need a phone. And an email address.”
His brow lifted. “Will my phone be smart like yours?”
Hollis nodded. “There is no reason for it not to be. You’re smart enough to use it.”
“And you must show me how to use your computer,” he said.
Sveyn’s expression was finally eager and hopeful and it warmed her heart to see his spark returning. “Let’s start now. I’ll show you how to create your email address, and then I’ll have you send me an email.”
Hollis closed out of the internet and slid her laptop in front of Sveyn “This screen is called the desktop. Start by moving the cursor—which is the arrow—over the icon—picture—of the program you want to open.”
“Here?” Sveyn swirled his index finger over the mouse pad in the laptop. “Which icon?”
“The internet.”
He moved the arrow there. “Now what?”
“Click—which means push until it makes a noise—on the left button here.”
He did. The Google homepage filled the screen. “That is easy.”
“Yep. Now let’s create your email.”
Hollis walked Sveyn through each step and created his account under his actual name. They had to add an underscore between Sveyn and Hansen because he wasn’t the first man with that name to want an account.
“There is another Sveyn Hansen?” He shook his head. “Someone else has my name?”
Hollis chuckled. “There are well over three hundred million people in this country now. And not that many names.”
“Hmph.”
“Now, let’s have you send me an email.”
Sveyn had never typed anything before, so he employed the index finger hunt-and-peck method. “Why are the letters not in order?” he grumbled.
“Because when they first created typewriters—you know what those are?”
He nodded. “War with Germany.”
“Right.” Hollis kept forgetting that Sveyn’s last manifestation was in the nineteen-forties, so he was familiar with the original form of much of today’s technology.
She laid her hands over the keyboard in home position. “Well, the ladies could type so fast that they kept jamming the keys. So the most commonly used letters, like E and O, were put where they would be hit by the weakest fingers on our hands.”
Hollis moved her fingers to demonstrate. “That slowed them down enough that they weren’t always getting the keys stuck.”
“But this is no longer a problem, because nothing on this can get stuck,” Sveyn pointed out. “So why do they not change it?”
Hollis shrugged one shoulder, careful not to tug at her cracked breastbone. “People are creatures of habit. And the transition from typewriters to computer keyboards took a couple decades to become universal.”
Sveyn grunted again. “I am finished.”
Hollis pointed to the send button. “Click there.”
Her phone pinged an incoming email. She opened the Gmail app and then opened Sveyn’s message. Smiling, she held it up for him to see.
“And I love you, too.” She kissed his cheek. “Now I’ll email you back.”
Sveyn waited, opened the email, and read it out loud, “You are going to do well in this century. I am sure of it.” He faced her. “Thank you.”
I could drown in those eyes.
If that sultry look transferred to the print page, Sveyn would become a supermodel. “I’m glad I can help you.”
“I do have one more question…”
“What?”
He laid his hands over the laptop’s keyboard. “When you go back to work, can you leave this here for me?”
Chapter Eleven
Tuesday
January 19
Hollis drove into the employee parking lot at the Arizona History and Cultural Center for the first time since the accident at the Renaissance Faire. Stevie had come over on Friday and drove both her and Sveyn to the doctor for their follow-up appointments.
Hollis was cleared to drive as long as she didn’t wear the seatbelt across her chest for a few more weeks. Sveyn, on the other hand, surprised the doctor with how well he was healing.
“I told you,” he whispered as they left the office. “Regency blood.”
Hollis laughed at his self-deprecating joke.
And the laptop which she ordered for him on Wednesday was waiting on her doorstep when they returned.
Hollis and Sveyn spent the weekend huddled together on the couch, eating delivery food and exploring the world of modern technology. By the time she left the house this morning, she was very confident that she had created a monster.
Stevie laughed when Hollis told her about the week with Sveyn. “That’s hilarious. But I’m glad he’s adjusting to technology.”
Hollis nodded and added, “Next I need to add him to my cell plan and get him a phone.”
“Who are you adding to your cell plan?” Miranda asked as she walked into the staff lounge.
Oops.
“Um, Sveyn Hansen.”
Miranda frowned at her. “The gypsy? Why would you do that?”
Hollis glanced at Stevie who was sipping from her oversized coffee cup and staring at the floor.
No help there.
“Until George gets his situation straightened out, he can’t set up anything on his own. And until we can hire him as a guard—” might as well get that suggestion out there now “—he has no income. But he can’t get a job without a phone.”
Miranda poured herself a cup of the always-strong coffee. “You’re right, I guess,” she admitted, her concern still clear.
“And it’s my account,” Hollis continued, building her case. “So I can shut him off if I need to.”
Miranda added five half-and-half creamers to her cup. “What about the phone itself? Just a flip phone?”
Hollis shook her head. “I’ll give him mine, which is paid for, and I’ll take my upgrade.” That’s actually a great idea.
Glad I thought of it.
“That way I know the phones features and can teach him.”
“I suppose that makes sense.” Miranda took a sip of coffee. “So where is he living?”
*****
Hollis sat in the chair in front of Miranda’s desk and listened to her boss’s harangue about how stupid she was being, putting her life and livelihood at risk by inviting a stranger—and a gypsy at that—into her home as
a single defenseless woman still recovering from a nearly fatal injury.
Not only that, but Sveyn had sent her seventeen emails since she left the house.
Thank God he can’t text yet.
Her phone pinged.
Make that eighteen.
It was time to take control of this situation and change the subject, so she could get away and deal with the other one. “The painting is stolen Jewish artwork.”
Miranda stopped her diatribe and stared at Hollis. “Which painting?”
“The one the guy called about.”
The tall curator dropped heavily into her chair. “Are you sure?”
“Yep.” Hollis explained how she searched for the artist and found the listing. “So now I have to call the guy and tell him he can’t have it back.”
Miranda wagged her head. “Good luck. That’s not going to go over well at all.”
Hollis stood. “Then I better get to it.”
*****
Hollis dialed the number she was given for a Gerhardt Kunst, the supposed owner of the painting.
I wonder if he’s related to the Nazi who stole it.
“Hello?” The voice crackled with age but was still strong.
“Mr. Kunst? This is Hollis McKenna from the Arizona History and Cultural Center.”
“Hello, Ms. McKenna,” he said politely. “I have been waiting for your call.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have good news for you, sir,” she began. “Did you know that painting was stolen?”
“Stolen? No. That’s not possible.”
“I’m afraid it is. It’s listed on the site StolenJewishArt.com.”
“It might be listed, but that listing is inaccurate.” He cleared his throat. “If you look at the back of the painting, there is an inscription.”
Hollis startled. How did he know that? “What does the inscription say?”
“It’s good that you are testing me.” He cleared his throat again. “It says For Wilhelm, B Meyer.”
Well that was certainly compelling. “Forgive me, sir, but how do you know that?”
“Because Wilhelm Kunst was my father.”