by Gwyn Cready
She shifted. She’d never considered her former self at all.
“It took the generosity of whatever Guild you’re covered under,” he said, “and years of good behavior. In short, you earned it. Peter, it goes without saying, has squandered every iota of goodwill he possessed chasing you down. He won’t be an acclaimed artist in his next life. He won’t be a portrait painter. I doubt he’ll be a house painter. I don’t know what he’ll be, but you can be sure it will be monotonously boring, soul grinding, and as far removed from a creative life as the Guild can manage.”
“No painting?” she said, horrified.
She considered sadly what Peter’s existence would become without painting. He’d lost so much already.
“Mertons, you have to intervene. The man has paint in his blood. I’ve never seen him without a sketch pad within arm’s reach. You told me yourself he painted nonstop after he was dead. Oh, Mertons. He won’t have Ursula, he won’t have me. You can’t take painting away. You can’t do this to him.”
“It’s not me. It’s the Guild. They’ve had it up to here. First you and the time tube, then Peter and his damned quest. They’re tired of being ignored.”
She looked at the laptop and back at Mertons.
“What about a deal?”
“A deal? What deal?”
“Is the Guild as good as its word? If they promise to do something, will they?”
“It is the Afterlife, after all.” He waited expectantly.
“The time tube,” she said. “I’ll give it up. Show you the source. You can dig it up or drop dynamite down it or whatever it is you do to eradicate it.”
“And in return?”
“In return, you guarantee Peter the life of a painter.”
Mertons stroked his chin. “The life of a painter, eh?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t guarantee he’ll be at the top of his profession. I can’t guarantee he’ll be rich.”
“So long as he can paint, Mertons. He has to be able to paint.”
He frowned.
“What?” she asked. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s not a problem, per se.” He gave her a worried look. “I hope, Miss Stratford, you aren’t thinking he could be reborn here? You have to see that Peter will enter his new life as a babe, not as a man. By the time he is thirty, you would be, well—”
“No, Mertons. I wasn’t thinking that.” Such a thought had crossed her mind, but now even that possibility had been quashed.
“There’s one more thing. You won’t be able to use the tube as a way to shortcut your book research anymore.”
“I’m not going to write the book. Peter’s life will go unrecorded, at least by me.”
A flash of something—amusement? understanding?—rose in his eyes. “I see.”
“And in any case, when it started I only intended to buy the book, not travel through—” She caught herself. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t be able to write, especially if we’re talking fiction. I’m a researcher, and a novel’s like building a campfire. With a few good facts and the right spark, I can make a blaze that’ll knock your socks off.”
He grinned. “I’ll consider my socks forewarned. And that’s what you’ll do?” he asked carefully.
When Peter is gone, he meant. God, don’t let it be soon. “Yes.” She smiled with considerably more optimism than she felt.
“It’s damned decent of you to do this for him. I’m pretty sure I can convince the Guild to take the offer.”
“Really?”
“I’m afraid you put a scare in them. An unregulated time tube is a very dangerous thing.”
“I don’t suppose there’ll be an artist’s life in my afterlife—or success in any profession, I’m betting.”
“No, you’d better grab whatever joy you can now. Though,” he added with a grave face, “you never know what can change. That’s why life is so interesting. You may do something so good or so helpful that it makes everyone up there forget you were ever a burr in their side.”
“Me, the writer of hot fictography, or me, the naked model spread out like some lascivious Artforum centerfold?”
He chuckled, and she decided the sight of Mertons laughing was not one to be missed.
“You know,” he said, “being entertained brings people immense happiness. Don’t underestimate the redemptive power of being able to entertain others.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Mertons. I won’t.”
“So…” He clapped his hands together. “Where is it? Is it in this room? Is the book here?”
She waved a finger back and forth. “Oh, no, no, no. Promise first. Tube later. I’ve learned how you people work.”
He sighed. “I’ll head out and be back before you know it.”
“Hey, um, take your time? Like, take the long way, maybe with a stopover in the Paleolithic era? I hear they have unbelievable cave art.”
Mertons tucked the notebook into his jacket pocket. “I’ll do my best, Miss Stratford. I can’t put off the Guild forever. Once they agree to this, they’ll want him back. The most you can expect is a few days. I think you had better not plan for more than that.” He gave her a significant look.
She’d always been the type to appreciate each moment, but even with every intention of savoring, was it possible to make the joy one could squeeze out of a few thousand minutes serve for a lifetime?
She thought of what one could gain and lose in the flash of circumstance. She thought of meeting Peter the first time in that hallway. She thought of her brother. She thought of the single, upending instant Peter’s eyes had met hers as she lay on that chaise. She thought of opening that article from Burlington Magazine, and she thought of Peter, buoyed at the notion of becoming a father, then losing the wife, the child, and any reason to keep on living.
“Mertons, wait.”
He turned. “Yes?”
“I want him to be happy.”
“Painting, yes.”
“No, not just painting. I want him to have a wife—someone who’ll love and understand his work—and a child. At least one. He’d be such a good father. Do you think—I mean, it’s not too much to ask the Guild to do that too, is it?”
Mertons’s eyes softened. “It’s not too much to ask. Every man deserves it. I’ll try.”
“Thank you.”
Cam wished everyone’s future could be so easily ordered.
* * *
Peter inserted himself into the small group of partygoers surrounding Woodson Ball.
“Howdy, Peter. How goes it?”
“Could I have a word in private? ’Tis a matter of some importance.”
Ball eyed him curiously, then put down his glass.
Fifty-five
Jacket slouched against a wall in the crowded entry gallery of the Carnegie. He decided that gazing dejectedly into his Yuengling and looking like he was passing a kidney stone was more effective than he’d expected at keeping people at bay.
“Jesus, you look like shit.”
Well, most people. He turned. It was Anastasia, looking like a cross between a real bad Idol contestant and a Knight of the Round Table. Christ Almighty, where did she get this stuff?
“Gee, thanks,” he said.
“And don’t bother adding I do too. I already know it.”
“What? No,” he said. “You look great. Ready for battle.”
She blew her nose, hard, into a napkin. Her eyes were red.
“Damned allergies,” she said. “Have you seen Cam? When is she coming down?”
“Yes, and I don’t know. Why?”
“I think you’re going to want to stick close to her this weekend. She’s going to need a lot of support.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
“I’m going to be named executive direc
tor.”
“That’s been announced?” Jesus, what an ego. Missed her calling. Should have been an artist.
“No. But it will.”
He gave her a look. “I wouldn’t count my chickens.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I dunno. Surprising things happen sometimes. For example, tonight. Cam dumped me.” He took a long pull of beer.
“What?”
“For that bloke.” He gestured to Peter Lely, who was prowling the opposite corner of the room.
“Shit.”
He frowned. “What’s it to you?”
“Loyalty, my friend. You know I’ve always been your number one fan.”
He wondered if he’d had too much to drink. He swore he saw fangs when Anastasia smiled. “I’m sure she’s better off.”
Anastasia snorted. “Is he still passing himself off as Peter Lely?”
“Funny thing about that. It turns out he’s a hell of a painter. Could probably pass himself off as anyone if he put his mind to it—Jesus.”
“What?”
“Look at her.”
Cam was floating down the stairs like a blossom down a lazy stream. His gaze cut to Lely, who was watching her too. “Belle of the ball.”
Anastasia sniffed. “Prosaic.”
“Call me crazy. I like that kind of prose.”
Jacket turned to see if his rival was equally impressed, but Lely had disappeared.
Fifty-six
Cam scanned the heads as she descended. Ball should be obvious. Apart from having that rich man’s luminescent glow, he was generally a head taller than anyone else in the room.
She noted that the curtained Van Dyck painting had been removed and wondered if Lamont Packard had done the dirty work for her. Then she remembered they’d decided just before the gala to unveil it in the gallery upstairs, not in the space being used for cocktails.
She didn’t spot Ball, and, more important, didn’t see Peter, either.
Crap.
Anastasia was in a tête-à-tête with Jacket—of course—though when Jacket lifted his eyes and spotted Cam, he gave her a gentle smile.
Wow, this evening’s going to be more fun than my prom, when Billy Schuler spilled cherry brandy down the front of my dress, my date left early with Sue Rodriguez, the cheerleader-ho from the theater company, and Anastasia told everyone she could find that she used to think the reason I’d decided on Barnard was because I was a closet lesbian but had rejected that theory on the grounds that I really wasn’t interesting enough.
She reached the next-to-last stair and sighed. No Ball, no Peter. That could only mean they were upstairs—well, Ball at least—and she reversed direction.
“I don’t recall the invitation saying ‘bra optional.’ Bit of a mustard problem?”
Cam didn’t need to turn to recognize Jeanne’s voice, or her sense of humor.
“Yes, I’ve taken to eating in my underwear. Saves on dry cleaning.” She continued up the stairs.
“I’m sure the guy at the café loves it,” said Jeanne, who followed, drink in hand. “Remind me to recommend you to my friend at Hot Dog Quarterly. They’re always looking for the next centerfold. That is, unless you’re limiting yourself to art world porn at the moment.”
Cam swung around. “You saw the paintings? How?”
“Same way I saw my review, the bill from your mechanic, and the present state of your investment portfolio. The notes from Ball were on your desk. By the way, I’d stay away from Pfizer. That pipeline’s looking iffy. Did you sleep with him?”
“My mechanic? Nah, it was just a headlight. I wrote him a check.”
“Funny,” Jeanne said. “You know who I mean. Mr. MC Hammer pants.”
“Yes, but not like you probably think.”
“You have some pretty funny ideas about how I spend my time.”
“I’m not getting the directorship. Did you hear that?”
“Yes, I believe your sister is practically handing out flyers. I’m sorry.” She gave Cam a hug. “It sucks.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Think of the upside. At least you won’t be seeing Anastasia every day. I’m going to be reporting to The Devil Wears Chain Mail.”
They had reached the top of the stairs, and Cam turned right for the first gallery. “It gets worse.”
“Worse than Sri Lankan chai with organic lilac honey at precisely nine thirty and bamboo paper notepads with her name in Kanji?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. Okay.”
“It wasn’t that the board didn’t pick me. I resigned. Had to. The Van Dyck’s a fake.”
“What?!”
“And there’s more.”
“Jesus.”
“Peter has to leave.”
“So go back to visit him. You know,” Jeanne added in a whisper, “Amazon. I mean, it looks like you’ll have the time.”
“Can’t. They’re taking my mode of transport away. And anyway, he’s going back to a new life. It’s a long story, but he was only in 1673 for an assignment. He’s really supposed to be in the Afterlife, waiting to be assigned a new life. Oh, Jeanne, I’m afraid I love him.”
Jeanne stopped so fast some of her drink sloshed over the rim of the glass. “Love? Oh, Cam. You really love him?”
“I must. Otherwise I’d kill him.”
“Have you thought about refusing? Holding him hostage? Packing yourself in his luggage?”
Cam shook her head. “No. He’s in the running for a good next life, and if I interfere—” She made a raspberry sound.
“Jeez, this is harder than I Survived a Japanese Game Show. Well, don’t give up. There’s always a way.”
“Not this time.” Cam sensed a fat tear quivering in her vision and hurriedly wiped it away. “And now I have to find Ball and tell him his two-point-one-million-dollar gift is worth about as much as a really nice Van Gogh poster.”
“Man, this is not your day.”
“Have you seen him?” Cam looked past Jeanne’s head, down the hall.
“Ball?”
“Either of them. Ball or Peter.”
“Peter’s here?”
Cam nodded. “Guest of Ball’s.”
“Well, Ball was in the east gallery, like, five minutes ago.”
“East gallery, then. Wish me luck.”
“Here’s my vodka tonic. I think that’ll work better.”
* * *
Cam navigated the buzzing patrons. Everyone looked so happy and carefree in their finery. Ball wasn’t in the first gallery or the second. By the third, the crowds had thinned, and at the fourth, the one that held her favorite selections from the “Behold: Love Through the Eyes of the Artist” exhibit, she was one of only three or four people.
Morose, she walked the length of the space, peering into the adjacent rooms, but found herself slowing as the paintings exerted their usual influence over her. Two Alex Katz works, both adoringly painted portraits of his wife, Ada. In the first, she’s a young mother with striking dark hair and gentle eyes, and her mouth is hidden behind the head of her young son, whom she’s kissing. In the second, she’s older. Her gray-streaked hair is draped over her shoulders, and those gentle dark eyes are edged with lines. Katz had painted Ada dozens and dozens of times in his career, each time with unmistakable affection.
“Lovely,” a voice said.
It was Peter, smiling. He looked magnificent, and Cam wanted to throw her arms around him, but found herself unexpectedly shy. She contented herself with catching a corner of his sleeve.
“It’s Ada.”
“I see that,” he said, tilting his head toward the painting’s title card. “Is that her as well?”
“Yes, both. The artist, her husband, Alex Katz, painted her over and over.”
> “One woman, two ages, and he still sees the same thing when he looks at her. The effect upon the viewer is unchanged. That’s remarkable.”
“We have one of yours, you know.”
“Do you?”
She pulled him into the British paintings room, one gallery over. She knew he would ask her about the Van Dyck shortly, but for one cherished moment she wanted to forget everything.
“You may recognize the woman,” she said.
“As one recognizes an oncoming storm at sea.” Peter’s face lit in a grin. “It’s my old friend, the Duchess of Portsmouth. Yet I see no telltale marks of newsprint upon her nose.”
“Snout, I think you mean. It’s not one of your best.”
“How you flatter. I don’t suppose your opinion is in any way colored by your opinion of the subject?”
“Hello, I’m an art expert. Where my opinions come from is nobody’s damn business.”
“I see nothing’s changed in three hundred years. I want to talk with you about the Van Dyck.”
She let go of his sleeve.
“Cam.” He pulled her around so she was looking at him. “I’m responsible for the letter your master received.”
As a child, she’d once had the wind knocked completely out of her when she fell from a tree. She’d been lucky nothing worse had happened. Nonetheless, she remembered being shocked by the violence of it. Peter’s confession gave her the same sense of having been throttled to her core. “I wondered if that’s what happened,” she said, finding her breath. “And you mailed it to Packard?”
“No. No, no, no. Though I can certainly understand why you would think me capable of it. I met with Van Dyck in the Afterlife and had him write it. I brought it with me to stop you, and then realized even I couldn’t stoop to such villainy. Oh, Cam, but I was fool enough to carry it in my sketchbook, and it was stolen.”
“By whom?”
“I-I don’t know.”
But he did know. And she knew with whom he’d met and who would be capable of such an act. “My sister.”