“And what does that mean to you, exactly?” Clifford spread his hands. “Everything about this buy seemed legit. We know some of Magritte’s stuff got squirreled away in Antwerp during the war. The people who took possession then are dying now. Their heirs don’t care about the art – they just want the money, and they want it fast. They’ll sell this stuff to anyone, Madison. You know that. Even the Chinese.”
“Forgive me for not worrying about whether or not the Chinese buy fake paintings,” Madison said. “I just need you to stop doing it.” She shook her head. “The accounting is a nightmare.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“You were careful!” Madison protested. “Careful is not good enough. I want you to work with an independent expert from now on. Someone who can double check what you’re being told by the dealers.”
“I’m sure that’s not necessary.”
“And I’m sure it is.” Madison slammed her hand down on the surface of Clifford’s desk, startling them both. “Listen, if you’re going to throw these tremendous sums of money about, you need counsel. You wouldn’t go buy a company without having an advisor doing the due diligence first. You don’t approve any investment unless the team comes to you with results of research. All I’m asking is that you treat your art collection with the same degree of seriousness and professionalism.”
Clifford stared at her. He was clearly angry. His face was red, from his neck right up to his blond hairline. His lips were pressed together, and the vein on the side of his forehead was throbbing. Yet for a long time he said nothing.
“This is too much money to trust to your instincts,” Madison continued.
“My instincts are good,” Clifford said, clipping off each word, “most of the time.”
“And having an independent expert verify that does us nothing but good. Buy what you want, Clifford. I don’t care. But I want you to buy it knowing full well what you’re getting.” Madison crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t want any more pre-dawn calls from snarky Bloomberg reporters.”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” Madison echoed.
They stared at each other for a long moment. It was hardly the first argument the two of them had ever had; in the decade Madison had been helping Clifford manage the fortune he’d inherited from his mother; they’d had many disagreements. But most of those conflicts had been about business decisions, investments Clifford had or hadn’t been willing to make. Until now, his art collection had been sacrosanct, a personal passion that didn’t fall under the purview of Madison’s attentions. For her to insist of some level of control over his purchasing was a significant shift in their relationship.
“How do you see this working?” Clifford finally asked.
“We’ll call one of the art houses – not Jan! – when we need something appraised,” Madison answered. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to send someone over.”
“That won’t work,” Clifford said. “I’m buying all the time. And sometimes these deals come together so fast. I can’t wait around for Sotheby’s to have someone available for me.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“If I have to have someone,” Clifford said, “I want to really have someone. Someone’s who’s here with us, who will be available to travel with me, who’s all in.”
“That’s going to cost a pretty penny,” Madison said.
“Do you think it will cost thirty-two million?” Clifford said innocently.
“Don’t be an ass,” Madison replied.
“And it has to be someone I can work with, who I enjoy being around,” Clifford continued, ignoring Madison’s comment. “How about this? You pick the house, and I’ll pick the advisor. I’m sure you can make a deal come together on those terms.”
“That,” Madison said, picking up her phone, “sounds great to me.”
Chapter 2
“You have got to be kidding me.” Annette stared at Dieter, her boss and mentor. “Where am I being sent?”
“It’s really a plum assignment,” Dieter replied. “Clifford Stanhope is a very serious collector. He’s very deep in the Surrealists and early Pop.” He smiled at the change in Annette’s expression. “See? You’ll actually get to work with art you enjoy.”
“But what will I be doing?” Annette’s smile faded slightly. “It’s one thing to catalog pieces and get them ready for sale, but I’ve never been on the other side of that relationship.”
“Guiding acquisitions is tricky,” Dieter admitted. “You have to understand the client’s goals for the collection, and steer him toward pieces that meet those goals while appealing to his taste. With Clifford, authenticity is a bit of an issue. He’s put his foot right into it recently…”
“That was him?” Annette asked, her eyes going wide. “That spent a fortune on the phony Magritte?”
Dieter nodded.
“Oh, I bet his bankers were furious,” Annette said. She hadn’t been in the industry for very long, but there had been plenty of time for her to understand the role finance people had in art collector’s lives.
“Well, that’s where you come in. You’re to do what you can, to the best of your ability, to prevent any repeat performances.” Dieter grew quite serious. “Understand that we are here to provide you with whatever resources you may need to do your job. If you’re not certain of your ability to authenticate a piece, or you have questions, call us.” He shook his head. “It’s not just your reputation on the line here. It’s Feigenbaum’s. We’re putting a lot of trust in your abilities and judgement.”
Annette swallowed. “Why me?” Her voice came out much less certain than she’d intended. “I mean, there are plenty of people here with more experience than me. Surely one of them would be better suited…”
“That’s true,” Dieter said, his tone kindly. “But Mr. Stanhope requested you specifically.”
“I wonder why,” Annette mused.
“The fact you did your dissertation on Miró didn’t hurt,” Dieter said. “And this assignment will require a lot of travel.” Feigenbaum’s acknowledged surrealism specialist, Walther Holm, uses a wheelchair and was notoriously loathe to leave his office, much less the city.
Annette nodded. “I see.” She swallowed. “So when do I start?”
“Stanhope is sending a car round shortly,” Dieter said. “You’ll be able to begin familiarizing yourself with his collection today.”
Annette stood outside of Feigenbaum’s and fumed. She’d managed to pack most of what she considered essential to her work into her Coach Metropolitan tote. The soft brown leather bag was her pride and joy, the one splurge she treated herself to after getting her Master’s degree. More time would have been very welcome. Annette didn’t consider herself a control freak, but many of her friends did.
Who was this Clifford Stanhope, anyway? Annette resented the ease with which her entire professional life had been turned upside down. Landing a position at Feigenbaum’s had been quite a coup for her, and she’d only just begun establishing herself as a valuable team player. Being pulled off-site would completely derail her professional progress.
Still, it wasn’t like she had much choice in the matter. Annette knew that balking at the assignment would be much worse for her career than accepting it. Better to go along and learn what she could during what Dieter promised would be a short stint as Mr. Stanhope’s advisor.
She wondered what he would be like. Most of the people who came to Feigenbaum’s had known Moshe, the founder and president, for decades. They trusted him and his hand-picked team to help them find fantastic artwork at unbelievable prices. Many buyers weren’t what Annette would consider collectors at all but speculators, who hoped to sell high what they’d purchased very low. She didn’t care for that side of the business, but Annette’s parents had owned a gallery and she knew what the deal was. Some rich people bought art to get even richer; other rich people bought art because they really loved it. She hoped Clifford Stanhope would be in the second camp
.
A burgundy Rolls pulled up to stop directly in front of Annette. The driver got out and nodded to her. “Miss Lehrer?”
“Yes,” Annette said, clutching her tote against her side. “That’s me.”
The driver smiled. He had beautiful teeth and the skin around his eyes crinkled. “You look just like your picture,” he said. He opened the back door, ushering Annette inside. “Ms. Washington has come along to fill you in on today’s agenda.”
Annette took a deep breath. “Thank you.” She got into the Rolls as gracefully as she could. A tall, thin, incredibly well dressed black woman was there, peering at her smartphone. “Good morning, Ms. Washington.”
“Call me Madison,” Ms. Washington replied. She looked up, taking in Annette’s appearance, from the Gucci loafers on her feet to the carefully contained chestnut curls on her head. She sniffed a little when she saw Annette’s bag. “Coach,” she said with a smile. “That’s cute.”
“Thank you,” Annette said.
“Let me tell you a little bit about your role,” Madison said. “I’m sure Moshe has filled you in on why we’re bringing you on board?”
“I’ve been briefed,” Annette replied, “But the more information I have, the better.”
Madison nodded. “Clifford fell in love with Salvador Dali’s work when he was thirteen years old,” she began.
“That’s the age for it,” Annette said with a smile. She’d been a young teenager herself when she became entranced with the bright colors and quirky iconography of surrealist art.
“Yes,” Madison agreed. “And he’s been collecting to one degree or another ever since. Paintings, mostly, although he does have a soft spot for ceramics.”
“Michael Lucero?” Annette asked.
Madison smiled. “You do know your stuff. Yes, we have two smaller pieces by him, and given the chance, Clifford will buy more.”
“I can’t wait to see this collection,” Annette said. “I understand he has two Magrittes.”
“Two genuine Magrittes,” Madison said. “The third one…well, you know that story.”
“I will do my best to keep that from happening again,” Annette said, “and of course, all of Feigenbaum’s resources are at your disposal. If I can’t authenticate something myself, there’s always Mr. Holms. He knows everything.”
Madison smiled. “Walther is delightful. And I’m glad we have him available to us. You’ll find that ninety percent of the battle is getting Clifford to slow down. He gets excited and moves too fast. Having you there to introduce an element of caution into the process…” Madison’s smile faded. “Well, I hope it will stop him from buying more forgeries.”
“If we can get him to stick to purchasing known works, that would help a lot,” Annette said.
“It would,” Madison replied, “but Clifford is passionate about discovering lost works. He’s convinced that every house in Europe has art hidden in the walls. There’s a masterpiece in every attic, just waiting for him to find it.”
Annette shrugged. “He’s not necessarily wrong,” she said carefully, “although at this point, I think that most of what’s out there to be found has been found.”
Madison nodded. “But then Munich happened. And that really fired Clifford up.” German authorities had discovered more than 1,300 separate artworks that the Nazis had seized during the war in a prominent collector’s apartment. “He thinks that’s was only the tip of the iceberg.”
“Well, we shall see.” Annette patted her bag, hugging the resource texts she’d brought along with her. “We shall see about that.”
Chapter 3
The collection was superb. Dieter had told Annette that Mr. Stanhope was a serious collector, but she hadn’t expected to find so many top-flight works in one place. There were paintings from all of the period’s major artists, and it was clear they’d been purchased by someone with an artist’s eye. Each was truly representative of the painter’s best work – the Dalis in particular were exceptional.
“There’s more through this way,” a tall blond man said to her, beckoning through a doorway at the far end of the gallery. “You’ll want to see this too.”
“I want to see all of it,” Annette said with a smile. “This is a truly astonishing collection.”
“It’s not bad,” the blond said. “But I’d love to do more with it.”
“You would?” Annette said. She gave the blond a second glance. Was this exceptionally good looking man with the piercing blue eyes and charming smile her new employer?
“I’m Clifford Stanhope,” he said, confirming her suspicions and extending his hand. “Glad to have you aboard. I’ve been reading your dissertation, and I feel like you’ll be a real addition to our team.”
“You have?” Annette was flabbergasted. “You may be the only person in the world who has.” She shook her head. “I don’t think my Mother did, and I know my advisor didn’t.”
“I think it’s fascinating,” Clifford replied. “I think you’re right that Miró’s eagerness to repudiate the norms of bourgeois society was driven by animosity toward his Father. His letters from the period, when he was forced to resign from business school, put the blame on his health, but I think you can read easily between the lines and see what was really going on.”
Annette’s jaw dropped. “You’ve read these letters?”
“Not all of them, of course,” Clifford said. “But my friend has them in his collection, and while my Catalan leaves something to be desired, I was able to understand that much.”
“I would love to look at them,” Annette confessed. “There’s been so little serious work done on Miró, in part because these primary source materials have been so hard to find. You’re sure they’re authentic?”
“Well.” Clifford laughed uneasily. “I’m hardly the one you’ll want to turn to for that, am I?” He blushed a little and looked at his feet. “After all, that’s why you’re here.”
Annette waved her hand, taking in the long hallway filled with artwork. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. At some point, you have to look at collecting as a numbers game. When you’re acquiring works in this sort of quantity, it’s inevitable that you’ll run into a bad one eventually.” She shook her head. “It happens to every gallery, every art house, every museum. Without fail.”
“And what do they do when that happens?”
“If the gallery’s small enough, a Mom and Pop outfit like my parents ran, they go out of business.” Annette shrugged. “Art houses structure their buys to minimize the risk, but I can’t tell you it doesn’t hurt them when it happens.”
“Especially if the buy becomes public knowledge,” Clifford said. “Like Sotheby’s and the fake Rothko. They look bad.”
“That was ugly,” Annette agreed. “But Sotheby’s is a strong house. Their reputation will recover.”
“I’m not sure mine will,” Clifford said. “It’s going to take Madison a good long time to forgive me for buying that bogus Magritte.”
“We can’t change what’s happened,” Annette said, slowly. Not knowing the nature of Clifford’s relationship with Madison made her cautious; she didn’t want to start her new assignment by ruffling any feathers. “All we can do is concentrate on preventing the same thing from happening again.”
Clifford nodded. “I’d like to understand how you’re going to make that happen.”
“I’m not,” Annette said.
Clifford raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised. “No?”
“We’re going to have to work together,” Annette said. “I’ll provide you with the very best information I can, and then it’s on you to make your own decisions.” She nodded down the hallway. “You built this entire collection on your own?”
Clifford nodded. “There are a handful of pieces that were gifts, of course, but yes. The majority of what you see here are pieces I purchased.”
“Sometimes people inherit collections,” Annette said.
Clifford laughed. “My mother left me ve
ry well off,” he said, “but she had the aesthetic sensibilities of…” Words failed him suddenly, and he smiled. “She loved Monet.”
Annette chose to gloss over that moment. “So you’ve got a great eye, and a vision for your collection. You’ve been at this for a while now, and you’ve had one misstep. I wouldn’t let it shake your confidence too badly.”
“Smart and beautiful,” Clifford said. “What a wonderful combination.”
Annette blushed. She knew it was extremely unprofessional, but she was very attracted to Clifford Stanhope. He was good looking, charming, and his passion for artwork was equal to her own: a very rare combination in her experience. “Why thank you,” she replied. “On both counts.”
Clifford smiled. “And you haven’t seen the ceramics room yet, have you?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Let me show you.” Clifford reached out and took Annette’s hand. It was such a natural gesture that she thought nothing of it until their skin met; then an electric spark passed between them. Clifford looked back over his shoulder, caught Annette’s gaze and smiled. “Most of the Miró’s are from the Seventies, but I have one piece that is from the late Fifties.”
“Oh, I can’t wait to see that!” Annette bounced with excitement. “Hurry up!”
Clifford smiled. “We definitely picked the right woman for the job.”
The ceramics collection was smaller than the selection of paintings Clifford had acquired, but every piece in it was exceptional. Annette couldn’t help exclaiming over the colorful squat vases Miró had created decades earlier.
“They’ve got such a rich shape,” she said. “And the warmth. You can see the Spaniard in his work.”
Clifford nodded. “Sometimes it’s good when you can connect with an artist that way and really feel what they’re about. Sometimes, it’s not so good. I have some Picasso pieces from that era – not on display,” he added, as Annette looked around for them. “I don’t like how they feel. I don’t want to see them every day.”
Romance: Pummel Me: A Boxing Romance Page 39