by Amy Maroney
Slowly she lay down again, focusing her gaze on the shimmering sky.
“Hey!” she cried. “Did you see that yellow shooting star?”
“It was enormous,” Gus said, awestruck. “Monster-sized.”
“Moving fast, too. Streaking across the sky.”
“Maybe it was an asteroid,” he whispered. “On a collision course with the earth.”
“Should we be worried?” Zari asked him.
“Nah.”
They lay in quiet companionship, listening to the throaty chirps of frogs plying the creek.
“Okay,” Zari said after a while. “If I can get back to Europe, I’ll get serious about Wil. But I haven’t applied for any more post-doctorate research gigs there. So it won’t be soon.”
Gus made a choking sound and sat bolt upright. She could feel his accusing stare.
“I thought you were going to finish digging around for Mira de Oto,” he spluttered. “You told me yourself post-docs are the way to do it. How else will you ever get a job as a professor?”
Zari sat up, too. “I published an academic article about Cornelia van der Zee this summer, remember? Publishing is what counts in my world, Gus. It’s the only way I’ll get a professorship—the only way to make a name for myself. There are too few jobs and too many art historians, especially in the places I want to live. Plus, I’ve got tons of website development work. And it pays the bills much better than poking around in the dustbins of art history.”
“You seriously have no irons in the fire to get back to Mira?” he asked in disbelief. “You’re going to let one minor setback derail you for good? That Dotie guy really messed with your head.”
“What is this, an interrogation?” Zari poked her brother in the ribs. “I came home to help with mom. Not immerse myself in job-hunting.”
Their mother, Portia, had been injured in a car accident a few months earlier—the same day, in fact, that Zari had suffered a major humiliation at an art history conference in France. All of her research on Mira de Oto, laid out before a roomful of experts, had been discredited in an instant by her academic nemesis Dotie Butterfield-Swinton. The more distance she could put between herself and that terrible day, the better. It was on constant replay in her mind, especially during sleepless nights.
“Zari,” Gus said. “Mom didn’t need you at her side all summer. So she broke a few bones. She’s tough. She’s back in business. You need to let go of the idea that you’re the responsible one. You’ve convinced yourself that I can’t be trusted to take care of things, even though that stopped being true a long, long time ago. Yes, I was an addict once. And yes, you helped me navigate all of that. It’s been what, eleven years now?” The anger in his voice was palpable. “You needed an excuse to run away from the Wil situation and the Mira situation. So you decided you were indispensable here. In my opinion, you wasted the summer.”
Zari forced herself to stay calm. Getting defensive would serve no purpose. Too often in the past she had spoken without thinking, without a filter, and hurt people in the process.
“I know I’m being wishy washy about Wil and Mira both,” she said softly. “And I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to let go of the old narrative about you. Honestly, I do trust you to take care of things.”
That was another thing she hadn’t done enough of in the past—apologize.
Gus’s body relaxed.
She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “The truth is, I lost my confidence somewhere along the way. But I promise you, Gus, if I do go back to Europe, I will make my move. I’ll be glued to Wil. I’ll hunt down Mira. I’ll give them both my best shot.”
He let out a low whistle. “Now you’re sounding like a stalker.”
Zari lightly punched her brother on the arm. “Will you shut up?”
8
August, 2016
Oregon
Zari
“Hey!” Zari exclaimed, pointing out the window. “There’s a mountain goat. Or a sheep.”
Gus craned his neck, straining for a view. “Sheep,” he announced. “Definitely sheep.”
“Who made you the expert?” she asked, opening her window a crack. The rush of hot air made her promptly close it again. It was over one hundred degrees outside.
“I’m interested in hoof stock.” Gus put on his signal and eased the van into the fast lane, passing a truck filled with grain.
“Since when?”
“Kids make you learn a lot of trivial facts.” He checked the rear view mirror. “I know a lot about sharks, for example. And dinosaurs. And fairies. And secret underwater cities populated exclusively with mermaids.”
“No mermen?”
“Apparently mermaids don’t need or want mermen, according to Eva.”
They watched the river slide by on the right, the parched undulating hills rolling by on the left. Gus tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel, unconsciously keeping time with his leg. Zari watched him out of the corner of her eye. He had always been plagued by relentless energy. When he added coffee to the mix, his body positively thrummed.
“Would you rather eat a popsicle made of bone broth,” Gus began, “or a smoothie made of—”
“Shhh!” Zari held up a hand. Her mobile was buzzing with an incoming call from a number she hadn’t seen lighting up the tiny screen for ages. It was Andreas Gutknecht, the Swiss art broker she had met last spring at the conference in France. He witnessed her humiliation at Dotie’s hands—and made a point of offering her kind words, even hinted at a job possibility. Since then, she’d reached out to him several times, but he never responded.
“Hello, Zari.” His soft, slightly accented English filled her ear.
“Andreas. It’s great to hear from you.”
She tried to ignore the rapid thumping of her heart, suddenly grateful for the fact that her niece and nephew, sharing a set of earbuds, were immersed in a movie in the back seat. Gus signaled and pulled smoothly into the fast lane again, passing a triple-trailer truck emblazoned with the Walmart logo.
“Congratulations on the publication of your article,” Andreas said.
Zari’s article on Flemish portrait artist Cornelia van der Zee was the last component of the research project that had originally taken her to Europe a few years ago. Her only regret was that it was so short. There was scant information in the historical record regarding the artist, though compared to most women painters of the Renaissance era, Cornelia’s life was well-documented.
“Thank you,” she acknowledged, slipping in her earbuds. “I’m happy it’s out in the world.”
“Have you learned anything new on the topic of Mira de Oto since I saw you in the spring?” he asked.
“I’ve been in California for the past few months. So, no. But I have been pumping out a lot of social media on her behalf.”
“I know. I follow you on Twitter and Instagram.”
“Have you checked out her Pinterest page?” Zari asked.
He chuckled. “I never quite figured out Pinterest. As much as I want to talk about Mira, the reason I called is actually Cornelia van der Zee.”
“Oh?”
“I’d hoped I could convince my boss, Darius Eberly, to hire you to continue your investigation of Mira, but I just couldn’t sell him on the idea, unfortunately,” he said. “And I see his point.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is a numbers game, Zari. We only go after an artist’s work is if we know it will command a good price at auction. You and I have talked about the growth in the market for female Old Masters, and the trend is continuing. Artemisia Gentileschi’s star is brightest. It’s been rising for some time now. There’s every reason to think she’ll continue to be a good—even great—investment for collectors.”
A hollow feeling took hold of Zari’s stomach. “And Mira’s star?”
“In the eyes of art experts, Mira’s got no star, Zari. She is nothing more than a good story.”
“I’ve found three paintings that all show multiple points of evidence that she made them,” Zari pointed out.
“I believe she made them, too. You did an excellent job convincing me of that in Bordeaux. But the fact is,” his voice softened, “nobody cares, Zari. In my world, nobody cares.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m doing my best to change that.”
“Look, Zari, there’s something else. The painting you discovered from Toulouse—the woman in blue?”
“Yes?” Zari’s hand went reflexively to her throat.
The portrait had been a cornerstone of her research on Mira last spring. It was painted on an oak panel imprinted with the mark of Mira’s husband Arnaud de Luz. Digging through Toulouse’s historical archives, Zari learned the subject of the portrait was the noble wife of Lord Esteven de Vernier, a wealthy merchant of the early sixteenth century. She presented her evidence at the art history conference in Bordeaux, along with a notary’s record that Lord de Vernier had hired Mira de Oto to paint portraits of his family.
But Dotie Butterfield-Swinton had pulled the rug out from under her a few minutes later by disclosing he had purchased that very painting. Worse, he claimed the painting was undergoing analysis which would prove it was in fact the work of a famous male artist, Bartolomé Bermejo. In that instant, her confidence plummeted and her fledgling credibility in the European academic scene crumbled.
“The analysis of the portrait is underway,” Andreas went on. “Dotie leaked one of the findings. Bermejo’s signature was discovered on it.”
“What?” The shock in Zari’s voice was so raw that Gus flicked her a worried look.
How had she missed this? She had been checking in with art industry contacts and closely monitoring Dotie’s social media posts all summer, waiting for news of the painting.
“That can’t be right,” Zari protested. She felt close to tears. “There’s no way Bermejo made that portrait. It’s not his work!”
“Let’s put aside Dotie and Bermejo for the moment,” Andreas said. “I think I can help get you back to Europe after all. Darius is interested in Cornelia van der Zee. He read your article. He wants to hire you to root out her works from museums and private collections.”
“Recreating the work I already did the first time I was in Europe? I studied every piece known to be made by her. I researched the provenance of every one. I dug into city archives all over Europe.”
“No,” Andreas objected. “We don’t care about works that are already accounted for. We want the hidden works. The ones that are waiting to be found.”
Zari considered that for a moment, confused. “Okay. I see how this could unfold when it comes to museums—so many works by women are in storage vaults, there are bound to be some surprises. If I’m given access to collections and curators, I might find another piece or two. But how will I search for paintings in private collections? Where would I even begin?”
“With me,” he said. “I’ve been getting a number of calls from people around Europe since Tuesday, claiming they possess Van der Zee portraits.”
Zari frowned, trying to work out what had happened on Tuesday. Since they left on this road trip, the passage of time had been marked by rest stops and games of ‘Would You Rather...?’ instead of clocks and calendars. She sighed. There was nothing to do but admit her ignorance.
“What happened on Tuesday?” she asked.
There was a short silence.
“I apologize for being out of the loop,” she added. “Apparently I’ve missed a lot in the past week. I’ve been on vacation in Oregon, with no phone coverage. I haven’t checked e-mail or the news for days.”
“Ah. On Tuesday, a Cornelia van der Zee portrait sold for about one hundred thousand Euros, more than twice the amount anyone has ever paid for one of her works.”
Zari closed her eyes. “Who bought it?”
She could almost hear Andreas shrugging. “Someone in China. There were multiple bidders. Artemisia is causing a ripple effect.”
“So now that Cornelia’s star is rising,” Zari said, “your boss wants to double down on her.”
“Double down?”
“Focus on her. Find more of her works, buy them, restore them, and make a profit at auction.” Zari stared unseeing at the copper-brown cliffs looming over the south bank of the Columbia River, excitement fluttering around her collarbone.
“Exactly.”
“So if I were to do this, where would I be located?”
“You’d be traveling constantly. Following leads to private collections. Meeting with curators.”
“And if I were to continue my hunt for Mira de Oto on my own time?”
Zari bit her lip, waiting for his response.
“Quite honestly, Zari, I assumed you would do so. I know Mira is the reason you want to return to Europe. But if Cornelia van der Zee can get you here, why not?”
She stared out the window at the murky waters of the river glittering under the glare of the sun.
“Why not?” Zari repeated softly. “When do you want me to start?”
“This fall. The Groeninge Museum in Bruges will be mounting a show on Cornelia van der Zee next year.”
“The show will push Cornelia’s star up higher and faster,” Zari said, finally making sense of all the motivating forces behind Andreas’s offer. “It’ll inflate the value of her work at the next auction, and the next. And give Darius Eberly a reason to find every lost work of hers in the world.”
“Well done,” Andreas said.
After she ended the call, Zari scrolled frantically through social media, searching for Dotie’s hashtag #Bermejo. Sure enough, there they were: a series of tweets describing the painting and its analysis. Dotie’s quest for a promotion to dean of Oxford’s Fontbroke College would probably be assured if he was credited with the discovery of a rare commissioned portrait by a venerable Old Master. He would get exactly what he wanted.
Finally Gus could stand it no longer. “Well?” he asked, his left leg jiggling at top speed.
“Art is really about money.” Zari watched wind whip the river into frothy whitecaps. “Not beauty, not truth, not history. Money.” She looked at her brother, willing him to understand. “Bermejo was an Old Master, Gus. He’s in the history books. His star is bright. The market demands work like his. But Mira? She was one of history’s silenced stories. And a woman. No one of influence has any incentive to open their eyes to her work, to her existence. She needs someone to polish her star and launch it like a rocket, so she can become as precious a commodity as Bermejo.”
“Money? Stars? Rockets?” Gus shook his head in exasperation. “Are you going back to Europe or not?”
Zari took in a deep breath. “Yes.”
Gus’s yelp of excitement was so loud the kids were startled out of their screen-induced trance.
“Dad!” Jasper complained. “Keep it down. We’re trying to watch a movie.”
“Yeah,” Eva said, indignant. “You’re always telling us not to freak out in the car, and you just did.”
Gus and Zari burst into laughter.
9
September, 2016
Marin County, California
Zari
Zari filled her lungs with air, reveling in the salty tang of the sea. Sunshine glinted on the waves and warmed the sand between her toes. Jasper and Eva cavorted at the opposite end of the half-moon-shaped beach, climbing a boulder that sat at the base of jagged cliffs. The faint sound of their laughter floated overhead.
Beside her, Zari’s mother chuckled at the sight of her grandchildren’s antics. Then she placed a hand on her abdomen, wincing.
“Laughing still hurts, huh?” Zari asked.
“Yes,” Portia confe
ssed. “I never realized before just how much I laugh.”
A breeze sent Zari’s long brown curls flying.
“Well, laughter is the best medicine,” she observed.
Portia glanced at her, grinning. “Except, apparently, when you have cracked ribs.”
“It’s still good advice.” Zari slipped an arm around her mother. “The older I get, the more I appreciate your pearls of wisdom.”
Spending most of the past two years in Europe had been good for Zari’s relationship with Portia. The New Age sayings that once grated on her were now, of all things, endearing. And Portia’s recent success with online jewelry sales contributed, too. Her mother’s former financial instability had been a greater source of tension between them than Zari wanted to admit. She had often covered Portia’s bills with her own earnings from website development. Now there was no need.
“Grandma, why didn’t you go camping with us?” Eva called, loping toward them.
Portia smiled at her granddaughter. “Sleeping in tents is not my thing these days.”
Jasper trotted up next to Eva. “I liked Wallowa Lake, but it was so far away.”
“Sometimes a big adventure is called for,” Portia said. “You went to one of the world’s most beautiful places. And you got your dad and your favorite aunt all to yourselves.”
Jasper flung his arms out, gesturing at the sea, the golden hills sloping away from the beach, the cloudless blue sky. “Nothing’s more beautiful than this,” he scoffed. “I missed a lot while we were gone. There were two sleepovers. And a baseball game.”
Zari’s heart softened. Jasper was eleven. The pull of his peer group was becoming more and more magnetic. He was still miffed over the fact that Gus and Jenny hadn’t allowed him to get a mobile phone yet, though some of his friends had possessed the devices since they were eight years old. Zari was grateful his parents stood firm on that count. Once he had access to social media, everything would change.