A Place in the World

by Amy Maroney

  The room filled with the buzz of conversation as more guests filed in, awaiting the arrival of the bride and groom.

  “They’re here!” cried a girl of about eight, resplendent in a pink dress with a puffy tulle skirt. She twirled again and again, obviously thrilled with the swish of her skirt. Zari thought of her niece Eva and laughed.

  Wil’s cousin and her fiancé had gone to a municipal office for a quick marriage ceremony with a few witnesses. The beaming newlyweds now entered the restaurant to cheers and applause from the assembled crowd, hands raised over their heads like Olympians taking a victory lap. Their infectious joy was bolstered by the simultaneous popping of several bottles of champagne. Soon everyone in the room had a glass in hand and lively chatter filled the air.

  Wil’s aunt approached and greeted Zari warmly. They had first met two years ago at Wil’s parents’ house on Christmas day. She owned an art gallery in Amsterdam, primarily dealing in abstract contemporary art because that was what the market demanded, but she had a deep interest in Old Master paintings.

  The Bandstra family’s collection of ancestral portraits dated back to the fifteenth century. Many of them hung in Wil’s parents’ home, and they were carefully maintained and catalogued thanks to Wil’s aunt. Now, upon hearing the latest news about Zari’s obsession with Mira de Oto, she promised to contact art dealers and gallery owners in Amsterdam, asking them to be on the lookout for paintings with Arnaud de Luz’s ‘ADL’ mark on the back.

  Zari didn’t notice Hana approach until she saw Wil embracing a tall blond woman. Then he touched her shoulder.

  “Zari, I want you to meet—”

  “Hana,” the blond woman cut in. She thrust out an arm.

  Zari shook her hand. “It’s good to meet you in person,” she said.

  Hana’s grip was almost as strong as Wil’s. She even looked a little like him. Under sculpted dark brows, her eyes were a few shades lighter than his slate-blue ones, and her face had similarly angular lines, with prominent cheekbones. Her hair wasn’t curly like Wil’s, though. It was a long, straight, glossy mane. She was undeniably beautiful, dressed in a gray sheath that showed off her golden arms and legs.

  Zari took stock of her own appearance. She wore a midnight-blue silk dress and the silver scallop shell necklace that had been a gift from Laurence, plus the matching earrings Wil had given her last Christmas during their time in a Pyrenees mountain cabin. She was fairly tall herself, but felt petite next to Hana. Her body was defined more by curves than angles, especially now that her running habit was so sporadic. And she was dark where Hana was light, with chestnut-brown curls, olive skin, and almond-shaped eyes, their golden-brown irises flecked with green.

  “How was Thailand?” Wil’s aunt inquired of Hana.

  Ah, Zari thought. That explains the tan.

  Hana responded in Dutch and Wil said something in a slightly annoyed tone, dipping his head toward Zari.

  “You don’t speak Dutch yet?” Hana asked Zari sweetly, widening her eyes in surprise.

  “Why would she speak Dutch?” Wil’s aunt asked. “How many Americans do you know who speak Dutch?”

  “Well, she’s been with Wil for—what is it, now? A year?” Hana’s English was as perfect and unaccented as Wil’s. The entire family spoke absolutely flawless English, except Wil’s grandmother.

  “Longer,” Wil said. He rested an arm around Zari’s shoulders. Instantly she felt comforted, buoyed by his touch.

  “I’m working on my Dutch,” she said, looking steadily at Hana. “I’ve got an app I listen to whenever I can. By summer I should be able to converse fluently with toddlers.”

  Wil and his aunt laughed. Hana’s lips parted in a smile, but her eyes were cool.

  “Which is good,” Wil’s aunt said, “because you’ll be living here by then, right?”

  “That’s the plan.” Zari nodded, glancing up at Wil. “I’ve applied for a job here.”

  “So many people want to work in Amsterdam,” Hana said, looking from Zari to Wil. “I hope you’ve applied for more than one job.”

  Ouch. Zari had been worrying about that very topic over the past few weeks.

  “It’s true,” she agreed. “But I work as a website developer in addition to my research. So I can live anywhere, actually.”

  This wasn’t technically correct, as Zari would need a work permit to stay longer than a few months in Amsterdam. She steeled herself, half-expecting Hana to point out the inaccuracy of her statement.

  But Hana didn’t answer, just inclined her head in a slight nod. Her gaze ran down the length of Zari’s body, then traveled up again. Zari looked back at her without flinching. How do I measure up? she wanted to ask.

  Clearly, as much as Wil wished Hana was fine with Zari’s presence in his life, nothing could be further from the truth.

  Wil’s mother appeared at Hana’s side. Her long silver hair was pulled up in an elegant chignon.

  “Are you ready to eat?” she asked them all, then looked at Hana and said something in rapid Dutch.

  Hana kissed Wil’s mother on the cheek, smiling. Zari saw a glint of true affection in her eyes for the first time. The two women began chatting and turned away.

  Wil took her hand then, and they followed his mother toward the tables where arrangements of flowers and candles created a cozy atmosphere in the restaurant’s main dining area. The bride and groom were ushered to a table at the center of the room. Zari saw Filip rolling his wheelchair alongside a young woman whose coppery brown skin and thick black hair reminded her of Andreas. She heard laughter coming from both of them and her heart warmed at the sound. Zari squeezed Wil’s hand happily at the sight. He squeezed back, his eyes following her gaze to his friend.

  Wil’s aunt stepped close to Zari. “Hana will get used to you eventually,” she said in a low voice. “Don’t let her put you off. You and Wil make a great pair. He needs someone with a sense of humor, like you.” She patted Zari’s arm, then split off to find her table.

  Zari watched her walk away, overcome with gratitude.

  An ally. They appeared when she least expected them, and sometimes when she needed them most.

  38

  December, 2016

  Amsterdam, Holland

  Zari

  Zari nested for an entire week with Wil in his apartment, where she now had two drawers of her own in his dresser. He surprised her with art supplies as her Christmas present, recalling that she’d fantasized about being an artist with an attic studio in Amsterdam. She hadn’t even brought a sketchbook with her to Europe this fall. Now she would have a place to draw, paper and pencils to sketch with. Perhaps by summer, she would have a regular art practice again.

  They spent much of their time with Wil’s family. Filip was usually on hand during their gatherings, and Zari reveled in her developing relationship with him. They talked easily now, trading stories about travel and adventure, about Filip’s plans to try paraskiing and kayaking. To Zari’s relief, her path did not cross Hana’s again during the week. At dinner with Wil’s parents one night, the flutter of anxiety Zari had felt about the evening evaporated during their beer-fueled conversation. For the first time since they’d met her, Wil’s parents revealed the humor behind their reserve.

  One morning Zari’s mobile vibrated, skittering on the nightstand and startling her out of sleep. She squinted at it, recognized the number, and immediately accepted the call.

  “Hello, Andreas,” she said quietly, not wanting to wake Wil.

  “Sorry to call so early,” he apologized. “But I just learned that Dotie Butterfield-Swinton has made public some findings from the analysis of the portrait of the woman in blue. And he says he’ll bring it to market.”

  Zari sat bolt upright in bed, her eyes wide open. “He’s selling it at auction?”

  “That’s his plan. And…” Andreas hesitated. �
��I’m sorry to say it’s been attributed to Bartolomé Bermejo.”

  She scrambled out of bed, stumbling in the dark to the door.

  “Mira made that portrait.” Her voice was rising now. “All her paintings were on panels crafted by Arnaud de Luz. His mark, ‘ADL,’ is on the back of each one. And it’s on that painting, too. None of Bermejo’s other paintings have the ‘ADL’ mark!”

  “I know,” Andreas said. “But the analysis of the work found his name in the underdrawings. Why would Mira write Bermejo’s name on her paintings?”

  “I don’t know.” Zari padded through the darkness to the kitchen counter and gripped the edge of it with one hand. “She did it on the portrait of Carlo Sacazar and his family, too. She added her own mark next to Bermejo’s name.”

  “If she did it on this one, the conservator’s notes say nothing on that subject.”

  “Dotie’s withholding any evidence that doesn’t support his story,” she guessed.

  “You haven’t seen all the evidence, so how would you know that?” Andreas pointed out reasonably. “Without seeing the results of the conservator’s analysis, we can’t make any judgements.”

  “How can we find out who did the analysis? Maybe we can ferret out the truth that way.”

  “It was done in the U.K.,” said Andreas. “I don’t know any conservators who work with this particular dealer, though. It may be an in-house job. Because it’s all done by private contract, it’s kept confidential. That’s within their rights, Zari. They don’t have to share anything they don’t want to.”

  Zari leaned on the counter. “I know an art conservator in Oxford, someone who might be able to help us. He’s been traveling for months, though. He hasn’t responded to any of my attempts to contact him.”

  “Try again. And in the meantime, do what you can to build more of a case for Mira. The stronger her story is, the more credible your claim that she painted that portrait. As it stands, the portrait will get lots of interest at auction because Bermejo is a big name. And once it’s sold, it will disappear into a private collection.”

  A faint tremor of anxiety traveled up Zari’s spine. Oh, God, she thought. Another trace of Mira lost before it’s ever really found.

  “I can’t do anything about Mira right now,” she said more to herself than Andreas, pressing her forehead against the cool stone of the countertop. “My plate is full with work for Darius.”

  “Darius is in Cambodia for two weeks on holiday,” Andreas said. “He does this every year. It’s always a slow time for us, and most of the people you need to meet with are on holiday as well. Tell you what, take a week to do whatever you like. Then you’ll have to go back to Belgium for several private collection viewings, plus I’ve found four more museums in Northern Europe that are willing to give you access to their storage vaults.”

  “Really? A whole week free?”

  “I want Mira’s star to rise, too, Zari. So go find her. And good luck.”

  He rang off.

  Zari stared at the now-silent mobile in her hand, simultaneously cursing Dotie and marveling at her good fortune. She scrolled through her e-mails and clicked on one from Laurence with news from the Bayonne archivist about Mira and Arnaud. The dispiriting wave of fatigue that had rolled over her a moment ago vanished, replaced by a mounting sense of excitement.

  She bounded into the bedroom, a list of tasks forming in her mind.

  “What’s going on?” Wil asked, blinking at her.

  “Remember in Alsace, when I said there was no rush to find Mira?” She flipped open the lid of her roll-aboard and fished out fresh underwear, socks, and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

  “Yeah?” He rolled over on his side, yawning.

  Zari went into the bathroom and started the shower. Over the hiss of the water, she called out, “I was wrong.”

  He appeared in the doorway, rubbing a hand through his disheveled hair. The sight of him clad only in a pair of boxers made her heart pound faster. She tore her eyes away, stripping off the black silk camisole that served as pajamas these days.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, his face relaxing into an appreciative smile.

  “I’ve got to get back to Basque country.” Zari thrust out a hand and tested the water, then stepped into the shower. “Dotie is planning to sell that portrait of the lady in blue at auction—attributed to Bermejo.”

  “What?” Wil looked stunned.

  She closed her eyes and let the water drench her hair. “I think he’s suppressing evidence about Mira, but there’s no way to get my hands on the art conservator’s report. The good news is Andreas just gave me a gift: one week to devote to Mira. And I have a new lead on her. The archivist in Bayonne learned that she and Arnaud had a son named Tristan. His birth was recorded in city records in the early sixteenth century. And his name popped up when she did a search in an archives in Spain. As much as I want to stay another night with you, I need to leave.”

  Zari fell silent, the water pounding her face and throat. A moment later Wil’s warm hands were tracing a path over the curves of her waist, her hips, her thighs. She fitted her body to his, taking comfort from the assured grace of his long limbs, from the thud of his heart in her ear.

  He spoke softly. “Before you leave, maybe it’s time we start working on one of those Dutch-American babies you dream about.”

  She opened one eye. Water bounced off Wil’s head and jetted straight into her face.

  “Ow! Babies need nests.” She kissed him, sliding her hands over his chest and around his back. “We don’t have one yet.”

  With his hair tamped down by the water, his face looked more serious than usual, his long black eyelashes separated into individual spikes.

  “We will this summer,” he said, smoothing her hair from her forehead.

  She took in his sober, hopeful expression, felt her tears mingle with the shower spray.

  “I love you, Wil.”

  All the other words crowding the back of her throat, the ones about a shared future, about her desire to navigate life’s mundane everyday details at his side, about the sheer joy his presence brought her—why wouldn’t they emerge? She took a shaky breath, overcome with frustration at herself.

  “I just can’t see a path for myself right now, let alone a shared one with you,” she said, blinking away water and tears. “I feel like I’m teetering on the edge of failure all the time. This job with Darius could disappear in an instant. And Mira—oh, God. If that portrait vanishes...”

  “Zari, don’t waste time thinking about bad things that might happen.” There was a trace of irritation in Wil’s voice.

  “I’ve been chasing Mira’s ghost for so long, Wil. My life has become a series of reactions that revolve around her.” She looked up at him bleakly. “Maybe I should just give up the academic life altogether and go back to web design full-time. I can keep searching for Mira on the side.”

  “Don’t you need the credibility of a research position, a post-doc, or a professorship to make that work?” he asked.

  “You don’t know anything about the academic world,” she said tightly. “Sometimes I wonder why it’s all on me to find a job in your city, to move into your apartment. I have to insert myself into your world. When clearly there is still some work to be done on your end to make a place for me in it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hana isn’t over you yet, Wil.”

  Before he could protest, she spoke again. “Eventually she’ll come around—or not. I’ll survive, whatever happens. My point is, I’m still an outsider, I’m thousands of miles away from the people who truly know me and love me. Your family is being kind, and I appreciate that. I’m doing my part to build relationships with them. What about you? You’ve never met my family or anyone else from my world. All you’ve had to do to accommodate me is clear out a few drawers in your dresser.” />
  “You told me you wanted to move here,” he retorted. “If you don’t want that, then what do you want? Do you want to move back to California? I’ve told you this before, Zari: it might be difficult to move my business there, but I am willing to try it.”

  The hurt in his expression burned into her. Tiny droplets of water rolled down his face, and she unconsciously reached up, following them with her fingertips.

  They stood in silence, steam rising all around them. The sudden anger leached out of Zari’s system as quickly as it came.

  In Wil’s eyes she saw a deep sadness that made her heart twist with remorse.

  Gus’s words under the starry sky at Wallowa Lake came back to her. Have you ever felt this way about any other man?

  She knew this would be the last time Wil pressed her on the topic of a shared future.

  It was her move now.

  39

  Spring, 1506

  Nay, Béarn

  Amadina

  Amadina loved the advent of spring for many reasons, not least among them the fact that it always brought a flood of correspondence. Winter’s harsh weather meant delays in the delivery of mail, but once roads were passable again, parchment scrolls and letters inked on linen paper arrived at their intended destinations.

  This sunny morning was particularly agreeable because she had arrived at her brother Carlo’s home to find a pile of mail on his desk. She sank down in his favorite chair, leafing through the letters, examining their wax seals. How she had always loved to read. As a girl, she was not allowed to receive instruction in any subject that was remotely useful. So Carlo, heeding her pleas, took it upon himself to teach her to read, to write, to work her sums. Despite everything, she was grateful to him for that.

  She shook off the memories, methodically reading each item. Many of the letters were addressed to Carlo and dealt with various matters of business. She took out a sheet of linen paper, a pot of ink, a quill. Then she made a list of actions she must take. It was a matter of principle with her to keep all the threads of Carlo’s commerce neat and tidy, unrolling them when necessary, smoothing out any tangles that developed. For the Sacazar family depended on Amadina now to keep Carlo’s fortune intact, and she had no intention of failing on that measure.