Restoration: A Novel (Contemporary / Women's Fiction) (7 page)

“Hope?  Where’s that in this picture?  Hoping he dies
quickly and painlessly?”

“This is where your ‘ism’ comes from.”

“I cried so hard over that picture.”

“What else makes you cry?”

She shook her head.  “I don’t cry anymore.”

He tilted his head, studying her.  “We’ll save that for
another time.”

She nodded.

“These are marvelous pieces,” Ben said, looking past her
at the paintings on the wall.  “Where did you get them?”

“I’ve had them for a while.”  She intentionally avoided looking
at them.

He leaned forward and examined the paintings.  “They look
like they’re the work of the same person.”

“I believe they are.”  She ran her hand down his arm to
his hand, snatched his fingertips and gave them a playful tug, hoping to
distract him from the paintings.

Ben grasped her fingers to still them while he continued
staring at the artworks.  “Where did you say you got them?”

“Are we going to talk shop all night?” she asked
pointedly.

Ben took another sip of wine.  A drop hung from his mustache
and before he could roll his bottom lip over it, Tess stepped forward and said,
“Here, let me get that” and placed her mouth over his.

They kissed for a moment.  When he attempted to draw his
lips away from her, she pressed her palm against his cheek.  He yielded to her
warm, wet kiss and slipped his free hand around her waist.  She reached between
them and set her wineglass on the table, then felt for his glass, slipped it
out of his hand and set it next to hers.

She encouraged his hands to explore her body, leading them
down her sides, to her waist, to her behind and up to her breasts.  The farther
they traveled along her, the more intense his kisses became.  She unfurled his
black bow tie with one tug and unfastened the shirt button at his throat.  Her
hands disappeared beneath his tuxedo jacket and found his belt buckle.  After
unbuckling it, she unzipped his pants.  As she reached into his fly, his hand
seized hers.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”  He strained to speak
under his heavy breathing.

She turned away and heard him zipping and buckling himself
back up while she smoothed her dress with her palms.

“Tess, God knows I’d like nothing more than to…but I’d
want a phone call the next day.” 

“Because I didn’t call after you sent roses?” 

“What would this do?  I want you to be sure, not
complicate feelings you haven’t sorted out.”

She refrained from telling him that love complicated
things, not sex.  The language of love was complex, while the language of sex
was understandable.  When she turned around, Ben was facing the paintings and
sipping his wine.  He handed her abandoned wineglass to her, put his arm around
her shoulder, pulled her close and gently kissed the top of her head. 

He broke the awkward silence between them by asking, “Are
you free for dinner Tuesday?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Your pick.”

“I saw a review in this morning’s paper for an Italian
place on West Twenty-third.  It sounded wonderful.  I saved the article.” 

She tugged at his sleeve, trying to coax him to follow her,
but he continued staring at the paintings.  She walked away hoping he’d abandon
his vigil and join her on the sofa, where she searched the coffee table drawers
for the restaurant review. 

“Can I have this painter’s name?” he asked.  “I’d like to
see what else he or she has done.”

She shuffled through the drawer anxiously.  “I don’t
remember it offhand, but I’ll look for it.”

“Please.  Thank you.”  He bent over and studied the
artist’s signature in the right-hand corner of the painting.

“I found it,” she chirped with the urgency of household
smoke detector.

She scanned the review, her eyes jumping from the page to
Ben, who continued puzzling over the artist’s signature.

“Where is that paragraph where he talks about the
appetizers, oh here it is.  Listen to this.”  Her voice rose with each
sentence.  “He writes: ‘Forget about dinner.  Once you sample the sun-dried
tomato pesto smeared on a warm piece of focaccia, you’ll want to order every
other appetizer on the menu just to make sure you sure you haven’t missed any
other gastronomic delights this bistro serves up as appetizers.’ ”

“Tess.”

“ ‘Bruschetta, roasted eggplant and pepper salad’ ”  She
kept her attention focused on the article.

“Tess,” he said more forcefully.

“The entrees sound mouthwatering, too.”

“Tess,” he demanded, and her head snapped in his
direction.  “You painted these.  Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Come on, Ben, doesn’t it seem pretentious having one’s
own work prominently displayed in her own home?” she said as if it annoyed her
to have to explain this to him.

“Do you have other pieces here?”

“In my bedroom, but I’m sure you wouldn’t think it was a
good idea to go in there.”

He frowned.  “Do you mind?”

“Suit yourself.”

He walked into her bedroom and returned a few minutes
later seemingly mystified.  “When did you paint these?”

“College.”

“You’re very good.  You have to know this.  Your
professors couldn’t have looked at these without seeing that.”

“I just thought they were saying that because they wanted
to sleep with me.”

He smirked at her attempt to humor him.  “Is there
anything else I can look at that you’ve done?”

“The rest of my paintings are in Florida in my father’s
attic.”

“Are there enough pieces for a show?”

“I showed some of my work in college.”

“I’m talking about a real show.  Not something for a
grade.”

“Ben, now you’re really sounding ridiculous.  They’re just
paintings I did in college.  They don’t even qualify as works of art.”

“Come on, Tess, don’t be modest.  They’re good, and you
know they’re good.”

“They’re all right.”

“What are you working on now?” he asked.

“Nothing.  I don’t paint anymore.”

He sat next to her on the edge of the sofa, set his
wineglass on the coffee table, and studied her.

 “Why are you wasting your time restoring other people’s
work when you should be creating your own?”

“Excuse me,” she snapped, “but I don’t think my career is
a waste of time.” 

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean that as an insult.  Being an
art critic is as close as I could get to a career in art without having talent
of my own.  If I had the God-given talent to create the art you do, I wouldn’t
be wasting my time reviewing it.  But you, Tess, you have real talent.” 

“Thank you.”  She tried sounding humble, and her
halfhearted acknowledgement placated him.

“Think about painting again,” he urged.

She nodded, uncommitted in her response and knowing that
what he suggested wasn’t an option and never would happen.

Francesca spent the morning and early afternoon schooling
Tess in infrared camera technology to see beneath painted surfaces.  They
worked through lunch, pouring over hidden details of centuries-old works.  In
the late afternoon, Sharon’s voice on speakerphone interrupted them.

“Tess, are you there?  Tess?”

“I’m over at Francesca’s,” she called in the direction of
her desk.

Within a moment, Sharon buzzed Francesca’s speakerphone. 
“Ben’s holding for you.”

“Could you tell him I’ll call him back later?”

“He said it’s important.”

“Tell him I’ll call within the hour, and please get the
number where he’ll be.”

“He told me not to let you put him off.  Check.  Or is
that checkmate?”  Sharon chuckled.

Tess shook her head and stood up.  “All right, put him
through to my desk.”

Francesca motioned to her own phone.  “You can take your
call here.”

“Okay, here he is,” Sharon said before Tess could protest,
and a second later Francesca’s phone buzzed.

Her annoyance at both Sharon and Ben came through in her
tight-lipped smirk.  She picked up the buzzing receiver.  “Tess Olsen.”

“Isn’t that a silly phone ritual, saying your name when
you already know who the caller is?  Wouldn’t saying, ‘Hello, Ben’ make more
sense?”

“Hello, Ben.  What can’t wait?”

“Have you given it any thought?”

“What?”

“Painting.”

“I told you I don’t paint anymore.”

“I thought you were going to think about it.”

“I never said that.  And if I did, I need more than
twenty-four hours.”

“I know, I know.  I’m working on a couple of things for
you that may help.  That’s why I called.  I had lunch with Kenyon LeMere, and I
was telling him about how good your paintings—”

“Ben!” she snapped and turned her back on Francesca, who
was busy studying an infrared image on the camera’s screen.  “You’re a credible
art critic.  Don’t jeopardize your reputation bragging about my work,
especially to someone as talented as LeMere.”

“Tess, hear me out.  I mentioned you were having a bit of
a problem getting motivated.”

She rolled eyes at the convenient interpretation he’d
applied to her withdrawal from painting.

“He’s an artist.  He understands.  Anyway, he has an
apartment in Chelsea with a studio.  He said that there’s another artist he’s
good friends with who has a similar setup in the same building and that the guy
is out west for the next six months staying on a reservation and learning how
to sand paint.  Kenyon said he’s sure the guy wouldn’t mind if you used his
studio.”

“If I wanted to paint, I could set up an easel in my
living room.”  She struggled to hold down her voice.

“Tess, it’s easier to get focused on something if you’re
in the right atmosphere.  It gets your mind off everything else, all the
distractions.  I know how that is.  I can’t write at the kitchen table.  Kenyon
said he’d get in touch with this other artist just to run it by him.  He
already has the key, and once he gets the go ahead he’ll turn it over to you.”

“Ben, I need to get back to work.”

“I’m working on one other thing, but I don’t want to let
the cat out of the bag until I’m sure I can pull it off.”

“Ben!”  Tess said his name sternly while attempting to
keep her conversation private.

“I wanted to whet your appetite.”

“You’ve incurred my ire.”

“I think all will be forgiven soon.”

“Anything else?” she asked, annoyed.

“What time can I pick you up for dinner on Tuesday?”

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

“You have a day to regain it.”

“Seven-thirty.”

“I’ll come by your apartment.”

She looked over the top of the partitions as she hung up
the phone.  Sound traveled easily in this open space.  She knew she’d struggled
to keep her voice low and in control, but no one was looking in her direction,
at least not now. 

Even Francesca, who worked only a few feet away, kept her
eyes on her work.  But Tess knew better.  Francesca had heard it all; at least
Tess’s side of the conversation.

“It’s not a good idea dating someone who works in the same
field or who at least is connected in some way, if only vaguely.”  She sighed
as she sat back down next to Francesca, feeling she needed to explain the few
exasperated sentences she knew her mentor had overheard.

“Trouble?”  Francesca squinted at the infrared monitor in
front of her.

“This guy I’m seeing is the art critic for the Times.  He
happened to see some of the paintings I did when I was in college.  Now he
wants to arrange an exhibition of my work.  Give a person the title of art
critic and he thinks he knows everything about art.  He thinks I should be
painting instead of restoring.  For goodness sakes, I’m an art conservator, not
a painter.”

“There is no reason you cannot be both.”

“No, this is who I am.”

Francesca’s eyes flickered to Tess, but she said nothing
before returning them to her work.

“What?”  Tess prodded.

“And who is that?”

“Who I am?”

“That is the question.”

“This.”  Tess opened her arms to encompass her
surroundings.  “It’s my calling.”

Francesca sat up and away from the monitor she’d been
gazing into to study Tess. 

“There weren’t any burning bushes speaking to me or any
other sudden revelations.  I’ve always had an interest in antiquities and
classical works.”  The scrutiny of Francesca’s quiet gaze prodded Tess to hand
out more facts about herself than she’d planned.  “So, besides painting, I
studied art conservation in college.”

“I see,” Francesca said, politely accepting that benign
morsel.  “I am glad I do not have more than one talent such as you and have to
struggle with which path I should choose to walk down.”

“Some interests should remain hobbies; others are more
suited for careers.  I’m not that talented of a painter.”

Francesca shrugged.  “I would not know.  I have not seen
your work.”

“Trust me, my work’s not that good.  Certainly not worth
showing.”

“You show so little of yourself, Tess, who would know?”

The comment caught Tess off guard and she leaned back. 
“You’re hardly a font of information yourself.”

“It is true my life is not an open book to you.  But there
is a difference between one who does not share with another because they know
there is no sense in sharing what is not returned and one who does not share
because they are afraid.”

“You don’t even know me.  How can you even insinuate
that?”

“It is just my observation.  I will not argue the point
with you if you say it is not so.”

“But you still believe it about me.”

Francesca slipped her bifocals off her face.  “I keep it
to myself.  That should not bother you.”

“Well it does,” Tess said, surprised by her own
revelation. 

Francesca shrugged and returned her bifocals.  “Only you
can prove it is not so.”