AN IRRESISTIBLE BACHELOR

by Jessica Bird

  She frowned, thinking of the past. Maybe that was why her mother turned down so many gifts. Her father would show up at the door of their apartment bearing a small, foil-wrapped box or some huge package with a bow on it and her mother would just shake her head.

  "Is that how you met Grace?" Jack asked. "Through the art world?"

  Callie hesitated, wishing she was a more confident liar. "You could say we met through the Hall Foundation, yes."

  "She speaks highly of you."

  "She's been very kind to me."

  "Grace is like that. Good person all around."

  In a flash, Callie wondered whether Jack and her half sister had ever been together. They seemed perfectly suited.

  "She's stunning, too," Callie murmured. "Certainly fits her title."

  "I thought she was divorcing the count?"

  "I mean about being one of the world's most beautiful women."

  With no turn signal, Jack hung a U-turn and then pulled into a parking lot next to the pale, low-slung buildings of the Museum of Fine Arts. He shut the car off and released his seat belt while she stared ahead.

  "Callie?"

  "What? Oh—right, we're here."

  He gave her an odd look as they got out. "You okay?"

  "Yeah, sure. I'm fine."

  She just wasn't one of the world's most beautiful women and wondered why she suddenly seemed to care one way or the other. God knew, she didn't pay a lot of attention to her looks, usually.

  But then Jack was making her think about all kinds of unusual things.

  As soon as they were inside the museum, people started coming up to him. He seemed to know everyone by name and the respect with which he was treated spoke volumes about what he and his family must have done for the place.

  She and Jack had just emerged from the cloakroom when Mrs. Walker strode into the lobby. She was talking and gesticulating wildly while being trailed by a staff member who was taking notes. Jack's mother was dressed in a black suit and had an exquisite tangle of pearls around her neck. She looked fresh and elegant, as if she'd stepped out of the pages of Vanity Fair. The staff member just looked pooped.

  When she came to a halt next to her son, Mrs. Walker waved the minion away with a flick of the wrist. "Have you come to talk with Gerard?"

  Callie knew she was referring to Gerard Beauvais, the head of the MFA's conservation department. Callie had heard of the man but never met him. A legend in the art world, he was responsible for conserving the work of some of the most important masters: da Vinci, Rembrandt, Michelangelo.

  Jack nodded. "I thought he and Callie should meet."

  Mrs. Walker's brows lifted. "Perhaps Ms. Burke will consent to his assistance. Assuming she's open to collaboration."

  Callie felt her stomach knot as Jack shot his mother a level stare. "Did I happen to mention that Callie worked with your friend Micheline Talbot on the conservation of the torn de Kooning?"

  Mrs. Walker's eyes flickered just enough to show that she did indeed recall the project.

  "You remember that painting, Mother. It's at MoMA," Jack prompted smoothly. "You told me that Micheline had gone on and on about how she couldn't have done the job without her assistant. That the young woman was talented as hell and a pleasure to work with, right?"

  Callie held her breath, wishing he'd drop the subject.

  "Remember. Mother."

  "Yes, yes of course. It was an extraordinary result."

  "So I think Callie and Gerard will get along just fine."

  Mrs. Walker brought a hand up to her hair, smoothing back what was not out of place. "I'm sure you do. Now, if you will excuse me, I'm going home. The executive committee meeting went on longer than it should have and I'm tired."

  Callie flushed as Jack's mother walked away. The woman hadn't made eye contact with her at all, as if Mrs. Walker could make her disappear by ignoring her

  But Jack had made sure she was noticed. Had stuck up for her.

  She glanced at him. His eyes were narrowed as he watched his mother go into the cloakroom.

  "That wasn't really necessary," Callie said softly.

  "Yes, it was."

  "I can take care of myself."

  He looked at her. "I have no doubt of that, but my mother is not going to be your problem. Come on, let's go to Gerard's office."

  Jack led them past the guard who checked tickets and through an exhibit of African art, to an elevator big enough to park cars in. The thing was huge, its ceiling some eighteen feet high. As they lurched upward, she could feel him staring at her.

  "What?" she asked.

  He put his hands into the pockets of his fine suit. "Why don't you want me to protect you?"

  "Because I shouldn't get in the habit of relying on you when it comes to dealing with your mother." She paused. "Although it was a nice gesture on your part."

  "I'm sorry—did I hear that right? You actually approve of something I've done?"

  "Don't let it go to your head," she replied, hiding her smile.

  He laughed. "With you around,! don't think either of us have to worry about that."

  She lifted her eyes and was taken aback when he looked at her grimly.

  "Tell me something, Callie, what's it going to take to get you to like me?"

  "Why do you care if I do?" she asked, surprised by the question and his intensity.

  "I like a challenge," he said, that grin of his returning.

  "Then go climb a mountain."

  He laughed again. "I think you're far more interesting and I'm not crazy about heights. Now answer my question."

  "Why don't you take a shot at mine for real, first?" she tossed back.

  "Okay." The smile stayed in place, but his eyes grew somber. "When I showed you to your new bedroom you were delighted, but I know you would have quite happily stayed in the back rooms. You haven't once asked me about paying you the money we discussed. And my dog loves you."

  "So maybe I'm laid-back, fiscally irresponsible, and have kibbles in my pocket."

  "Mostly, though, I'm fascinated by you."

  The elevator came to a stop.

  "You can't possibly be serious," she muttered, trying to ignore a sudden pounding in her chest.

  As the doors opened, he held them at bay while she walked out.

  "But I am," he said, falling into step beside her. "You are one very unusual lady."

  She could feel the heat hit her face.

  "Where's the office?" she asked pointedly.

  It was a relief when he walked ahead and stayed quiet.

  She wasn't in a big hurry to tell him that in order for her to like him he'd have to morph into something other than a devastatingly handsome and wealthy man who'd kissed her like she'd never been kissed before.

  He'd have to go from being an Aston Martin DB-whatever to a Chevy Chevette.

  Chapter 9

  They walked through a rabbit warren of offices that was broken up by floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with a jagged, colorful array of books. When they came to a set of double doors, Jack rang a bell on the wall. Moments later, the metal panels were opened to reveal a small, older man. Under his sparse, graying hair, his face was surprisingly young looking, mostly because of the enthusiasm in his eyes.

  "Jackson, how are you?" The man's voice was high and lilting, marked with a subtle French accent, and the hands that reached up and removed a pair of tortoiseshell glasses from his nose were beautiful enough to have been a woman's.

  So this was Gerard Beauvais, Callie thought as she shook one of those hands after Jack introduced them. She tried not to get swallowed by hero worship.

  Beauvais smiled at her as he motioned them inside. "Come in, come in. Please."

  There were six workstations in the room and at each one a person dressed in a smock was leaning forward toward the surface of a breathtaking work of art. She saw a Pissarro and a David held upright in vise grips and several paintings lying on tables. The place smelled like chemicals, and as her nose tingle
d, she thought back to her days at NYU.

  Only this was no classroom.

  This was where Beauvais had carefully repaired the Fra Filippo Lippi that had been splashed with acid. It had taken him two years to find a way to mitigate the damage and conserve what was left of the paint, but the wait had been worth it. He'd also stabilized one of da Vinci's rare self-portraits in the lab. Da Vinci's experimentation with paint mediums meant that his exquisite labors could sometimes be ravaged by fading and flaking. Beauvais's work on the chemical composition of the master's oils had been revolutionary.

  "Your mother is being so generous," Gerard said to Jack. "As always."

  Jack cracked a dry smile. "I can only imagine."

  "I mean, loaning the Walker painting to us after conservation, how gracious. It will look stunning next to Copley's Paul Revere. They are perfect companions." Beauvais smiled. "We will throw a party, yes? Something to properly welcome Nathaniel back to Boston."

  Callie noticed Jack's eyes narrowing even if Beauvais did not.

  "And you," the man said to her, "I am great friends with Professor Melzer. He speaks very highly of you and that is a rare recommendation indeed. You must be anxious to get down to work."

  She felt blood rush to her face. Or maybe the tingling meant it had left her head altogether. "I'm going to do my best. But I have to admit, I'm nervous."

  "Good. Good, good! You should be." He wagged his glasses at her. "We should all approach the canvas with sure hands, a clear mind, and palpitations in the chest. It is a sign that you understand the value of what you can do for a painting and the destruction you may cause if you are not reverent and careful. C'est bon!"

  As he beamed at her, she was quite sure she didn't view her fear with the same kind of optimism, but she felt herself relax a little.

  "Now, tell me, what of the painting? Have you examined it yet?" Small, rapt eyes searched her face.

  As she nodded, she cleared her throat, feeling like she'd had an oral exam sprung on her.

  "The canvas is solid and the paint is holding together nicely for the most part, but the varnish layer is yellow and dingy. Technically this will not be a complicated job, but the significance of the painting makes the project rather daunting." Enthusiasm warmed her voice. "The work is obviously from the period before Copley left for London because his style is still maturing. Even so, the brush technique and use of color are incredible. I can't wait to see what Nathaniel's face looks like under the old varnish."

  "Anything else?"

  She stared at the man. His smile was just as warm but his eyes had narrowed.

  "Not yet." She hesitated. "Is there something I should be looking for?"

  He shrugged but kept his voice low and his eyes on Jack who was scrutinizing the David. "I examined the painting myself once. In the late nineties. After the Blankenbakers purchased the portrait from Jack's father, they hung it above a fireplace in their Newport house. They came to me because they were concerned about the effect of the fluctuating heat and changes in humidity it had been subjected to. We did not do a cleaning, so I know less than I would have had we performed such work. I will say, however, that you would be wise to pay particular attention to the surface texture."

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he looked passively at Jack who had turned back and was heading for them.

  "Discretion among owners is prudent. Especially when things are not clear," Gerard said softly. He gave her his card after he'd written something on the back. "There is my home phone number, as well as the one here in the lab. You must call if you have trouble or if you require another set of eyes. Particularly if you are tempted to go into the paint layer. As you are well aware, that should not be done lightly."

  Jack smiled as he approached. "So, we were wondering if you could spare a—what kind of light did you want?"

  "A halogen steam lamp," Callie said. "And a microscope as well, if you don't mind."

  Gerard smiled, nodded, and worked miracles. Twenty minutes later, Jack pulled the Aston Martin around to a rear entrance and a microscope was eased into its trunk. The light and stand were too big to fit in the car, so they were to be delivered that afternoon.

  As they were leaving, Gerard took Callie's hands in his and looked down at them. "These, along with your eyes, are the most important tools you have. Call me if you need help. Do not be afraid."

  As he squeezed, the full weight of the job hit her and she wondered whether she was up to the task.

  "Ah, cherie, it will be okay," he whispered, as if he knew she wouldn't want Jack hearing him reassure her. The lilt of his accent was musical. "You have done this before and you will do fine. There is love in your eyes when you speak of the painting, and you would never hurt what you love, would you?"

  She shook her head with a series of jerks, worried that if the man were any nicer to her, she might burst into tears.

  "So go now, go and do what you have been trained to do. And know if you call me, I will come."

  He squeezed her hands again and then went back into his museum, a slight man with the bouncing walk of a child.

  Later, as they waited for a break in traffic, Jack said, "You've got a hell of a glow going."

  She glanced over at him. "What? Oh, Gerard. He's just so amazing. And surprisingly humble."

  "The great ones always are," Jack murmured as he put the car into gear and eased them into traffic. "What were you two whispering about?"

  "He was just giving me some advice."

  "Good man to take advice from."

  She nodded and tilted her head toward the back of the car. "Generous, too."

  His brows tightened. "Unfortunately, I'm going to have to disabuse him of the notion that my portrait is going to hang next to Paul Revere. Damn it, my

  mother's ability to commit the assets of others is un-equaled, at least now that my father is dead."

  Callie waited, hoping he would continue, and was disappointed when he didn't. She shifted her gaze to his hands on the steering wheel. She wanted to ask him to elaborate, but then he changed the subject.

  "By the way, I was wondering if I could introduce you to a friend of mine."

  She looked at him with surprise, thinking that taking on another private client after she finished the Copley conservation would be great. "Of course. But are you sure you don't want to wait until after you've seen some of my work?"

  "This isn't about work."

  The Aston Martin darted out in front of a truck and Callie gripped the door again.

  "Gray was my college roommate and he's an all-around good guy. He lives in New York, but he's going to be here for the next couple of weeks. I think you two might get along."

  Jack wanted to set her up on a date?

  "No pressure, of course," he said, glancing across the seat at hen "I just thought maybe we could invite him out to Buona Fortuna. You could meet him, see if you like him."

  Callie told herself this was normal. This was how people met other people. Through friends. Contacts.

  Business associates.

  And it proved how serious he was about keeping things between them... out of the closet, as it were.

  "Er—okay."

  Jack focused on the traffic again. "Good. That's just great."

  The next morning, Callie had just settled in front of the painting when the garage door opened down below. She got up and went to a window, just in time to see the Aston Martin shoot down the driveway. She was watching the taillights disappear when Arthur came over and nudged her thigh with his head.

  Work, she thought. She had work to do.

  But it was hard to think about the job.

  Yesterday, when she and Jack had returned from the museum, he'd helped her set up the microscope, and after it had arrived, the light as well. In the course of getting her workplace organized and removing the portrait's massive, gilded frame, he'd asked her innumerable questions about the project. He wanted to know what the process for cleaning the painting was going to be. W
hat kind of solvents she would use to remove the dirt and old varnish. What type of new varnish she would apply at the end to protect the fragile, original oil paint.

  Given what had happened that morning, she was surprised by how comfortable she'd felt around him. He was witty and charming and had smiled at her with respect as she answered each of his queries. And the best part had been the sense that he was hitting her with all the questions simply because he was curious, not because he didn't trust her.

  He'd been on his way back to the house when she'd asked him how to work the complicated stereo system. In the process of showing her how to turn the thing on, he'd discovered that it wasn't working and that had led to him going up into the shallow crawl space over the room. She'd played nurse to his electronic surgeon as he'd banged and crashed around overhead, trying to get the speakers to receive a signal.

  The cursing that had drifted down through the ceiling had been priceless and when he'd reemerged, cobwebs hanging from his hair, his beautiful business shirt and slacks covered with dust, she'd had to laugh.

  Still, he'd got the damn thing working.

  By the time they'd gone back to the house, dinner had been served and cleared. Jack had parceled out some leftovers, overdone it with the microwave, and they'd laughed as they tried to chew through the rubberized chicken. Neither of them had wanted to take a shot at the flaccid, weary green beans.

  As much as she'd tried not to, she'd thoroughly enjoyed his company.

  Callie shook her head and went back to the painting. She really needed to get started.

  Positioning the microscope over the top right-hand corner of the painting, she brought the paint surface into focus by twisting a pair of knobs. Her eyes sought out the craquelure, memorizing the pattern of fissures, their direction, their depth. Inch by inch, she surveyed the surface of the portrait and meticulously recorded the status of the varnish, paint, and canvas support. This documentation, as she'd explained to Jack, was the first step in any conservation.

  When she got to the mirror Nathaniel was holding, she frowned and cranked the microscope closer to the canvas. The paint layer was thicker in this area, suggesting an extra coat had been applied. The craquelure was different as well, the pattern tighter and the direction subtly dissimilar. She told herself she was imagining things, but further inspection only confirmed what had gotten her attention. There was something faintly inconsistent about the paint layer over the glass portion of the mirror, a slight change in the texture of both the brushstrokes and the cracks across the surface of the painting.