But everyone’s been married before, these days. So why hasn’t he mentioned it?
Because of the children.
There are children.
“She ignores his question. “Sign the band. We’ll do it on the third.” She softens. “Just make sure they know how to play ‘Where or When’.”
“They know it. I already asked.”
Fernanda clicks off and returns to her desk to catalogue another Holy Family.
But she’s relieved.
At last, she thinks, she knows it all.
And so, on the following morning, she shops. She spends less than a day selecting a quiet ivory silk suit, some matching shantung pumps, a short, symbolic, veil. She does this all alone, because being the bride is easy. Though when the clothes shopping is over, she finds herself wishing it had taken longer to help her bridesmaids (Marcia and Courtney, of course) choose from among the uninspiring selection of not-too-expensive-almost-pretty bridesmaid dresses. After that, however, she does flowers and invitations. And in one expensive two-day flash, the prelims are suddenly over.
But that night, with André dreaming by her side, Fernanda lies awake once more, waiting for the dawn.
Because she’d asked him last evening, out and out. And without embarrassment, anger, or the slightest defensiveness, he’d admitted he’d been married before. He wouldn’t tell her how long ago it ended. He wouldn’t say a word about his wife. But he told her a bit about his children. A boy and a girl. Dark hair, dark-eyes, precocious.
And she’s grateful for those children, she’s decided. Because of them, she may never have to tell him that they can’t have their own. On the other hand, it’s possible she will tell him someday. After the wedding. Long after, because whatever baggage André has been lugging around, Fernanda has more, and she’s misplaced her claim check.
She listens to his comforting breathing and she breathes with him in sync.
She inhales his lemony scent and running her hands down her own naked, well-loved body, she wonders if he could possibly love the tumbledown woman who inhabits this beautiful house.
So when André picks her up after work next day, when he pulls her to him right on the sidewalk and nuzzles her neck while the going-home crowds bump by, when he smoothes the fractious hair around her face and folds her hands within his, Fernanda grows soft and ridiculous with love. And she yearns for their wedding to be over. She can scarcely wait. Her cheeks almost ache from smiling at him now. She needs this – him – so very desperately. And she’s smiling inwardly, too, today, because she’s resolved that she’ll be damned if she’ll be damned.
The very next night, although they’d hoped for their booth at the back, their favorite little bistro is so full that André and Fernanda have to sit at a tiny table right in the middle of the room. The Christmas decorations are still up, and depressing, of course. She’s never liked Christmas. It reminds her of children, and there are far too many of them here. Little ones, too. In high chairs. Nevertheless, things have been going fairly well. Only twenty days left until The Day.
The waiters keep jostling André’s chair, but he’s so utterly engrossed in describing the apartment he’s found that he seems not to mind.
“Granted, it’s not as high end as your place, but it does have a sort of view of the park and this incredible evening light. The building is okay with pets, too, if we ever want one. And it has a small second bedroom. With a fireplace. No, wait. I think the fireplace is in the living room.”
He fumbles in his briefcase for the floorplan.
A second bedroom.
She owes him the truth right now, no matter what. And she begins.
“Are we being precipitate, André?”
He’s spreading the floorplan on the tabletop.
“What kind of a word is ‘precipitate’ anyway?” he says. “Did that come out of one of your art books? And why would you say such a thing, Fernanda?” he asks her, quite serious now. “Have I done something to change your mind? Said something to upset you? My children?”
Fernanda shakes her head.
‘It’s not this apartment stuff, is it? We don’t have to move if you don’t want to.”
He’s folding up the plan.
“Oh, no. No. It isn’t anything like that. Or rather, it’s maybe more than that. For instance, you know what worries me? People don’t marry this fast, anymore, that’s what. So I just want you to be very sure, because I love you – you know that I love you. But how can we be so sure, so soon? I mean I know we are. Of course we are. But what we’re doing – getting married right away, it’s so, well, so incredibly Fifties, don’t you think? Back then, people wanted to have sex, so they got married ASAP just to have sex. Today, we have the sex right away – like we did – although probably not in the street.” She swallows a smile. “That was pretty risky, don’t you think? Even for a man who says he likes risk.” She kisses his palm apologetically. “Okay, so these days, people have sex, live together until things get too routine, and then, they break up.” André laughs, and she laugh as well. “You’ve got to wonder why anyone marries anymore. Except for having kids, of course.”
And there it is. Except she’s lost her train of thought, so she pretends to search for something in her bag. The floorplan of her life, possibly.
“Well, kids, naturally.” André wraps her cool hand in his warm one. “I love the idea of having children with you. A little girl first, I think. Tall, and a redhead, like her mom. I’m romantic that way.”
Fernanda’s suddenly lost in the bottom of her bag. Her hand’s begun to feel sweaty in his.
“You know,” she hangs the bag on the back of her chair, “I’m starved. Have you looked at the menu yet?”
The truth, as it usually does, is going to wait.
CHAPTER 24
Inconveniently, the Old Master sale preview has been scheduled for the week before the wedding, and in the days before, numerous preferred and potential buyers have been calling or dropping by to set up appointments for private viewings. But in the midst of it all, Fernanda has managed to find a few quiet minutes to phone Clary Howell and invite him to the opening tonight. The sale pictures have been hung in the exhibition rooms, so that the gallery, wrapped in pre-preview silence, feels disconcertingly like the “closed” day at some small, not terribly selective, museum.
Courtney’s having fits about the sale. She’d invested considerable time and research in a second-tier Canaletto that, she’s confided to Fernanda, she’s worried may be seriously overestimated. And she’s not alone in having nervous second thoughts. Poised to show the best of several Dutch paintings to a Rijksmuseum curator, the acerbic Hanne Hein is also uneasy. Her stubby hands dart repeatedly to the ebony frame of a Cuyp landscape: straightening it, standing back, considering, straightening it another quarter of an inch.
“Is it well-lit enough, do you think?” she asks Fernanda in the almost-empty room. “Maybe it’s too well lit. I don’t want him to be able to make too much of that background. It’s messily done, do you see?” Pinching her lower lip, she nudges the picture once again.
Peregrine, on the other hand, stands at the entrance, holding court and regaling the evening’s early arrivals with dubious anecdotes about who’s been interested in the department’s newly discovered Botticelli and what’s being said about it. Fernanda, usually too low on the totem pole to do more than phone the experts to hurry down to discuss a painting with a client, has been allowed, nonetheless, the exceptional privilege of showing the tondo now and then. She isn’t at all certain that it’s been generating near as much buzz as Peregrine is suggesting. One or two clients did come in for an advance look, but there have been disappointingly few museum inquiries about the picture. Or at least, inquiries that she knows of. So Fernanda isn’t sure if anyone will be bidding on it, let alone the big names he’s so casually letting fall over there. Granted, she doesn’t know all the players, but the ones she does know – the ones with both inclination and funds – s
eem to be lying low.
It would worry her even more, she knows, if her wedding – which peals in her heart like some delicate crystalline bell – weren’t the morning right after the sale. She closes her ears to its fine, distracting, ping. She has an obligation to Berger’s and these paintings. Even more so, to Clary Howell.
Charles Raff is in the center gallery now, and he’s here, she supposes, to have one quick final look at the hanging of the pictures. Striding importantly from wall to valuable wall, he stops occasionally to peer at labeling, or removes his green-framed glasses to inspect some exceptionally nice detail. After completing his regal circuit, he declares to the room in general.
“I think we have a really good sale here,” he announces. “Possibly the best group of pictures we’ve been privileged to offer in years. So congratulations to all of you,” he says, beaming in the direction of the one or two assistants and junior cataloguers who’ve been trapped in the room, and of course, at Fernanda. “Let’s just sell the hell out of it.”
For a moment or two, Fernanda thinks, he seems to be waiting for their high-fives and cheers.
The public’s begun to arrive in full force, and Fernanda waits nervously, her catalogue by her side. She’s tweaked and neatly tailored, and fairly ready, she very much hopes, for simple questions about condition, provenance and what she really thinks this or that artwork will sell for.
Very few of those attending tonight will be as new to this as she is. Most of the preview-goers understand that the estimates are intentionally low so as not to discourage bidders, and she actually expects that most of them know more than she does about Old Masters. But they’ll be asking Fernanda, too, if she’s been seeing much interest in whatever-it-is they covet, for instance. Or if she knows who is interested in what, which is tricky because serious prospective bidders often disguise their heart’s desire by asking about five paintings rather than only the one that they actually want. Others won’t make inquiries at all, but will send friends or consultants to ask instead. And then there will be the out-of-town bidders – serious and not – who’ll be phoning all week long with time-consuming, thorny questions. Courtney has pretty much briefed her on the process. So tonight, Fernanda mainly has to try to remain composed, polite, and accessible, ready to field all queries to the best of her ability. But should something exceed her narrow field of expertise, she knows to call for immediate help. She’s a little bit tense.
Surprising her this evening, however, are the many too many men who keep asking her pointless questions just to hit on her. They’re all alike, somehow: hoping to impress her with what big buyers they are, which hot and expensive artists they own, and what museum boards they’re on. They don’t seem deterred by her conspicuous displays of her ring, either. Although she’d be the first to admit that it’s not your standard engagement ring.
But the preview’s exciting and busy, after all, and if traffic slows down, well – gleaming out there like the most precious pearl, or like snowbells in earliest Spring – Saturday morning awaits!
She’s almost lost in her daydreams of André, in fact, when a New York Times reporter, come to view the sale and get an interview, is surprisingly urged by Charles to speak with her about the Botticelli. Flustered at first, and quite shy, Fernanda eventually falls back on her scholarly mode for “the press,” and the very nice woman questions her quite respectfully, almost as if she were some kind of art expert. Which, Fernanda admits to herself when she takes her leave, she almost is. And somewhere, she thinks, far away from Manhattan’s broad-shouldered skyscrapers, she can sense that old Frannie is watching – and marveling – at this really incredible thing: the preposterous glitch that’s resulted in her being interviewed by the New York Times!
Just beyond a guard’s stocky frame, now, Fernanda can see Charles approaching, making his self-satisfied way through the busy exhibition rooms, unctuously greeting clients and dealers and peppering each one (she’s fairly sure) with bits of prepared “inside” information. He’ll never reveal owner names, she knows, but he’s always willing to hint, if pressed, at this or that celebrity provenance or glamorous royal connection. As he passes Fernanda, he flashes her two thumbs-up.
And just before the evening ends, while she’s discussing a highly varnished Italian landscape with a birdlike grandmother and a bored young man she’s sincerely hoping is her grandson, Fernanda feels a light hand on her arm and turns to see it’s Clary Howell, come to visit his patrimony before it’s gone.
It’s January, but his smiling face is tan and he seems more robust than when she saw him last. Although he’s smaller, possibly? Perhaps it’s the ceilings here. Or her almost-high heels.
“Hi Fernanda Turner. How goes it?” He takes her hand and pumps enthusiastically. “This is really beautiful. Beautifully done. It looks like you had a nice party here too. Coming in, I got caught in all the crowds going out.” He gazes around, a little unfocused, she thinks, and bends close to her ear. “Do you think any of my things will sell?”
Why, he’s worried, she thinks, surprised.
“Clary! Surely you’re kidding. Everything of yours is fresh to the market. So exactly what buyers want. And just between us,” she takes him aside, lowering her voice as she savors his lovely bay rum.
“Almost half of the paintings in this sale have either been in the saleroom within the last four years or are dealers’ unsold stock. So your things – well, they stand out in that crowd. They’re going to do wonderfully, Clary. There’s been so much interest already, you can’t imagine.”
No real harm exaggerating, she tells herself, because Clary seems so unlike his usual self this evening that she’d say pretty much anything to reassure him. Mixed with her hopes of easing his fears, of course, is the uncomfortable memory of their catastrophic “date.” It’s why she’s trying too hard now, she knows. Although Clary Howell deserves better than this mindless freshman bubbling.
But she sees a little of his tension melt away, and it occurs to Fernanda, then, for the very first time, that he may need this sale.
She’s been clueless. Of course, he does. She visited that treasure-filled house and just assumed he was rich. Instead, it’s quite likely that he needs the proceeds of this sale just to maintain that huge old place. Those weeds, she remembers. Those tattered Orientals. Except that he’d said he wanted this for his boys. Well, both, probably.
Pitiably grateful for her encouragement, he rallies a little.
“Oh, that’s really fine news, Fernanda! From your lips too – he looks uncomfortable – “well, you know. Listen, are you almost done here? Let me take you for a drink.”
Fernanda glances up at the clock. She’s meeting André at 10:00.
“I have exactly thirty-eight minutes left here: after that, I’d love a drink.”
“Well, excellent then,” Clary replies, jamming his hands in the pockets of a very-well-worn tweed coat. “While I wait, I think I’ll have a look around.”
At the sleek, local six-seat bar of another of Berger’s “unofficial dining rooms,” he orders them each white wine.
“You know,” he begins, “You’re so lucky to be able to spend your days working there, Fernanda. I think I didn’t realize that until tonight. You not only get to research all those beautiful things, but you probably meet all kinds of interesting people. I’ll bet you’re always travelling to houses like mine or talking to museum people and experts.”
“In my world, on the other hand, there’s a scarcity of human beings to – I guess the expression is ‘hang out with’.” He grins. “We have our meetings, of course. But philosophy? We’re all just living in our heads. And dead people’s heads, of course. For me, it’s medieval manuscripts. Monks and vellum and such, you know. Never see my fellow man. Or woman, for the most part. It’s a dusty vocation, a somewhat sad one, I’ve often thought.’
They’re sitting by the window. He studies the street and turns back.
‘Although don’t misunderstand me. My work’s b
een a challenge. Fun, very occasionally. Although I’ll bet I couldn’t convince you of that.” He smiles. “But still, it’s a pretty isolated way to spend a life. Especially when I see something like your world. Which is a lot more highly populated than mine, that’s for sure. He chuckles dryly, pulls a tarred black pipe from his pocket and threads a long, fuzzy cleaner through its mouthpiece. “If it weren’t for the tennis at the club, in fact, and the occasional trip to the city for a concert or the opera – or something like this, tonight – I’d pretty much see no one at all.”
Fernanda understands him. She understands him better than anyone else she knows in New York. That has to be why she unfailingly feels this need to save him. To console him. To help him be old. She doesn’t say that, of course.
“Opera?” she says. “I’ve never been to an opera. Tell me about it.”
“You’ve never been? I’ll take you. Let’s make a date.”
“Oh, Clary,” This wasn’t going to go the way she’d been hoping it would go. “I don’t think we’ll be able to do that. I’m being married on Saturday.”
She hadn’t wanted to tell him.
His mouth opens and closes. She thinks she hears him sigh, as if he’d had something to say but thought the better of it. He hails the bartender and asks for more napkins instead.
“I’m happy for you, Fernanda,” he says, turning back to her. “Is he someone in your field?”
“No, no. I think he does something in finance. To tell you the truth,” she twists her engagement ring, “I’m not sure what. We did the ‘love at first sight’ thing, kind of.”
How on earth can she not know how her husband-to-be earns his living?
“Whatever he does, I only hope he’s good enough for you,” Clary offers gravely. “Is that your ring?” he asks, taking her hand. It’s dark at the bar. He squints and puts his glasses on. He looks noticeably older.
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