“Good luck, Abby,” Aidan said before he took Natalie’s hand and led her through the gallery and out the back entrance.
Steeling herself, Abby strode down the hall to the study. She and her new partners had scoured the continent, shopped estate sales, attended art auctions, trudged all over Europe to meet the artists themselves wherever they painted—Paris, Prague, Provence. Perhaps the easiest purchase had been through that eccentric Berlin art dealer, and now there was an authentication issue with it, her favorite painting. Just her luck.
If they lost that painting, she’d have no choice but to raid the private Longley collection. She was a Longley by marriage, but those paintings had been in Louis’s family for decades, and she didn’t feel right offering them for sale. She was planning to display the Longley collection, much of it priceless European master works, in the tradition of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, the art museum and gallery in Boston. Abby felt the weight of her briefcase with the papers she’d brought from Berlin. The prize painting was absolutely essential to the gallery. She was prepared to do battle.
When she stepped into the study, Victoria and Joshua sat on either side of the room, each with arms crossed, glaring at one another. How long they had been in that pose was anyone’s guess. Their body language spoke volumes. They were locked in adversarial hell.
“Abby,” Victoria breathed and loosened her arms. “I’d like you to meet Joshua Waterbury. Mr. Waterbury is here about the Botticelli.”
Abby deposited her briefcase on the conference table with a thud. She shook Joshua Waterbury’s hand, assessing him doubtfully. “Mr. Waterbury.”
“Mrs. Longley,” he responded in an equally noncommittal tone.
Joshua Waterbury was younger than she’d expected, good looking, with tufts of dark curly hair, spectacles, and broad shoulders. Unfortunately, he looked likeable, and her first impression was that he was honest, damn him. She really wanted to hate the man.
“Let’s get right to the point, ladies. Unfortunately, the painting you have purchased and currently have in your possession—Sandro Botticelli, Portrait of Venus, oil on canvas, Florence—is stolen. The portrait was coerced from a Jewish family by a Nazi officer in Vienna during World War II. The officer displaced the family, had them transported to a concentration camp, while he and his family took over not only the house but all its possessions, including the painting in question.”
Abby was horrified. “How could that have happened? I assume you have proof of this?”
“Irrefutable proof, I’m afraid,” stated Waterbury. “It’s all outlined in these documents.” He handed Abby the papers. “And these are just documents. Behind each of those pieces of paper is a personal story, a story of loss, countless tragedies, and great injustices I could spend a lifetime correcting. Do you know that an estimated 650,000 works of art were plundered, looted by the Nazis from the Jews?”
Abby was flabbergasted. On the surface, Mr. Waterbury appeared to be sincere. Abby reviewed the papers and frowned.
“I legitimately bought this painting from Franz Heidegger of Berlin not two months ago. Here is the bill of sale and proof of provenance.” Abby handed over her documents for Mr. Waterbury’s inspection.
Mr. Waterbury read the correspondence and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Longley, these documents appear to be in order. But as I told Mrs. Dare, Herr Heidegger has been detained for questioning in Berlin. We have found dozens of works of art in the basement of his apartment, priceless paintings by Old Masters, Renaissance painters, Impressionists. These paintings are all of questionable provenance. We are trying to establish how he acquired such gems in the first place, probably for next to nothing. We’re convinced it was through nefarious means. The heirs, the innocent victims, need to be compensated. ”
“I was under the impression that Herr Heidegger’s father had been a legitimate dealer,” Abby challenged.
“If you consider working for Hitler legitimate,” Mr. Waterbury commented with a hint of sarcasm. “Unfortunately, some people try to rewrite history.”
“My father-in-law, Jonathan Longley, dealt with him quite often to add to his private collection. When we were in Berlin earlier this summer, we dropped into the son’s apartment, and he offered me a selection of paintings.”
“Mrs. Longley, may I see the painting now?”
Abby walked over to the easel and removed the drop cloth. When it fell away, Mr. Waterbury gasped, obviously overcome with emotion. He studied the painting and the signature.
“It’s the missing Botticelli.”
“Missing?” Abby inquired. “What do you mean?”
“Let me explain,” Mr. Waterbury began. “In Botticelli’s early pagan phase, he fell in love a young Italian Renaissance noblewoman named Simonetta Vespucci, reputed to be the most beautiful woman in Florence in her day. She was known as ‘la bella Simonetta.’ And as you probably know, she was the model for some of his most famous paintings, including The Birth of Venus.” Joshua stared at Abby and coughed.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you bear a strong resemblance to Simonetta? In fact, you, er, look so much like Simonetta, it’s uncanny. Botticelli painted dozens of pictures of her, most in the nude or as he imagined her in the nude. They were for his eyes only. Whether or not they were lovers has not been substantiated. She died at age twenty-three, and he requested to be buried at her feet. This painting was presumed burned in the Bonfire of the Vanities in 1497 in Florence, when fundamentalist Girolamo Savonarola, an Italian friar and preacher, urged the artists of his day to burn their lascivious images. We will always wonder what the art world missed when Botticelli burned some of his early paintings. But apparently someone from the church who was a friend of the Medici family must have rescued it, hidden it, preserved it. One of the Medici brothers was also in love with Simonetta. And all these years we thought this image had been destroyed. But it was obviously in someone’s private collection and passed down through the centuries.
“The portrait was stolen by the Nazis during World War II, confiscated by the Nazi general while he was assigned to Vienna,” Mr. Waterbury explained. “Eventually Herr Heidegger’s father, one of Hitler’s favored art dealers, was able to buy it at a reduced price, and he has hoarded it ever since. But recently, a claim was filed for this painting by a survivor of the camps. A member of a family we thought had gone up in ashes at Auschwitz.”
“A survivor has come forward to claim the painting?” Abby asked incredulously.
“Yes. The youngest son of a prominent banking family somehow managed to survive the camps, and when he returned to Vienna, someone else was living in his house. Everything of value, including the paintings, had been removed. Portrait of Venus was on a bill of sale from the Nazi officer to Herr Heidegger’s father, who needed money when he fled the Russians at the end of the war. Only after the claim was filed did we learn of the painting’s existence. But there’s no record of any ‘sale’ by this banking family to the Nazi officer. Obviously it was confiscated or taken under duress, as many works of art were at the time. Even if Herr Heidegger indeed has proof of his father’s purchase, the painting was not the officer’s to sell.”
Abby looked at Victoria in resignation. If these documents were legitimate, then this painting should be in the hands of its rightful owner, the sole survivor of the family almost completely destroyed in the Holocaust.
“The survivor remembers the painting in his house as he was growing up. It was his mother’s favorite. He is elderly now, in need of money for medical expenses. He is willing to sell the painting. There is something else. The Uffizi Gallery in Florence has expressed an interest in adding this piece to their collection to place in Hall 10/14 with The Birth of Venus and Primavera, Botticelli’s other paintings.”
Abby recalled their recent visit to the Uffizi. Yes, that’s where the painting belonged. It was perfect for the Venus Gallery, it was beautiful, but it wasn’t theirs to keep. This development changed everything.
�
��I can understand your dilemma, Mrs. Longley. You purchased this painting in good faith. You paid more than a million dollars for it. This painting is priceless. If we could put a value on it, it would be millions of euros. Imagine, a missing Botticelli, found after all these centuries. And the Uffizi Gallery is willing to pay you. You’d make a handsome profit.”
“But the opening…” Abby said.
“And, of course, you may borrow it for the opening.”
Abby rubbed her forehead. “You’ll understand if I want my attorney to review these papers for authenticity.”
“Of course.”
“He should be arriving any minute.”
Abby examined the tempera on canvas. It was mesmerizing, a miniature of the model used in The Birth of Venus. It was a masterpiece. And looking at the painting was like looking in a mirror.
There was a knock on the study door.
“Abigail?” Abby’s attorney, Brandon Fairbanks, entered, and Abby made the introductions. Before he settled at the table, the attorney went to the painting, drawn to it as anyone would be, to the beauty of the model and to the rich colors, still vibrant after so many centuries.
“Abby, this model looks exactly like you. The resemblance is amazing.”
“That’s what people keep telling me.”
Once seated, Brandon studied the papers Abby handed him and huddled head to head with Joshua Waterbury.
Abby tapped her feet. Agitated, she wondered whether having a borrowed painting would affect her gallery opening. Not if Mr. Waterbury kept his word.
Brandon interrupted her thoughts. “I’m sure you are aware, Mr. Waterbury, that there is a thirty-year statute of limitations on making claims on stolen property.”
“Of course, but we could hold you up in court indefinitely,” Waterbury replied. “And time is running out for the heir I represent. He might not live to see his family vindicated. That would be a tragedy he shouldn’t have to suffer twice.”
Brandon gave him an assessing look before advising, “That being said, Abby, the papers appear to be legitimate. If you are agreeable, would you like me to execute the sale to the Uffizi and have them compensate the survivor?”
“It’s the right thing to do, I know that. I want to do what’s fair, and I know this is right, but—” Abby took a last wistful glance at the portrait and nodded.
“I will get the documents ready for your signature,” said Brandon. “Meanwhile, you may keep the painting until after the opening. Mr. Waterbury will stay until then, and he will personally hand-deliver our looted art to the rightful owner and then on to the Uffizi.”
Abby nodded.
“Victoria, thank you,” Mr. Waterbury said. “Please, allow me to take you and Mrs. Longley to dinner tonight. I’m new in town, and I’d love the company.”
“I already have plans,” Abby said. “Vickie, why don’t you join Mr. Waterbury for dinner, and you can discuss plans to hand over the painting.”
Victoria nodded, unsmiling.
“I must to be going.” Abby sighed, staring longingly at the priceless painting that now belonged to history. She wiped away a tear.
Mr. Waterbury looked relieved. It was obvious he didn’t like being at odds with Victoria. He had been sneaking looks at her throughout the negotiations, showing telltale signs of attraction—loosening his tie, combing his fingers through his hair, adjusting his glasses, perspiring profusely, staring longingly. Well, why not? Victoria was a stunning woman.
Abby glanced at her watch. Tack would be picking her up soon. She needed to get dressed for dinner and get out of her casual “whaling” clothes. She’d run out of time to visit the Maple Avenue storefront and see the progress Aidan had made. She’d have to do that tomorrow. She also needed to check in with Jane. She hadn’t seen Jane all day. Jane was holed up in her loft, painting her heart out and probably cozying up to Ethan Logan. Well, she could certainly spare a few minutes. And she wanted to see how Jane was getting on.
Abby knocked on Jane’s studio/bedroom door. She heard rustling sounds, shoes scuffling, paint brushes rattling. What was going on in there? Was she interrupting a tryst? Jane and Ethan had deadlines they had to meet for the opening. There was no time to fool around. She knocked again, this time with more force.
Jane came to the door, her hair mussed, specks of paint on her nose.
“Abby.” The sound whooshed out of Jane’s mouth.
“Is everything all right in here?” Abby craned her neck to peek around the door. The easel was covered. Then she noticed a large man’s tennis shoe halfway under the bed. “I hope you two are working on your paintings. The opening is only a few weeks away. Before then, these paintings have to dry and be framed.”
“We’ll be ready,” said Jane, who was immovable.
“May I come in?”
“Well, um, actually—”
“What are you hiding in there?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Somehow, I’m not surprised. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“Okay, well, bye, then.” Jane shut the door in Abby’s face. Well, artists were temperamental, a breed unto themselves. They could be expected to be strange. But Jane was hiding something, and Abby was determined to find out what it was.
Chapter Eight
She hadn’t been on a date, a real date—not a whaling trip with hundreds of people tagging along, but a real private date—since Louis had died. She didn’t feel like she was betraying Louis. Louis would want her to be happy. He was a generous man. And she had been miserable for the past twelve months. Long enough.
Since she’d run into Tack, she’d been experiencing some strange emotions. She enjoyed being around him. She was attracted to him. That kiss on the docks had awakened her senses. She felt it deep down in her soul. If he had continued his seduction a minute longer, she would have submitted to him right there on the pier, gossipers or no gossipers. She was afraid the attraction to Tack might be partially because she adored Isabella. But she had to admit she couldn’t wait to see Tack again.
She had no idea where he was taking her. Another fried-fish shack? There were probably dozens of those around town. He hadn’t even given her a clue. Should she dress up? Would he be dressed in overalls? She didn’t care. In fact, she was anxious to see what he looked like without the overalls—better yet, sans any clothes. If she dressed up, would he think she was stuffy? His first impression of her was that she was a snooty, stuck-up bitch who thought she was too good for Lobster Cove. Well, she was who she was, and Abigail Adams Longley wouldn’t be caught dead without her fancy clothes and jewelry, so let him get a taste of the real Abigail. Hmm, that sounded naughty. Tack was the ultimate Marlborough Man. Rugged, handsome, and simple. No doubt he had been a Boy Scout. Abigail Adams Longley was complicated. So if he intended to continue seeing her, he’d better get used to it, because she was about to complicate his life.
Tack arrived right on schedule. She liked a punctual man. And he was carrying flowers and wearing a well-tailored suit.
She accepted the flowers and put them in a vase.
“Wow,” said Tack. “You look amazing in that dress, and those shoes.” She was glad she’d elected to dress up and wear the high heels. Tack was tall enough.
“And you look good, too.” Why be coy? He looked good enough to eat. And she was hungry.
“You mean without the overalls?”
“That’s not what I meant. Do we have time for a tour?”
“Sure. I’d like to see where the other half lives.”
“Well, we’re still under construction in the gallery, but it’s really shaping up. I’ll show you that another time, but let’s see the rest of the house.”
“More like a mansion. Lead the way,” said Tack, grabbing her hand.
Abby didn’t like to be manhandled, but for some reason she didn’t mind this close encounter with Tack.
“I’d introduce you to my friends, but they all seem to be out tonight. Longley House has turned into a so
rority sleepover. All hormones, all the time.”
“Is that a problem for you?”
“On the contrary. I hated it until they got here. It was becoming unbearable. I was half ready to sell it and move somewhere, anywhere. But now it seems like home. I guess it’s the company and the gallery. It’s breathed new life into all of us. I think Louis would have been proud of me, that I’m moving on with my life.” Moving on in more ways than one, she thought. Tonight, with Tack, would be a turning point. Abby wiped a tear from her cheek.
After they toured the kitchen, living room, dining room, study, and the rest of the rooms on the lower floor, they took the elevator to the second floor, where Abby showed Tack the guest bedrooms where her friends were staying, all of them except Jane, who occupied the tower bedroom on the ocean side of the house, which doubled as her artist-in-residence studio.
“What about your bedroom?” Tack asked pointedly, as if he were ready to get an early start on the evening.
“I couldn’t stay in the bedroom where I lived with Louis. Not anymore. So I had Aidan redesign my space on the third floor.” She led him into the spacious area.
“Your closet is bigger than my bedroom,” Tack said, as he walked over to the window. “And this view is amazing. You can see the ocean in every direction.”
Abby was glad Tack approved. If things went well at dinner, she planned to invite him back here. That made her curious about where he lived.
“You can come back during the day to see the garden. Maybe by then we’ll have the gallery finished. You can bring Isabella and your mom to the opening, if you want.”
“They wouldn’t miss it. I know they’d love it. Well, we’d better get going. We have reservations at a restaurant outside of town. I hope you haven’t been to the Crow’s Nest.”
Abby turned off the lights and led the way back downstairs.
“I haven’t been to any restaurants around here, except for Mariner’s Fish Fry with you.”
“Not in all these years?”
“I told you, Chef prepares all the meals.”
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