Standing face-to-face, without a conference table and piles of paper between them, Mara noticed that his eyes twinkled and his dimples flashed. Though the bookstore was equidistant between their two offices, she was astonished to see him in the Midtown store on a weekend. After all, his apartment was downtown, and she thought Beazley’s didn’t demand his presence on Saturday and Sunday. “Michael,” she managed to say, “what are you doing here?”
“Looking for a good book, just like you, I assume. Although maybe not quite so many good books as you,” he answered coyly, glancing down at her basket.
“Sorry, I meant, what are you doing in Midtown? I thought you didn’t work on weekends.”
He explained that he had needed to stop by the office to pick up a few contracts to review over the weekend, and since he had no plans for the day, he decided to stop in the bookstore. “How about lunch?” he asked.
She begged off, although she was tempted on many levels. “I’ve got too much work.”
“But aren’t I part of your lawyerly duties? You can bill me.” His logic proved both irrefutable and irresistible.
Lunch turned into a walk in Central Park. The walk in the park developed into cocktails. Cocktails grew into dinner at a favorite Japanese restaurant near his apartment. Throughout the day, Michael was friendly but surprisingly businesslike. Mara expected to feel wary and on guard, but instead, she found herself wondering whether he had fallen for someone else. Deena? She shook her head at her own silliness and tried to feel relieved by the prospect of relating to Michael solely as a client, without the specter of a relationship constantly throwing her off course.
Over fresh sushi and warm sake, Michael enticed Mara into presenting her strategy. She felt nervous about the fact that it was merely a legal sketch awaiting animation by the facts and her performance, and her heart fluttered like a butterfly’s wing. “I want to invite the judge to make new law,” she said.
Michael raked his fingers through his hair. “Make new law? Are you sure we should gamble this case on the chance the judge will ‘make new law’?” Her daring didn’t impress him. Nonetheless, Mara remained confident; this was her domain, and she knew exactly how to proceed.
“Let me back up a second to explain the landscape of replevin law. Typically, triumph for a defendant in a replevin case hinges on proving that there is a chink somewhere in the plaintiff’s chain of ownership—for instance, that the person from whom the plaintiff obtained the property didn’t have title to pass. While I know that I’ll be able to pull some evidence together along those lines from Lillian—after all, I’m sure she would never have approved The Chrysalis for auction if its title weren’t airtight—I don’t want our success to depend on that argument alone.
“So I have developed a second avenue that we can pursue. I unearthed a line of cases, starting with an old New York appellate case called DeClerck, stating that if the claimed ‘rightful owner’ in a replevin action hasn’t taken reasonable steps to find the stolen article, then the suit’s dismissible as time-barred. Based on the rough timeline Hilda Baum sets out in the complaint and simple reality, I think it’s improbable that Hilda sleuthed enough in the past sixty years to meet DeClerck’s standards. I’m going to try to prove that in the discovery phase of the case—in Hilda’s deposition, to be exact.” She paused. “What do you think?”
Michael looked at her, impressed. “I like it. Especially that second path, since we’d be able to avoid getting into the Baums’ tragic history. It’d be all about what Hilda Baum did or didn’t do afterward—her failure to search. We’d get to turn the tables on her, making it her problem. But just how viable do you think it is? How strong is your DeClerck precedent?” There was an unnerving excitement in his voice and a cold calculation in his eyes that Mara had never heard or seen before. She was taken aback, and she suddenly thought about the plaintiffs from all the replevin cases she had read: Alphonse Schwarz, Eva Blumer, Otto Stern, even Hilda Baum. She struggled to respond.
After a few moments, she composed herself and assumed the poise she had learned as an attorney. “Pretty viable,” she answered. “But we have two major hurdles to overcome. The biggest barrier is another New York case: Scaife. In that one, the court used an entirely different standard, basically holding that it doesn’t matter whether a replevin plaintiff exercised due diligence in searching for his or her property. But Scaife is another appellate case, just like DeClerck, so neither case will automatically govern.
Our judge will have the ability to choose between them, and I’ll have to persuade him to adopt DeClerck, or some harmonization of the two that mandates investigation on the plaintiff’s part.”
“How will you convince him?”
“Public policy, I think. Scaife pretty much absolves former owners from any efforts to locate their stolen property, but this makes New York vulnerable to ancient claims that plaintiffs may have allowed to languish for years—even decades. If our judge were to follow Scaife, New York would be left without an effective statute of limitations on replevin cases and could become a magnet for stale, questionable litigation over stolen art. Given that New York is the hub of American art commerce, it could chill trade, driving galleries and auction houses elsewhere, to states that are more protective of them. What judge would want that on his conscience? Or on his record?”
“I sure wouldn’t, but then no one would appoint me to a judgeship. You mentioned two hurdles to DeClerck. What’s the second?”
“The facts. At this stage, I’ve no idea how dedicated Hilda Baum was to the task of finding this painting. The complaint doesn’t have to be very detailed, and the facts in it are all we have to go on at this point in terms of her search. If Hilda let her claim languish for years, as I’m only guessing may be the case, we could have a powerful argument and—”
She froze. Deena had entered the restaurant, dressed in black leather pants and a skintight black sweater. Mara felt a surge of jealousy at the memory of Deena and Michael’s flirtatious exchange, but the emotion was quickly supplanted by a wave of terror at the lightning-fire gossip that would spread through the firm if Deena saw them.
Michael was speaking, complimenting her on her creativity, but she could not respond. “Mara, what is it?” he asked.
She blushed, realizing she’d have to admit to spying him at the office in order to convince him of the situation’s gravity. “You were at the attorneys’ lunch at the firm this week?”
“Yes. Did you see me? Why didn’t you come over and—?”
She interrupted him. “Do you remember talking to a tall, dark-haired woman in a purple dress?”
He looked down—a little guiltily, Mara thought. “Yes, but—“
“Never mind. That woman, Deena, just walked into this restaurant.”
Michael followed her gaze and craned his neck toward the entrance, muttering, “Oh my God, I think I mentioned to her that I come here.”
Mara grabbed his arm before he turned around fully. “Stop, don’t turn around. I don’t want her to spot us. This may sound histrionic, but we really need to get out of here.” Mara scanned the narrow room, realizing that they would have to pass directly by Deena’s table to leave. She grabbed the jacket of their waiter. “Is there a back door to the restaurant?”
“Yes.” The waiter pointed to a metal door in the front area of the kitchen. It exited onto the side street. He tittered, assuming one of their spouses had wandered in unexpectedly. “Follow me.”
Michael gaped at her. “You’ve got to be kidding me. We’re going out through the alleyway? What’s there to hide?”
“Michael, here we are, on a Saturday night, miles away from either of our offices, but very close to your apartment. This is not so easily explained as a work dinner, innocent or not. Besides, her gossip about this dinner will be all over the firm by Monday morning. And you can be sure that the story won’t be limited to the associates—it will reach the partners as well. Deena’s on her second or third affair with a partner.�
�� Mara held steady. “It’ll compromise not just me but Baum v. Beazley’s. This has been my fear all along. There are very strict rules about relationships between lawyers and clients. I’m sure you’ve read about the case of Lisa Minever?”
She needed to say nothing more. Michael laid out far more cash than the bill and seized their coats from the waiter. As he shielded Mara from the front of the restaurant, they hustled after the waiter toward the back.
Michael and Mara dashed by the startled gazes of the busboys; straddled the bags of garbage that blocked the entrance to the rear door, no doubt a fire hazard; and finally stepped into the alley. After weaving their way through abandoned boxes and piles of refuse, Mara and Michael emerged onto the street. They walked quickly without speaking for a few blocks, until they reached a local pub. Michael pulled Mara inside, strode to the bar, ordered a Guinness for himself and a glass of sauvignon blanc for her, and then joined her in a booth.
They raised their glasses in a toast and exploded into hysterical laughter.
Wiping away the tears, Mara apologized. “I feel so ridiculous. I’m so sorry to have made you do that.”
He downed his beer. “Are you kidding? That might be the closest thing to espionage that I ever experience.”
She gulped her wine, hoping to stop her heart from racing. “Another?”
Glass after glass later, after a long stroll, he walked her to her apartment door. She protested that such chivalry was unnecessary, but all the wine had made her foggy and vulnerable, and when he insisted, she acquiesced.
She fumbled for the apartment keys in her bag. He turned her toward him and reached for her free hand. He pressed each one of his fingers up against hers in a kind of embrace. She resisted folding her fingers into his.
“Mara, I’d like there to be something between us for Deena to gossip about.”
“Oh, Michael, I don’t know. There’s so much at stake.”
He whispered. “Please take it down, Mara.”
“Take what down?” She was confused.
“This barricade, this wall, whatever it is that stops your hand from folding into mine.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to, Michael, it’s just that I’m scared.”
“Of what, Mara?”
“Of what will happen to me if things don’t work out. You know how Severin would deal with me.”
“What if I promise you that things will work out?”
She knew he could make no such promises, but she was so tired of loneliness. Nor did she want to close herself off completely and marry herself off to Severin, Oliver & Means like Sophia. Michael pressed up against her, backing her into the apartment door. He kissed her, and his fingers began sliding up her sweater. As she wriggled away from him to open the door, he leaned into her back, nibbling her neck, breathing into it, breathing into her. He ran his hands slowly down her back and around to the insides of her thighs. He reached between them and then up. Mara froze. She stopped fumbling with the door and put her forehead on it, letting him touch her. She didn’t care if her neighbors could see or hear. For once, she let herself go.
eleven
NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY
MONDAY MORNING, AN ASSISTANT SO FLINTY SHE SPARKED led Mara deep through Beazley’s labyrinth to meet with Lillian. Their appointment had been canceled and rescheduled more times than Mara could count due to Lillian’s travel demands, and Mara was both relieved that it was finally to happen and apprehensive about its outcome. She had gone as far as she could with the case on her own; now Lillian’s cooperation and information were vital. While Mara had no reason to doubt that Lillian could provide her with all the supporting documentation she needed, she sensed that she would have to work pretty hard to earn Lillian’s full assistance.
Now, sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair facing Lillian, Mara felt like a wayward student called in for a reprimand by her headmistress. Lillian sat behind her commanding desk and glowered out at Mara through her pince-nez. Mara had chosen a favorite Armani suit in hopes of running into Michael, but she still felt cheap and flimsy in Lillian’s scrutinizing presence.
Mara knew that she should be paying very close attention to Lillian, but Michael was all she could think about. He was right here in the building, just a few floors above her, just a short elevator ride away. She could almost feel the warmth of his breath on her neck, a residue from the morning, and it sent shivers through her. When they had first awoken on Sunday, entangled in each other’s arms, however, she had felt differently. Dread had filled her veins like lead, and she could barely breathe. All she could envision were the faces of her coworkers, Sophia, and Harlan. But over brunch and dinner, and later in bed, Michael had reassured her again and again of his deep feelings for her and of his determination never to allow their relationship to jeopardize her standing at Severin. His promises alone assuaged the romantic in her, but the pragmatist in her had insisted on absolute secrecy for at least as long as she was working on Baum. He had readily agreed to anything and everything, and so, in a very different way, had Mara.
Lillian jumped up and disrupted Mara’s reverie. She adjusted the equestrian-themed Hermès scarf at her neck, flattened her pressed heather-gray skirt, and marched out of the room without even glancing to see if Mara was following.
Mara scrambled to gather her belongings. After they had passed down a series of winding hallways, Lillian nodded to the two security officers guarding an old oak door sized for a giant. “This is PROVID,” she announced as the guards unlocked the door.
Mara stepped into the jewel-box library of her bookworm dreams. Rows of French doors looked out over Central Park on the west wall, while the other walls boasted sumptuous paneling, leather-bound books, and stepladders. The ceiling arched high above them, airy with the gilded mural of a blue sky and wispy clouds. Four long worktables, dotted with computers and flanked by upholstered chairs, dominated the center of the room. Another similarly goliath barricade guarded the back, east wall. Mara wondered if Michael had ever been so lucky as to work here.
Lillian poured herself a cup of steaming tea from a silver service and begrudgingly offered one to Mara. Then she headed to a work area near the French doors. She gestured for Mara to sit beside her and commanded, “Come on, Ms. Coyne, enough staring. Let’s get you what you came here for—The Chrysalis provenance.”
Mara nodded and surrendered to the subordinate role she knew she must play. With great flourish, Lillian handed her a document.
* * *
JOHANNES MIEREVELD
The Chrysalis
Oil on canvas
45 x 35 inches
Signature lower right
Provenance
Johannes Miereveld, Haarlem, the Netherlands (1660–61)
Jacob Van Dinter, Haarlem, the Netherlands (1675)
Erich Baum, Amsterdam, the Netherlands (1908)
Albert Boettcher & Co., Zurich, Switzerland (1944)
Blank (1944).
Exhibitions
New York, New York, National Museum of Catholic Art and History, “Northern European Painting from the Time of the Reformation,” October 14, 1970–April 20, 1972, No. 34, illustrated
Boston, Massachusetts, Museum of Fine Arts, “Sixteenth-and Seventeenth-Century Dutch Art,” November 24, 1985–February 22, 1990, No. 12, illustrated
Washington, D.C., National Gallery of Art, “De Hooch and His Compatriots,” May 18, 1993–August 31, 1993, No. 28, illustrated
Literature
Arthur Childs. Vermeer. London, 1968.
Charles Harbison. Delft Artists around 1640. New York, 1975.
Lois Magovern. Dutch Painting. The History of Art. New York and Toronto, 1979.
James Alexander. Dutch Genre Painting and Portraits of the Seventeenth Century. London, 1983.
Natalie Pollard. The Dutch Golden Age: Popular Culture, Religion, and Society in Seventeenth-Century Holland. New York, 1991.
Goerdt Kopf. “The Artist’s Religion: Paintings Commission
ed for Clandestine Catholic Churches in the Netherlands.” Gerontius 42 (1998).
* * *
Lillian sipped from her delicate porcelain cup as Mara reviewed the document. “Now, you understand, of course, that The Chrysalis’s provenance was first assembled by Beazley’s in the 1940s, when we initially sold the painting to the current owner. Since The Chrysalis has not changed hands since that time, updating the provenance for the Dutch art auction was relatively simple. We needed only to add recent references to The Chrysalis from publications and exhibitions and do some general double-checking through any newly surfaced documents. So that you can fully understand the provenance I have just handed you, I want you to see how a provenance is done. You have to be familiar with the process in order to prove just how clear The Chrysalis’s title is, don’t you?”
Lillian walked Mara through the work behind the title portion of the completed Chrysalis provenance and then interpreted the final document for her. “As far as we know, The Chrysalis began its long, quiet life in the studio of Johannes Miereveld and Nicholaes Van Maes, in the burgeoning commercial and artistic center of Haarlem in what is now the Netherlands. We know little about the life of the artist Miereveld, except that he and Van Maes were the favored portraitists for politicians and prominent Calvinist families in their region in the mid-1600s. While Van Maes’s portraits are attractive, they are quite typical for the day, with standard poses and symbolism. Miereveld’s paintings, on the other hand, are ground-breaking. Not only are they masterful renderings of his subjects’ features and dress, but they also use revolutionary color, brushstrokes, and iconography to capture his subjects’ essences.” She sighed with obvious respect. “His portraits are really quite extraordinary.
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