by Gwyn Cready
At least she had gotten a story angle—a great story angle, she might add. Peter had told her about the affair Van Dyck, the old lech, had had with a young girl named Agnes. Giselle, it turned, had been a nonstarter. Nothing but a seventeenth-century stalker. Apparently even painters had those.
Agnes, on the other hand, was a girl who had been identified by Van Dyck early in her young life as a potential wife. Van Dyck had supplied the abbess of the orphanage where Agnes lived with enough money to sponsor the girl’s education and to ensure she would never be exposed to anything that might awaken her sexual curiosity. Van Dyck, it seemed, had an unearthly fear of being cuckolded—the hobgoblin of men with small minds and even smaller penises—and wanted his future wife to be entirely devoted to him.
Naturally when she emerged from the orphanage as a young woman, Agnes promptly fell in love with a man her own age—Cam had a sneaking suspicion this was Peter, though he referred to the young man as Horace—and Van Dyck laid traps to try to catch them in the act.
It was a fantastic triangle. Plenty of sex. Plenty of behind-the-scenes maneuvering. Now all she had to do was fit it into her biography, send it to her publisher again, and she’d have Ball’s gift of the $2.1 million Van Dyck painting as well as a book deal to lay before the museum board. She thought of the scene in Flashdance, a scene actually filmed in the Carnegie’s great hall, where Jennifer Beals points a victorious finger at every sour-faced judge during her dance audition and wins them over to her obvious suitability.
Yep, she thought as the scene played in her head, that would be her, though there would be no Michael Nouri waiting with a bunch of roses at the end, and there would certainly be no Jake Ryan sitting on top of his Porsche, making sure she celebrated her big day in the best way possible.
Peter had retreated into a polite reserve. He told her the Van Dyck story without emotion, answering whatever questions she asked, before excusing himself, saying he had an appointment he’d forgotten. He had not asked her to stay. He had not asked her to schedule another sitting. He did not mention another Wednesday afternoon. She’d simply gathered her purse, stumbled down the stairs with a general murmur about the privy, and walked to the models’ room. Within a minute, she’d called up Amazon on her phone as Jeanne had suggested, replayed the steps she’d taken before, and been deposited with a bang at her desk.
Her main problem was that a biography, at least in theory, was supposed to be based on facts. The Agnes story was a fact, but Cam could hardly footnote it with “From an interview with Van Dyck contemporary Peter Lely, November 5, 1673.” She’d need to find some mention of it somewhere in the records.
Jeanne stirred. “Mmmgph. Are you still up?”
“Yeah. Thanks for staying.”
“You know I like to rack up as much overtime as possible. Besides, the only way I could explain my panic about your absence earlier was saying you’d found a vein of gold, research-wise, and had rushed off to the library without telling anyone.”
“I take it you didn’t mention the explosion and the orange Crush?”
“Do I look like I want to be carted away by men in white coats? I said I’d heard a noise in your office and that when I went in you were gone.”
“You should be a writer.”
“Tell me about it. I’m glad the reverse trip worked, though. You didn’t come back right away, so I wasn’t sure.”
Cam thought about how much smarter it would have been if she had. She hadn’t told Jeanne anything that had happened after her ill-conceived posing.
“I’m having a problem.”
“Hit me.” Jeanne sat up and rubbed her eyes.
“This story about the virgin Agnes is great stuff, but I’m supposed to be an academic. What am I going to list as a source on that?”
Jeanne rubbed her chin. “I’ve got an idea. You know how news used to be objective old men giving us the facts and nothing but the facts?”
“Yeah?”
“But people gave up wanting to hear news? They only wanted to hear fairy tales or WWE smack talk disguised as news?”
“Yeah?”
“Why does your publisher want you to sex up your story? Because it sells better. Which is the same reason those cable news stations have created a new model.”
“So are you suggesting I rewrite this so all my characters are either interrupting one another or shouting?”
“No. I’m suggesting you create your own model. Fiction plus biography. Have it be based in fact. Lord knows, you’ve done the research. But sell it as fiction, or at least a weird hybrid. Campbell Stratford, art world expert, cracks open the world of sex-crazed, egomaniac painters. People will eat it up. Better yet, they’ll believe it’s true. After all, would a nice girl like you lie?”
Cam leaned back. A fictography. In a flash, she saw the whole book rewrite itself. It was a great idea. And best of all, she wouldn’t have to do a stitch more research. Whatever she didn’t know, she could make up! It was beautiful!
“Jeanne,” she said, “I don’t pay you enough.”
“Hush.” Jeanne punched the cushion and pulled the blanket over her head. “It goes to triple time at twenty-four hours.”
Cam’s finger went to her lashes. Most of the last twelve hours had been a highly embarrassing mistake. At least she could salvage something.
“Hey,” Jeanne said. “I can see that.”
Cam put her finger down. “So?”
“So what happened with Lely?”
“Nothing. I found out what I needed to know.”
“Uh-oh. That sounds like a scab worth picking.”
“Not tonight, huh? I gotta lot of work, okay?”
Jeanne made a considering noise. “All right. For now.”
When Jeanne began to snore, Cam turned to her manuscript, inspiration renewed, and began to type.
Her phone buzzed. A text. She picked it up. It was from Jacket.
“Can’t sleep. Looking at the night sky here. Are you working? Should I be worried? Make some noise when you come in, so I can rest easy. J”
She smiled. Maybe Porsches come in all shapes and sizes. Maybe one can be parked outside your house all the time, and you just didn’t notice.
She thumbed her reply, “Will do.”
Twenty-four
Five weeks later
Despite three cups of coffee and an inarguable interest in a number of topics on the agenda, Cam found her eyelids slowly closing during the weekly staff meeting till a kick from Jeanne under the table brought her to full attention.
“The status of the Van Dyck donation?” Lamont Packard repeated.
“Er, the paperwork is done,” Cam said. “Ball’s attorneys have reviewed it. Except for a minor change in the image rights section, they’re on board.” Cam had been at her desk at home every night since she’d returned, hammering out the pages of The Girl with a Coral Earring, then at the museum first thing in the morning to prepare for the exhibit and gala. Everything was going well, but she’d probably need to sleep for a week once the book was turned in.
“Good.” Packard tapped his pen. “And the provenance and authenticity?”
Cam swept a deferential hand toward her sister. Even though Cam had been a big fan of seventeenth-century masters since her early teens, when Anastasia finally settled on a college major during Cam’s senior year in high school, she’d naturally picked—what else?—art history with a specialty in seventeenth-century masters. The decision hadn’t particularly bothered Cam, but a year later, when her parents forbade her to choose the same specialty—“Anastasia’s had a hard time of it. Let’s give her her own space in which to blossom, okay?”—Cam had breathed a hard sigh, decided to outshine her sister in whatever area she chose, and switched to modern art, her second love. Nonetheless, her college thesis was on the influence of Van Dyck on Alfred Sisley and David Hockney, which
is why, when it came time to write a biography, she’d returned to the subject with which it had all begun for her.
Anastasia shuffled through files on the table, slipped on a bright red pair of half-moon glasses, gave her sister a look suggesting that despite the amateurishness of Cam’s prework, she had been able to create a silk purse out of a sow’s canvas and deliver an actual seventeenth-century masterpiece to the collection. “I did manage to get both buttoned down, which was a relief, for there were a number of egregious holes in the history.”
Cam rolled her eyes. Anastasia made it sound as if Cam had found it at a garage sale and was trying to sell it herself for beer money. “Yes, I’m certain the Hermitage has a number of performance areas on which they need to be working. I hope the entry in Catherine the Great’s diary sufficed.”
The side of Packard’s mouth rose. “Perfect. Ball wants to sign the papers the night of the gala.”
Anastasia refolded her glasses and snapped them into a Chanel case. “If you have anything you’d like for me to tell him, let me know. I’ll be seeing him tonight.”
Cam made a private growl and was grateful she did not have easy access to a rolled-up broadsheet. One of the disadvantages of having every evening full was losing the ability to cultivate your favorite donors.
Packard rose. “Cam, can you hang back for a minute?”
Jeanne gave her a look, pushed the coffee cup in her direction, and exited with the rest of the team.
“What’s up?” Cam said.
Packard was filing papers into his briefcase. “I just wanted to tell you the board is very pleased. The painting, of course, is a feather in your hat, though to be fair, that is the sort of thing they’d expect any curator to do. But your book is actually of more interest than I would have expected.”
“Really?”
“Of course, the academic books will always look good on a CV. There’s no denying that, but there are a few board members who have been talking about the value of the PR, and that’s something one doesn’t see with an academic book. Will you be able to do the interviews and signings, that kind of thing?”
“Absolutely.” In fact, her editor had been very excited and just last week had slipped a story in Publishers Weekly—“Art historian Campbell Stratford will turn the art world on its ear with her upcoming ‘fictography,’ The Girl with a Coral Earring”—that mentioned the museum and her position there.
“Good. Keep it up. Keep it positive. Keep getting the word out about the Carnegie. Can I tell them that’s part of your plan?”
“Sure. Definitely.”
Packard shut the case and paused. “What about Jacket?”
Cam shuffled a little. Being connected with an artist had always been a tad uncomfortable when it came to museum politics. Jacket had been willing to help whenever he could, but it would be unethical, unfair to him, and just plain weird for her to promise that he’d do anything. “What do you mean?”
“He’s back, yes?”
“You should know. You invited him.”
Packard laughed. “Yes, he was kind enough to do a piece for the show. But I think it would be in your best interest for me to let the board know if Jacket is going to be a permanent addition to Pittsburgh.”
Well, the question was about as opaque as he could have made it. Nonetheless Cam felt her cheeks grow warm.
“Yeah, um, we’re exploring the topic.”
“I apologize. I know the topic’s uncomfortable. Hell, it’s uncomfortable for me to ask. But if you happen to come to a decision in the two weeks before the next board meeting, please let me know. It’ll help.”
“Ugh.”
“I know, I know. What can I say? That’s how the world works. On a personal note, however, may I add that I’d love to see you happy.”
“I’m noticing you’re not saying, ‘I’d love to see you with Jacket.’”
“I’m the father of four daughters. I would never presume.”
Now Cam laughed. “Thanks, Lamont.” She spotted Jeanne at the door, pointing at her and miming a telephone. “I gotta run. I’ve got a call.”
“Tell Jacket I appreciate the help.”
Cam hurried to the hall.
“It’s your agent,” Jeanne said. “She says it’s important.”
* * *
Cam shook her head and gazed out her office window. This couldn’t be happening. “What are you saying, Julie?”
“I’m saying they checked the outline. They can’t buy it.”
“They already bought it. We signed a contract. It’s been announced.”
“They want out.”
“I ain’t gonna let ’em.”
“You’ll have to.”
“Why? What could have happened to an outline they loved so much they asked me to finish it by January fifteenth?”
“It’s not your plot.”
“If it’s not the plot, what is it? The title? For God’s sake, they can change it.”
“No, I mean, it’s not your plot. It’s the plot of another story.”
“What?”
“In the executive meeting, a new editor read the outline and said, ‘Well, I hope she has Molière listed as a cowriter, because this is the plot of The School for Wives.’”
Cam’s heart jumped into her throat.
Julie added, “I, of course, pooh-poohed it when the publisher called, but then she started listing the parallels. Orphanage girl named Agnes. Lecherous old man who waits until she’s grown to bed her. Triangle love interest named Horace. Cam, the entire love story is exactly like the play, and some of the phrases you use in the outline…my God! They’re practically word for word.”
Cam felt like she’d been punched. She’d been had. Oh boy, had she been had. Peter fed her a line. He’d fed her more than a line. He’d fed her an entire goddamned play! It couldn’t be a coincidence. But why would he do it? Things were starting to add up in an ugly way. Peter had worked his magic to get her to pose, then he’d done his brooding leading-man imitation to get her into bed, and then he’d carefully fed her the plot, characters, and lines of a play instead of a story about Van Dyck.
She didn’t know why or how, but it felt like the most manipulative thing a man had ever done to her. She was breathless with hurt and fury.
“Hang on.” She went to Wikipedia, typed in “School for Wives” and hit Enter.
“Molière’s masterpiece, The School for Wives, was first staged on December 26, 1662,” the entry started. She scanned the plot.
Shit.
“Cam?”
“Yep. Got it. Pull the book. We’re sunk.”
Twenty-five
The Afterlife, artists’ section
Mertons waved away the proffered ball politely and shaded his eyes from the sun. He’d never been a fan of bocce. Too much rolling. Not enough cracking. Give him cricket any day. He even liked that odd American version. And though he’d only seen it twice, long ago, the sound of the ball connecting with the hardwood had stayed with him.
“Thank you, no. I’m just here for a few minutes, though the espresso smells delicious. I’d love a cup of that if you have one to spare.”
“Certainly,” Rembrandt said, lifting the pot. “’Tis excellent today.”
“Where’s Peter?”
Rembrandt, who was waiting for Velazquez to align his shot, tilted his head toward the rise beyond the end of the path. “At the canvas. Always at the canvas.”
Even at this distance, Mertons could see Peter’s drawn face. “I take it he’s not glad to be back.”
“Glad?” Rembrandt shrugged. “’Tis not a word we use with Peter.”
“I have some news for him.”
“He will not be interested,” Rembrandt said.
“In this he will.” Mertons drew the journal from his suit coat pocket. “It ju
st arrived. I’ve only scanned the headline myself, but I suspect he’ll find it to his liking.” He opened it and read. “‘The Girl with a Coral Earring Stripped to Canvas. Simon & Schuster announced yesterday the much-anticipated novel from Campbell Stratford, The Girl with a Coral Earring, a fictography of painter Anthony Van Dyck, has been scrapped due to narrative issues.’ Blah, blah, blah. He did it.”
Mertons had to smile. Special projects were rare, and not all ended well. They were fraught with complications and a gamble on the best of days. But despite his success in derailing the book, Mertons had been unable to find the hole in the fabric of time Stratford had used. A shame, really, as it would have been quite a feather in his cap to have closed it. According to Peter, Stratford disappeared after he had adjourned to the scullery to clean his brushes, though the look on Peter’s face while he said it had made Mertons wonder.
With a bow, Mertons left the journal on the table, picked up his cup, and broke away from the men. He wandered slowly up the fieldstone path cut into the lavender, to the top of the rise.
“How goes it, my friend?”
Peter stiffened, receiving the question almost like a blow. “Another day. They are the same.”
Mertons considered the pallid complexion and the eyes, stripped of their usual proud ferocity. “Your new life, the one you will be reborn into, is coming. The Executive Guild is working on it as we speak.”
“I—I would be grateful for it.”
“There is news that might please you.”
The sadness left his face for an instant. “They approved my request to return to 1673?”
“What? Oh, no, Peter. I’ve told you. It cannot be. Even for a day. I’m sorry. I know now how much it would mean to you to convince Charles to sign that writ.”
Peter had confessed his ulterior purpose to Mertons and begged to return for a day or two to convince the king, but the Guild had been adamant. Once the misinformation had been planted with the writer, there was to be no more interaction with the past.
