friendship between them had been lost.
But there was nothing lost that couldn’t be recaptured, Amanda told herself. They had already gained so much else. A certain amount of readjusting was to be expected.
Neither spoke as they stumbled through breakfast.
He bent over and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
Suddenly he jerked back and choked, as if he had put his mouth to a hot griddle, spraying cereal.
I know just how you feel; I’m just as screwed up as you are, Amanda grumbled to herself, sloshing milk into the bowl, rising the puffed whatevers over the top. Not even bothering to wipe the counter, she plunged a spoon into the mixture and began to chomp away.
She looked across at Marc, who in his shocked haze was contemplating how to put the toast and the knife and the lite cream cheese together to make it work for him. He glanced up.
“What’s funny?” He rubbed his shadowed face.
He sighed apologetically. “I don’t wake up quick.” His dark gray-blues fastened on her and began to clear as though an obscuring summer cloud had glided away to reveal infinite azure skies. “Last night… uh, this morning…” He bit his lip and his brow wrinkled. “…was great.” He swallowed, waiting.
She smiled, hopefully sexily, hopefully not putting him off. “This morning is great.” That part was true. Just to be with him was almost enough to still the rancorous calamity going on in her.
She flicked a bit of cereal and milk his way from the end of her spoon. He laughed, grateful she had accepted his vocal offering and thankful she didn’t seem to be requiring more. He reached over and tousled her tangled hair in relief.
“Marc, I’ve got to know what’s going on. I’m obviously in the middle of whatever kind of ‘caper’ you’ve got going and you really make me nervous throwing around terms like ‘attempted murder,’ and ‘finish me off.’ I… I don’t want anybody to finish anybody off.” She finished off the cereal and, collecting his, threw the bowls in the sink with a clatter.
“Come with me to see David. I called the hospital and they said he could handle a visit. He’s awake. The doctor said a conversation would help clear his head. We can tell you everything you want to know. Okay?”
At the very least it would get them in the company of other people.
“Okay.”
DAVID’S COLOR was coming back. All his vital signs were good. Another twenty-four hours of observation and he should be able to leave the hospital, the nurse explained, but his condition needed to be monitored for the next several days. She indicated the doctor would prefer if they didn’t tax him too much this first visit.
Marc was going to the Met to report back to David how the mounting of the exhibition was progressing after he kept his appointment at the auction house to meet the insurance men.
Amanda waited patiently as they discussed the riot at the League and David’s impression of how things had gotten out of hand.
“What do you think, Ace? Was it just a fluky escalation of events or did someone trigger it? Was there a deliberate attempt to get David hurt?”
Amanda thought back. Christine’s actions appalled her; Nathan had been scarily detached, even in the middle of chaos; Mr. Wilde had tried to calm the class from the beginning. Professor Angeli had lost it completely, angry and vicious beyond all comprehension, but she couldn’t believe his actions sprang from anything other than spontaneous reaction to buried anger.
Was the instigator someone else in the class? Someone, perhaps, they had never even considered?
To a certain extent, as Nathan had so snarlingly put it, David had brought the events on himself. She thought it best not to make that suggestion.
The nurse looked in to see how David was doing and indicated her patient would need to rest in a few minutes.
Between them, David and Marc began to explain the whole affair, barely giving each other a chance to finish sentences.
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Amanda stopped them a few minutes later. “Several years ago fake Michelangelo drawings started appearing on the international market?”
“No,” Marc corrected her. “They weren’t put on the market.”
“They’ve never been put on the market,” David added. “I thought we explained that.”
“No,” Amanda said evenly, “you didn’t. Why don’t you start at the beginning again, one at a time, and this time I’ll stop you if I get lost.”
The men looked at each other. “You first.” Marc tilted his head toward his disgruntled brother.
“As we said before,” David spoke deliberately, “Several years ago, three to be exact, Cambiare’s London branch came in possession of what their experts decided was an undocumented, genuine Michelangelo drawing.”
Amanda nodded, acknowledging she knew Cambiare’s was one of the most prestigious auction houses in the world. “But they didn’t put the drawing on the market,” she said.
“No,” Marc said. “They were led to believe that perhaps other such drawings might show up. They decided to accumulate as many as they could before offering them to the public.”
“Or the Queen,” David added pointedly, somewhat smugly. “A rather avid collector.”
“The discovery of a group of unknown, genuine Michelangelos would be a major coup in the art world,” Marc continued.
“But, what made Cambiare believe the drawing was genuine?” Amanda asked. “Surely by now, every stroke Michelangelo ever put to paper has been discovered and catalogued. It’s been almost 500 years.”
“Not necessarily.” David sat up with effort, eagerly, the complete art historian. “The great master made hundreds of drawings during his lifetime, finished works as well as preparatory sketches for various frescos, paintings and sculptures. Many of the drawings were destroyed when they had served their purpose and many he simply gave away as mementos to friends and acquaintances. He lived to a ripe old age, productive practically to the last.”
Marc caught up David’s eagerness. “And even though he was recognized as a genius during his lifetime, there were a lot of other great artists in Florence and Rome during the Renaissance. Probably having a Michelangelo wasn’t all that big a deal. A lot of stuff got stuck away and completely forgotten about for centuries.”
“Centuries?” Amanda said, wonderingly.
“Forgotten, and rediscovered during reconstructions or floods that drove people into parts of their palazzi they hadn’t been into for years,” David continued.
“Or wars,” Marc interrupted. “During the Second World War, the Nazis stole countless works of arts.”
“People were spiriting as much as they could out of the country or hiding it.”
“Behind walls, under floors, burying it!”
How exciting Marc looked. His whole body was alive, his eyes reflecting his eagerness. Amanda would have to run to keep up when he was enthused. She wondered if she had the energy or the courage.
“Tons of stuff was lost!” Marc’s blue eyes were wide. He paused, turned to his brother, shrugged and laughed. “So what we’re saying is, yes, it’s very possible for real, unknown Michelangelos to turn up after all these years.”
David settled back in the hospital bed. “Over the last three years Cambiare was able to accumulate five totally unknown drawings!”
“But they turned out to be fake, right?” Amanda disappointedly remembered the whole point of Marc and
