“Of course, Peter. I give you my word.”
His shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.”
“Al right, that’s just about al the sadness I can take in an evening. I want to get this evening over with and go back to your place. I want you to hold me.” She looked at her watch.
“Oh, cripes. I have to find Bal —”
“Cam, there you are.” Bal bounded up beside her.
“C’mon. We’re going to unveil the painting now.”
“No. Mr. Bal , wait.” But he was already dragging her by the hand into the next gal ery and through the couples beginning to squeeze into the roped-off area that had been set up for the presentation. At some point, she lost contact with Peter’s hand. Bal pul ed her through the center, right up to the dais upon which the curtained canvas stood.
Guests were edging their way to the front, some leading with their shoulders, to get a prime viewing spot.
“Mr. Bal , I have to talk to you. Did Lamont find you?”
“Quiet, Cam. This is our moment.”
“—to welcome you on this very special evening.” Board president Cal Dunevin, great-grandson of an aluminum magnate and unparal eled blowhard, had kicked things off.
“Mr. Bal , please,” she whispered. “We have to withdraw the painting. It’s not real.”
He gave her a sharp look. “That, my dear, is a load of horseshit.”
Bal was slightly hard of hearing, a condition made worse in noisy rooms, and his unnecessarily loud “horseshit” rung out just as Dunevin said, “… to thank each of you for your generous donation,” which sent a ripple of nervous laughter through the room.
“Listen to me,” she whispered. “There’s a letter from Van Dyck. It destroys any grounds for authenticity.”
“Cam, do I know art?” He gazed at her solemnly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” Dunevin was reciting an Emerson poem now, something about a heifer and a sexton, and Cam, who had a dim recol ection of this from a col ege survey class, recal ed the thematic construct as something about beauty, but Dunevin was delivering each line with such theatrical lugubriousness she wondered if she was confusing it with one of Emerson’s death poems.
“Look me in the eye,” Bal said firmly. “Tel me that painting is not a Van Dyck.”
“Mr. Bal . Please. It doesn’t matter what I believe.” She searched the room for Packard or even Anastasia, someone—anyone—who could help her convince Bal to bring this to a halt.
Bal shook his head as if disappointed with a young child. “Aren’t you an art expert?”
“Yes, but—”
“‘Yes, but’ nothing. Where’s your confidence, my girl?”
Where indeed?
With a tentative stretch, she pushed her shoulders back.
It did make her feel fractional y better, but it didn’t seem to improve the odds anyone would believe the painting was a Van Dyck.
“We’l nail their asses to the wal .” Bal winked at her.
“Whose asses, sir?” Oh boy. Dunevin was trudging through alder boughs and sparrow nests now.
“Nonbelievers!”
She put a hand on each of his shoulders. “Mr. Bal , listen.
This is going to be a huge embarrassment to you. We have to stop this. Now. Wave Dunevin out of his alder tree and tel him you’ve changed your mind.”
“Embarrassment? Real y?” Bal pul ed off his glasses and rubbed them with his hanky, considering. “Wel , I suppose. But it’s not like finding myself spread across sixty feet of canvas wearing nothing more than two moles and what we in Flow-da like to cal a genuine look of surprise.”
“Mr. Bal !”
“Woodson Bal !” Cal Dunevin boomed. “C’mon up, and let’s get a look at this thing!”
Bal pul ed himself out of Cam’s grip and hopped up on the stage.
“I’m happy to be here,” Bal drawled. “I’m happy to be giving this to the Carnegie. I think I know a little bit about art
—”
The room tittered.
Oh, Mr. Ball. Oh, Mr. Ball. Cam closed her eyes.
“And I think this is one of the prettiest darn paintings ever. And I want to thank Cam Stratford especial y for helping me see that I real y did want to part with two-point-one mil ion dol ars.”
More laughter.
“She’s a very persuasive lady. The Carnegie’s damned lucky to have her. Oops.
