Thanks to Kate Zingarel a, Mark Zingarel i and Mary Nel Cumming, who, each in their own way, inspired me to change my life. Thanks as wel to J.T. Smith, who made a difficult time fun. For filmmaking magic, I tip my hat to Karl O’Janpa, Drew Nicholaus and Glen Richards. I’d like to thank three great writers—Todd DePastino, Mitchel James Kaplan, and Vince Rause—for many hours of great coffee and conversation. Thanks goes as wel to writer Elaine Knighton, who, among her many lessons, taught me the importance of making space in my life for good things.
I can recommend Painted Ladies: The Women at the Court of Charles II (Catherine MacLeod and Julia Marciari Alexander, editors; National Portrait Gal ery, London, in association with the Yale Center for British Art, New Haven), and Sir Peter Lely (Oliver Mil ar, National Portrait Gal ery, London) for a more in-depth understanding of the life, times, and breathtaking work of my hero. I also found How to Paint Your Own Vermeer (Jonathan Janson, Lulu Press), very helpful for this story. Pierre Bonnard and Alex Katz continue to inspire, but, like Peter, I would choose Katz and his Ada. You wil find the Carnegie Museum much as I described it, though the administrative wing as it appears in the book is purely a product of my imagination.
Claudia Cross is an outstanding guide and companion on this journey. I hope it continues for a long time. Wyatt, I love you, and thanks for tel ing me about the woman next to you on the Metro. Love as wel to Cameron, who charms me daily with her feisty and uncompromising view of the world. It’s as if I’m looking in a mirror sometimes. Final y, Lester Pyle is my partner in crime, and every day is made better by him being in it.
1
COVENT GARDEN, LONDON, 1673
Peter pressed an exquisitely cobbled shoe against the side of the desk drawer and rubbed his aching temples. Despite al the appointments of success—the fine clothes, the freedom to paint when and what he chose, the admiration of a highly appreciative king, row upon row of apprentices at his command, a ful waiting room and an even ful er account with his bankers—he felt nothing but despair. Even the fat emerald ring, once such a prize, was a torture, for it reminded him of Ursula and how he had treated her. It had been heartbreaking to live through that part of his life the first time. And now to be asked to live through it again was a sorrow so exquisite he could barely speak.
“Peter,” Mertons said, “I hope you know how much the Guild appreciates this.”
Peter grunted. The Executive Guild managed the souls passing through the Afterlife, specifical y those within the artists’ section, and Mertons was the time-jump accountant who had been assigned to this case. Time-jump Accountant was his official title, but Peter knew the unofficial reason the Guild had sent him was to ensure the moody, unreliable painter they’d enlisted managed the mission properly and stayed within the prescribed rules, so perhaps nursemaid would be more appropriate.
“It wasn’t as if I had a choice.” Peter slitted his eyes and let the dying November sun warm his face. The evenings were the hardest. During the day he could lose himself in painting, but at night … At night, al he had was wine and his memories. How could he have once held success in such esteem?
Mertons shrugged. “You wil get what you want, Peter—a new life as an artist.” The Guild had the power to choose the new life into which a member of its constituency—in this case, painters—would arrive, bundled in
