sure that I did too.”
“What is he recommending?”
“He’s not one to be intimidated, Wallace. As far as I know, the museum is still the first option, but he wouldn’t have even mentioned the church if he didn’t expect me to consider it.”
“Well,” Matthew struggled for words. “This is interesting.”
“Is it? I find it rather nerve-racking, myself.”
“You must be more undecided than you first let on.”
“I go back and forth.” She ran a hand through her hair. “No choice seems like the right one. My lawyer gives me this maddening, contradictory advice in his completely neutral tone, and all you can do is ask questions.”
“At least he’s getting paid. My advice is free.”
“You want me to pay you?”
“I’m asking questions that I think are going to help you know your own mind. I’m not in a position to tell you what to do.”
“Right now, I’d like someone to tell me.”
“I strongly suspect that if someone tried you would resist strenuously.”
She rewarded him with her first smile of the day.
“Do I seem that contrary?”
He leaned back in his chair and returned the smile. “It’s what I would do.”
“Really? Is there stubbornness lurking beneath that smooth exterior, Mr. Spear?”
“So I’m told,” he said to the rust-colored floor tiles. Best to get off that topic quickly. “Have you considered simply holding on to it?”
“The thing is, some of this stuff has to go. Despite how careful my grandfather was, there are estate taxes, other expenses. Pretty hefty ones.”
“Why the icon? There’s plenty of other work, isn’t there?”
“The modern I want to keep, that’s my thing. Of the older work, the icon is the most valuable piece.”
“Maybe that’s all the more reason to hold on to it.”
She placed both hands firmly on the table.
“OK, you want the truth?”
“Please.”
“The thing gives me the creeps, it always has. I know, it’s just paint, but it feels as though there’s something more, something lurking inside. Then there’s my grandfather dying in front of it. I want it gone. So, I’ve said it. Now you can be disgusted with me.”
“Hardly. All it means is that the work is affecting you. Maybe not in the way the creator would have wanted, but nevertheless.”
She was pensive for a moment, then broke into another smile.
“You mean the artist. Not the Creator.”
He blushed for no reason.
“That’s right. The little guy, not the big guy.”
“I’m sorry, I’m punchy. I need a break from this.” She checked her watch. “God, it’s late. You didn’t need to go back to your office?”
“I’m done for the day.”
“Is there someplace you’re supposed to be?”
“No,” but he sensed the kiss-off and got to his feet. “Just some reading to catch up on.”
He went to the sink to wash out his mug, childishly annoyed about being denied another look at the icon. This obsessiveness wasn’t like him, and he felt unnerved. The visit had been about what she needed, not about him.
“Leave that, I’ll do it.”
“No problem.” He put the damp mug on the counter.
“I was wondering if you want to have dinner. If you’re not too busy.”
Matthew shook his head at his own stupidity. When had he become this slow? Why was he misreading her, making things harder?
“It’s a nice idea.”
She was gazing at him serenely, and he waited for an excuse to roll off his lips. It was a terrible idea, in fact. There was this business matter between them, and she was an odd woman in a vulnerable place. Despite his sympathy for her, and even his fascination, he was made constantly uneasy in her presence. The hundred-year-old German grandfather clock in the dining room intruded a deep, resonant ticking into the expanding silence.
“I promise not to talk about the icon,” she added, and he thought about the walk home, past the dry cleaners and Chinese restaurants to his empty apartment, while whatever lame excuse he concocted echoed around in this old brownstone, and she sat at the table drinking coffee all night.
“OK,” Matthew said. “Sure, I’d love to. Where shall we go?”
As it turned out, they didn’t go anywhere. Ana thought they could throw something together, the only difficulties being that there was little food in the house and that she didn’t cook. She did know the wine cellar, however, and went to retrieve a bottle while Matthew chopped mushrooms and whisked four eggs with a little cold water. Sliced apple, some parmesan, and in minutes he created a perfect omelet, which they ate with toasted bagels and a 1984 Chateaux Margaux.
“This is the wrong wine,” Ana said.
“Not if you like it.”
“Do you?”
“Very much, not that I’m an authority. Too much retsina forced on me at a young age.”
“Retsina,” she groaned. “My God, that stuff is poison.”
“This is where I’m supposed to say-with my chin in the air, like this- that you haven’t had the good stuff. ‘That export retsina, Theomou, scata!’”
“That’s good, you look like somebody.”
“Marlon Brando.”
“I was going to say Mussolini.”
“Gee, thanks. The truth is, all retsina tastes like tree sap to me. Greek food, French wine.” He swirled the dark liquid in his glass. The cooking had eased some of his tension. “Everybody, do what they’re good at.”
She stuffed a forkful of omelet into her mouth, as if she hadn’t seen food in days.
“Do all Greek men know how to cook?”
“It’s an omelet, Ana. Any single guy can make one, it hardly qualifies as cooking.”
“To you. In this kitchen it’s the height of culinary achievement.”
“I’m honored.”
“Can I ask a rude question?”
“Why start looking for permission now?”
“Why are you single?”
“Well, how do I answer that? Fate? I could ask you the same
