“You should!” Madeline said. “Jeremy has traveled everywhere, done so many things.” She took a few steps and put a friendly hand on his arm. “He’s a charming conversationalist. You can speak with him about anything. Absolutely anything.”
It was those last two words, spoken firmly, that made me realize Madeline very much wanted me to go out with Jeremy. And even more importantly, to discuss the issue of the forged paintings with him.
I looked back at Jeremy Breslin.
“Tomorrow, perhaps?” he said.
“I’d love to.”
12
M
adeline Saga’s oddly shaped gallery was well situated for frequent walks past the place, either on Michigan Avenue on one side or on the narrow pedestrian mall on the other. Both provided large windows to see the artwork inside, of course, but also to see Madeline.
These frequent, somewhat obsessive walks were an attempt to soothe ever-mounting emotions—toxic, hateful emotions—connected to Madeline Saga.
From inside the gallery, the glare of the glass made it hard to see pedestrians outside. And so it was simple to walk by, back and forth, to see what Madeline was doing. Everyone who had dealt with her knew how Madeline got when she was working at the gallery. But of course, Madeline didn’t see the gallery as a job. It was her life.
And now Madeline could be seen through the Michigan Avenue windows, through the snow, growing lighter, while the skies grew yellow with sun. And, yes, there she was, introducing her assistant to Jeremy Breslin, of all people, the one who had discovered the fakes.
But how brazen, how bold, this introduction, as if Madeline felt no remorse.
Madeline didn’t seem to notice people watching her—whether through her windows or in person. She didn’t notice because they didn’t matter to her, whether they were full of awe or hate or anything in between. Art mattered to her, her gallery.
But neither would be part of Madeline’s life for long. They might be the end of her altogether.
13
I
met my father for lunch. In addition to Charlie’s news about his potential move, I wanted to ask him about the Madeline Saga case.
My father had developed this dining game of sorts; in every restaurant, he wanted to try something he’d never had before. I wasn’t sure how he’d struck upon this, but I was happier than usual about it that day, since it gave the impression that he liked Chicago, that he would not be moving, and therefore I wouldn’t have to decide how I felt about that.
This time, he’d picked the Bongo Room in Wicker Park. Currently my father was cutting into—I kid you not about this—Pumpkin Spice and Chocolate Chunk Cheesecake Flapjacks. And that wasn’t all that was in the dish—there were graham crackers, too, and vanilla cream and all sorts of stuff.
I’d gotten a chicken and avocado salad that had melted provolone on it. I never thought I’d use the word
decadent
when referring to a salad, but that’s what it tasted like.
“How is it?” I asked my dad after watching him take a few bites.
“I do not know.” He took another bite, chewing it slowly. “Odd,” he said.
Since no other information seemed forthcoming, and I wasn’t quite ready to launch into the topic of his moving, I brought up Madeline Saga. “Mayburn said he had you do some general research,” I said. “What did you find?”
“What I found was the defeating fact that art crimes usually aren’t solved,” he said. “So, Izzy, you’re fighting an uphill battle with this one. Only around ten percent of stolen art is ever recovered. And the prosecution rates are even lower.”
“You’re kidding,” I said. “Seems like it would be relatively simple to have security cameras these days and see everything that happens to a painting.”
“Yes. If the art simply stayed on one wall. But removal is often needed for cleaning, for transporting to other galleries or museums, for an exhibition or relocation in the gallery itself.”
“Madeline moved from Bucktown to Michigan Avenue last year.”
“Well, then there are many danger points.”
“Danger points?”
“In the moving process alone, there are many points where criminals can get in. There’s the crating of art, there’s leaving those crates standing until they can be shipped, there’s loading of the crates into a truck, there’s the driving part of the journey, there’s the unloading. And then the art sits wherever it’s been unloaded until it’s unpacked. And then it sits there until it’s installed.”
“Wow.” I felt overwhelmed at the realization. “So I should be tracking down and talking to everyone who was involved, even in the slightest, with the move of the gallery.”
“You got it. I’d guess there were probably five to ten people involved. At a minimum.”
He asked me what I did when I was at Madeline’s gallery.
When there were no clients in the store, I told him, I tried to study what I could. Madeline had a binder for each artist she represented, almost like a catalogue, listing their bios, their previous shows and exhibitions, PR pieces and more. These files also contained manifests from each time a piece was shipped. I studied the information from the two forged works, hoping to find some sort of discrepancy or clue. As yet, I’d found nothing.
But I had begun to cobble together not only some understanding of art but also of the art world.
My father listened closely, taking occasional bites of his flapjacks. “You’re learning,” he said. “But it also sounds as if you’ve begun to nurse a healthy new appreciation.”
“Exactly!” I said, thrilled to connect with my dad on something. “I not only know more, I appreciate more.”
He nodded. “That’s how your Aunt Elena learned about art, as well. Maybe you do have something from my family in your making.” There was something so sad about the way he’d said those words—as if he was not only defeated but resigned to the fact that his kids were not like him, since he hadn’t been around to raise them.
“Of course I have traits from the McNeils. We share the same name, after all.” I smiled to show him I was making light of the situation. He had a hard time reading sarcasm or irony, I’d noticed.
He smiled. “That’s good to hear.”
I told him more then about the gallery itself—a sparkly and interesting space. The gallery was nearly triangular in shape, and two full walls were glass windows, facing different directions. As such, there were always odd angles of light, even when it was gray out.
When it was sunny, the light was filtered by the museum-quality film on the glass, so as not to fade the paintings. Many times, the sun seemed to create an orangey flash outside the gallery. Whenever I stepped closer to the glass, though, tried to look more intently, it had disappeared.
He asked me more questions about the gallery. We continued to eat. At some point our conversation lapsed.
“I heard from Theo,” I said, apropos of nothing. “A postcard. He’s in Thailand.”
My father made a face. “That’s one of the most patience-trying places in the entire world. Why is he there?”
“Mostly to escape. I think also to surf.”
Another face. “Not much surfing there, except near Phuket.”
When, I wondered, had my father spent enough time in Thailand, or reading about it, to know exactly where one could surf?
I thought of the postcard. “I think that’s where he is,” I said. “Phuket. He mentioned there was lots of diving and rock climbing. He’s into that, too.”
My father nodded.
“He asked if I was dating,” I said. Why I was telling my father this, I had no idea. But it felt pretty okay.
“And what will you tell him?”
“The truth. I haven’t been really ready to date anyone.” I paused to see how this further emotional disclosure felt. And again—pretty okay. I thought of Jeremy. “But I feel like I could be ready to do that again.”
My father nodded. Said nothing. So I changed the topic to the one I now felt prepared for. “I hear you might be moving.”
He looked at me, from one eye to another, as if he were trying to look inside them, to read my reaction to the concept.
When I opened my mouth, I found out how I felt about it. “I don’t want you to leave.”
Was that a smile on my father’s face? His facial expressions changed little from one to another, but I thought I saw his eyes crinkle a little under his coppery glasses.
“Is it possible you’ll stick around Chicago for a while?” I asked.
“It’s possible.” He smiled again. I could tell that time.
“I don’t want you to go,” I said.
“Thank you, Izzy.”
“Hey, maybe you should start dating, too,” I said.
He groaned.
“No, really. When is the last time you dated?”
“Suffice to say, a long time.”
It was my turn to raise my eyebrows. “A long time, as in years?”
“Yes, a long, long while.”
“Well, that’s it, then. You don’t need to move. You need to date a little, see if you’re ready. Just like I need to do.”
He laughed, gave a small shrug. “Well, then, Izzy, I suppose, for once, we’re in the same place,” my father said.
And I really liked the sound of that.
14
W
hen Jeremy texted about the location of our date, he suggested Girl and the Goat, an intriguingly named restaurant that was one of the hottest in town.
Isn’t that place hard to get into?
I texted back.
I know a few people there. I’ll take care of it.
Now, in the cab heading to the restaurant, I started experiencing a jittery kind of nervousness, realizing that I was, essentially—since I’d met the guy for all of ten minutes—headed to a blind date. I rearranged the lavender silk scarf under my hairline and tightened the belt on my long, hound’s-tooth-patterned coat.
The restaurant was on Randolph, just west of Halsted, and black-framed windows showed happily dining customers. Inside, most of the walls were brick, the floors dark hardwood, the ceilings beamed. A fantastical painting hung on a side wall featuring—interestingly enough—a girl and a goat. It dawned on me that I might not have noticed the painting before I started working in Madeline’s gallery. Or I might have noticed, but that would have been the extent of it. Being in the gallery made me want to look closer at anything having to do with art.
I didn’t see Jeremy, so I took a few steps toward the painting—a huge, square canvas painted in bold reds, greens and golds. The primary focus was a little girl with big eyes and a pink dress running after a galloping goat with equally large eyes.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. “What do you think of the painting?”
I turned, smiled. Jeremy was still gorgeous, dressed now in gray jeans and a black corduroy jacket.
I managed to tear my eyes off him to look back at the painting. “I think it’s a little crazy, and I think it’s great.”
When I looked back at him again, he was grinning, showing white teeth. “That’s
exactly
what I think. Bizarre, but excellent.”
“So then the question is, which came first, the painting or the name of the restaurant?” I’d noticed that Madeline often spoke about the genesis of a painting, the history behind it.
Jeremy looked at the painting. “I don’t want to know. I like it so much I don’t need to hear more.”
Just then the manager greeted Jeremy with some happy thumps on the back. “Haven’t seen you for a while, bud,” he said.
The waitress, too, greeted him warmly as we were seated. “What are we drinking?” she said.
Jeremy looked at me for an answer. Out of habit, I almost asked for a Blue Moon, but that’s what Sam and I used to drink together. And I was moving past that, wanting to try something new. “Red wine?”
“Perfect.” Jeremy and the waitress discussed and decided on a bottle of pinot noir.
“How do you like it?” Jeremy said when it was delivered and opened.
I took a sip. “I like that it’s a little cinnamon-y, and it’s not tart at the end.”
“Yeah, I don’t like an acidic finish, either.” Jeremy swirled his wine and sniffed it, then took a sip. “Did you catch that other flavor in there?”
I took another taste and tried to pay attention to what remained in my mouth. “It’s something familiar, but I don’t know what it is.”
“Is it chocolate?”
I took another sip. “Yes!” I noticed it now. “Chocolate and berries.”
“Exactly.”
We were seated at a rough-hewn wood table, a flickering candle between us.
I mentioned what he’d said before. “You don’t like knowing the genesis of a work of art?” I asked, gesturing to the goat painting.
He looked at it. “Usually I do. But it was my Fex who got me into art, and she said—”
“Sorry, I have to stop you,” I said. “Did you say ‘Fex’? Like sex with an
f?
”
“Hmm, that’s interesting when you put it that way....” Jeremy looked up, as if considering something. “I hadn’t thought about that before. But yeah. I’m talking about my soon-to-be ex-wife. She’s my Future Ex. So I call her the Fex.”
I wasn’t sure if the nickname was intended as an insult or not. But as our conversation pleasantly meandered, he mentioned his Fex a few times and it always seemed with respect.
The restaurant featured small plates and I happily let Jeremy order some of his favorites—fried peppers and parmesan, fennel rice cakes with butternut squash, chickpea fritters.
He was so easy to talk with. Our discussion led us through our childhoods and all the important facts—the colleges we’d attended, the reasons we were in Chicago, our jobs. I glossed over the details of my “job” at the gallery, and instead focused on asking Jeremy questions. He was from Boston, met his wife in college, and she was the reason they’d started their family in the Chicago area.
“Okay, let me ask you this,” he said at one point, leaning toward me, the flickering candle highlighting his cheekbones, the strong jaw. “What’s your favorite place? Like if you could go anywhere tomorrow and stay for a few weeks, where would you go?”
I thought about it. “I was in Rome last summer and I didn’t have the time to really see everything.” I halted, deciding that a first date wasn’t the time to introduce the topic of the father I once thought was dead and how I’d gone to Italy to find him. “So that’s where I’d go.”