Page 35 of Homeport

“So does half the goddamn world. What’s the difference between a couple glasses of wine with dinner and a shot or two in the evening?”

“You’ll have to figure that out for yourself. The way I did. We were both half drunk the night we . . .” It hurt to say it. She thought she’d been ready, but it hurt and she couldn’t say it after all.

“Christ, Annie.” Remembering had him raking a hand through his hair, wishing the ball of shame and guilt hadn’t just dropped into his gut. “We were just kids.”

“We were old enough to make a baby between us. Temporarily.” She pressed her lips together. No matter what it cost she would get at least part of it out. “We were stupid, and we were innocent, and we were irresponsible. I’ve accepted that.” Oh God, she tried to accept that. “But it taught me what you can lose, what it can do if you don’t stay in control. You’re not in control, Andrew.”

“One night fifteen years ago doesn’t have anything to do with now.” The minute the words were out, the minute he saw the way her body jerked back, he regretted it. “I didn’t mean it like that, Annie. Not that it didn’t matter. I just—”

“Don’t.” Her voice was cool now and distant. “Just don’t. We’re better off when we pretend it never happened. I only brought it up because you can’t seem to see the difference. You were only seventeen, but you already had a drinking problem. I didn’t. I don’t. You’ve managed to get through most of your life without letting it take over. Now you’ve crossed the line. It’s starting to rule you, Andrew, and you have to take back the controls. I’m telling you this as a friend.” She rose, cupped his face in her hands. “Don’t come in my place anymore. I won’t serve you.”

“Come on, Annie—”

“You can come for conversation, but don’t come for a drink because I won’t give it to you.”

She turned, picked up her coat, and hurried out.

seven

Ryan wandered the south gallery, admiring the use of light, the flow of space. The Joneses knew their business, he mused. The displays were elegantly arranged, the educational plaques discreet and informative.

He listened with half an ear as a blue-haired woman with a sharp Down East accent led a small tour to one of Raphael’s magnificent Madonnas.

Another tour, a bit larger and quite a bit noisier, was composed of schoolchildren and led by a perky brunette. They were heading off to the Impressionists, much to Ryan’s relief.

Not that he didn’t like children. The fact was his nieces and nephews were a great source of delight and amusement for him. He took pleasure in spoiling them outrageously as often as possible. But children tended to be a distraction during work hours. Ryan was very much at work.

The guards were unobtrusive, but there were plenty of them. He noted their stations, and judged by one uniform’s surreptitious glance at his watch that they were nearing change of shift.

He appeared to wander aimlessly, stopping here and there to study a painting, a sculpture, or a display of artifacts. In his mind he counted off paces. From the doorway to the camera in the southwest corner, from the camera to the archway, from the archway to the next camera, and from there to his goal.

He lingered no longer in front of the display case than any art lover might when studying the rare beauty of a fifteenth-century bronze. The bronze David was a small jewel, young, cocky, slender, his sling whipped back at that historic moment of truth.

Though the artist was unknown, the style was Leonardo’s. And as the plaque indicated, it was assumed to be the work of one of his students.

Ryan’s client was a particular fan of Leonardo’s, and had commissioned for this particular piece after seeing it in the Institute six months before.

Ryan thought his client would be very happy, and sooner rather than later. He’d decided to move up his own schedule. It was, he thought, wiser to move along, and away before he made a mistake with Miranda. He was already feeling a little sorry that he would cause her some inconvenience and annoyance.

But, after all, she was insured. And the bronze was hardly the best piece the Institute possessed.

If he was choosing for himself, he’d have taken the Cellini, or perhaps the Titian woman who reminded him of Miranda. But the pocket-sized bronze was his client’s choice. And it would be an easier job than either the Cellini or the Titian.

Due to his own unplanned reaction to Miranda, he’d spent a productive hour or two, after taking her home and changing out of his dinner suit, in the tube-sized crawl space beneath the Institute. There, as he’d already known, was the wiring for the building’s security system. Alarms, cameras, sensors.

All he’d needed was his laptop and a little time to reset the main to his personal specifications. He hadn’t diddled with much. Most of the work would be done in a few hours, but a few judicious changes would make his job easier in the long run.

He completed his measurements, then, following his schedule, executed the first test. He smiled at the blue-haired lady, edging just past her group. With his hands in his pockets, he studied a shadowy painting of the Annunciation. Once he had the small mechanism in hand, he ran his thumb over the controls until he felt the proper button. The camera was directly to his right.

He smiled at the Virgin when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the tiny red light on the camera blink out.

God, he loved technology.

In his other pocket, he depressed the stem of a stopwatch. And waited.

He judged nearly two minutes passed before the nearest guard’s walkie-talkie beeped. Ryan clicked the stopwatch again, unjammed the camera with his other hand, and strolled over to study the sad and baffled face of Saint Sebastian.

More than satisfied, Ryan walked out of the gallery and stepped outside to use his cell phone.

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