Page 147 of Homeport

He was gone when she awoke in the morning, leaving only a note on the pillow beside her.

Good morning, Dr. Jones. I made coffee. It’ll be fresh enough unless you oversleep. You’re out of eggs. I’ll be in touch.

Though it made her feel foolish as a lovesick teenager, she read it half a dozen times, then got up to tuck it like a declaration of undying devotion in her jewelry case.

The ring he’d pushed onto her finger, the ring she’d kept foolishly in a velvet-lined square box in the case, was gone.

His plane landed at nine-thirty and Ryan was uptown at his gallery by eleven. It was a fraction of the size of the Institute, more like a sumptuous private home than a gallery.

The ceilings soared, the archways were wide, and the stairs curved, giving the space an airy and fluid feel. The carpets he’d chosen to scatter over the marble and hardwood floors were as much works of art as the paintings and sculptures.

His office there was on the fourth level. He’d kept it small in order to devote every available space to public areas. But it was well and carefully appointed and lacked no comfort.

He spent three hours at his desk catching up on work with his assistant, in meetings with his gallery director approving sales and acquisitions, and arranging for the necessary security and transportation for the pieces to be shipped to Maine.

He took time to schedule interviews with the press regarding the upcoming exhibit and fund-raiser, decided to shuffle in a fitting for a new tux, and called his mother to tell her to buy a new dress.

He was sending the whole family to Maine for the gala.

Next on the schedule was a call to his travel agent cousin.

“Joey, it’s Ry.”

“Hey, my favorite traveling man. How’s it going?”

“Well enough. I need a flight to San Francisco, day after tomorrow, open-end return.”

“No problemo. What name you want to use?”

“Mine.”

“There’s a change. Okay, I’ll get you booked and fax you the itinerary. Where you at?”

“Home. You can book flights for my family, going to Maine.” He gave his cousin the dates.

“Got it. All first-class, right?”

“Naturally.”

“Always a pleasure doing business with you, Ry.”

“Well, that’s nice to hear because I have a favor to ask.”

“Shoot.”

“I’m going to give you a list of names. I need to find out what kind of traveling these people have been doing. For the last three and a half years.”

“Three and a half years! Jesus Christ, Ry.”

“Concentrate on international flights, to and from Italy in particular. Ready for the names?”

“Look, Ry, I love you like a brother. This kind of thing’ll take days, maybe weeks, and it’s dicey. You don’t just punch a few buttons and get that kind of info. Airlines aren’t supposed to give it out.”

It was a song and dance he’d heard before. “I’ve got season tickets to the Yankees. VIP lounge with locker room passes.”

There was a short silence. “Give me the names.”

“I knew I could count on you, Joey.”

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