Page 48 of Stolen Goods
Thad studied the dramatic brushstrokes, his eye wandering around the canvas in the way Degas guided, from figure to empty void to figure, each element carefully placed despite the sense of reality, of happenstance. He leaned closer, reaching his arm around Addison, fingers dancing in the empty air a few inches above the canvas, tracing as he spoke. “There’s something lonely about his art, something everyone, at one point or another, relates to. If you see here, the girls in the background, they’re together, but not. They’re not talking to each other. They’re close but not interacting, in their own worlds. That one is stretching her sore calf muscles. That one seems lost in her thoughts. That one watches the dancing group studiously. That one is retying her shoes. When someone thinks of a ballerina, or of art for that matter, they think of the beauty and grace in the end result. They think of these girls before the mirror, with their swanlike arms, and billowing tutus, and carefully positioned legs. When someone thinks of Degas, they think ofa Degas, the painting, the final outcome. But the endurance, the struggle, the hours and hours of lonely practice behind the art is what makes it beautiful. A lot of people don’t always see that, don’t always get that there’s an ugliness behind the beauty, a subtle dark edge, that makes it all the more glorious.” Thad blinked, realizing he’d gone off on a bit of a tangent, and lifted his hand away. “Of course, it could be the fancy dresses and pretty colors that people like. Who knows?”
“No, I get it,” Addison said, letting go of the edge of the canvas to grab his hand before he could tug it fully away. Those sparkling eyes turned to find his again. “Beauty takes a long time to produce, but it’s consumed in seconds. Like when I make a wedding cake. At the reception, a few people stop and take photos and say how pretty it is, but then it’s on to the next thing. No one thinks about the late nights in the kitchen, or the hours spent sketching ideas, or the painstaking precision required. It’s just a pretty cake.”
“Exactly.” Thad narrowed his eyes, taking her in, amazed at how easily she got it. “I don’t know if this is what Degas was after, but I think of it sometimes when I look at his work. That for these girls in the painting, and for the painter behind the scenes, the art itself was their only companion. Not the people around them, but their passion, the one constant, always there, always churning, making sure they weren’t so alone.”
“Helping them escape,” Addison added softly, turning back to the painting. She sighed. “Why did you keep it?”
Thad frowned, sitting back, retreating.Keepwasn’t the word he expected there. Most people would’ve asked why hetookit, why steal something so beautiful, knowing it would be kept hidden from the rest of the world? It was a question he’d asked himself many times before, one that haunted him. Art was meant to be shared, to be appreciated, not kept in underground vaults and dark, dank rooms. But the world didn’t always work the way it was supposed to—it didn’t always allow for beauty or grandiose ideals.
He slid the painting from her lap, gently rolling it back up. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, why didn’t you hand it over to the Russians? Wouldn’t that have made them less apt to want to kill you? Why do you still have it?”
“I guess…” He paused, thinking back to the morning two weeks ago. Running had been a split-second decision—the sudden awareness that if he didn’t, there was no doubt they’d kill him. Yet, he’d suspected for a long time that the Russians had wanted the Degas job to be his last in more ways than one. Not because of the painting, but because he’d seen their faces. Would it have made a difference if he’d dropped the painting to the floor before jumping out the window? If they were thirty million dollars richer, would they have let him disappear in peace? Probably not…but maybe. So why risk it? He didn’t have an answer. “I guess I don’t really know why I took it. I just did. There wasn’t a lot of time to think.”
“You know what Jo told me on the phone that day?”
Thad sighed and eased the rolled canvas back into the art tube. “What did Jo say?”
“She said you’re a much better person than you give yourself credit for. That deep down, on some level, you’ve always known you’d do the right thing, in the end.”
He snorted. “Oh, did she?”
“I believe her.”
“Addison…” He closed his eyes and paused, not sure why those three little words made his chest expand and contract at the same time, light and airy, yet somehow tight and painful all at once, a balloon about to pop.
“I think you took the painting with you, because on some level, you knew whatever plans you had were unraveling, and you didn’t want them to have it. Because those men? They would never for one second see the true beauty in it, the true art. It’s nothing more than dollar signs to them, to be stuffed in a vault and kept in the dark. And you couldn’t bear to let that happen.”
“Add—”
“I think that when we get to Scottsdale, whatever happens, whether you hand yourself in or whether you run to the end of the world, you’ve known all along what you’re going to do with that painting. You’re going to give it back to the Feds, so they can return it to the owner, so that one day it can hang in a museum for everyone to enjoy.”
Thad didn’t know what to say.
Was she right? He didn’t know.
Was she wrong? Something in his gut whispered,Not completely.
Either way, his skin crawled with the faith laced through her words, the conviction. The problem with high standards was they had to be lived up to, and he didn’t know if he was ready for such a task.
So, he stood and shrugged the art tube over his shoulder, not glancing back. “Come on. If we want to get to the Grand Canyon with time to spare, we need to leave now. Why don’t you go use the communal restrooms and see if there’s a vending machine for fresh drinks? I’ll take down the tent.”
Her eyes burned a hole through his back, but she didn’t argue. She didn’t try to make him see something he couldn’t. She listened and walked away.
Scottsdale, Thad thought as he yanked one of the metal poles out of the tent, releasing some tension. In Addison’s eyes, the stop at the Grand Canyon was probably something noble, a gift for her, a grand adventure. Sure, he loved going to new places, seeing new things. He was always up for a thrill. But he couldn’t fight the sense that this was something else—that he was stalling.
There was a reason he’d never been to the Grand Canyon.
A reason he’d never been in the state of Arizona.
A reason he avoided the southwestern edge of the United States like the plague.
Emma.
Thad sighed. He’d promised himself a long time ago that he wouldn’t interrupt her life, wouldn’t flip it upside down, wouldn’t intrude. Yet here he was, thirty-six hours away from doing just that. Because she was in danger. Because if he didn’t see her now, maybe he never would. Because he’d made another promise to himself, and this one at least, he could fulfill.
“Ready?” Addison called, holding up two iced teas like trophies as she approached the car. “I think it should take about five hours to get there.”
