Page 9 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
Home? She couldn’t go home.
Bristol left, aimlessly riding her bike down Main Street, dodging the crowds. There had to be work somewhere, something she could do. Maybe Miriam—
The letter.
It was a cool whisper, tickling her ear.Remember the offer.
She braked, skidding into a turn, and headed for Second Street.
She wasn’t going home without money for the bills. All the bills.
The bell on the gallery door tinkled, barely breaking the silence. Bristol closed the door gently behind her. The empty gallery was a stark contrast to the bustle of the festival streets. The first thing Bristol saw was her father’s painting hanging on the back wall like it was center stage in a play.Tempest.Tempest #44to be exact. This one was by far the largest and darkest, painted in blacks, ultramarines, and tiny smears of crimson riding the crests of thickly applied paint, the heavy swaths creating their own dark shadows.Tempest at Midnight, Bristol called it, but her father only numbered the many versions of the painting he sold more frequently than any other. There was something compelling about every single one.All artists have their obsessions, her mother used to say.This is his.Bristol thought it was her mother’s obsession, too, the way she studied the swirling canvas like she was part of her husband’s strange, dark world. Each painting revealed something slightly different, this one the bare hint of a haunting figure emerging from a swirl of shadow. An apparition that was and wasn’t there.
“It hasn’t sold yet.”
Bristol turned to see Sonja emerge from her office, her long salt-and-pepper hair wound into a crown atop her head. She walked behind the counter and set down an armful of catalogs. “Yetis the key word,” she added, raising her brows. “I have faith it will sell, just like the others. And for more. Don’t worry.” Sonja’s voice was always a sip of cool water. She understood artists, their obsessions, their poverty, and maybe their daughters, too.
“I’m not here about my father’s painting. I wanted to ask how much you would give me today if I brought you a rare piece of art.”
She smiled. “I guess that would depend on the art and how rare it is. I’m only a small—”
“A sketch by Leonardo da Vinci.”
Sonja laughed.
Bristol didn’t waver. “I’m serious, Sonja.” A small da Vinci sketch no bigger than her palm was what her father sold to a dealer several big cities away. The money given to him was a fraction of its worth—but it was enough to buy their house, and the dealer offered anonymity. Her father didn’t want a wave of questions or attention. Sometimes when her parents spoke behind closed doors, they didn’t speak quietly enough.
A curious line formed between Sonja’s brows. “That’s impossible.”
“Maybe,” Bristol answered. “But if I did bring something to you—”
Sonja’s gray eyes shone bright against her soft brown lids. “What have you gotten yourself into, Bristol Keats? It’s quite illegal to peddle forgeries, much less stolen art. Besides—”
“I don’t know if it’s stolen. But someone wants to give it to me.”
“Give it to you?” She laughed again. “Undoubtedly fake. They’re preying on your—”
“If I bring it here, what can you give metoday? There are recovery fees for stolen art. I’ll split them with you.”
Sonja shook her head. “But—”
“How much?”
“You can’t just—”
“How much?”
Sonja sighed. She stared at the ceiling, wrestling with her common sense and the mad pleadings of a determined young woman she liked very much. “Bring it to me.Ifit’s safe for you to do so. And if it seems reasonably authentic, I will advance you a thousand dollars while we have it checked out by experts—which might take a while. If this ‘rare art’ doesn’t check out, I will take the advance out of the proceeds of your father’s painting when it sells.”
“I’ll be back in an hour,” Bristol said, heading for the door. “Go to the bank. Get cash.”
CHAPTER 8
Tyghan studied the loose pieces of art lying on the table, a certain casual desperation in their display, considering their value. They were all preliminary sketches for various works. Famous works. They came from Jasmine’s personal collection archived at the conservatory. He knew how she loved her art. Why would she be willing to give any of it away? Why had Jasmine been brought into this at all? Considering her connection to Kierus, he couldn’t trust her—and there had been words between them—accusations that still smoldered. Besides, there were other valuable enticements that could be offered. Thathadbeen offered. Was this girl even worth it?
She ignored my previous incentives.
Art.
