Page 47 of Fresh Canvas
Val’s shocked laughter eventually faded into something almost contemplative. He stared down at me beneath his furrowed brows like I was a riddle he wanted to solve.
“No, we wouldn’t want that,” he whispered.
Silence stretched between us as that unrecognizable stir began deep in my belly again.
I ducked my head and shoved an escaped curl behind my ear.
“Okay, then…Um, enjoy the rest of your evening.” Walking back the way I came, I cast one last glance over my shoulder.
For that split second, my gaze caught his. A thousand questions burned in his russet eyes—and now, there were a million in mine.
The evening drew late as guests began to leave the gala. The Chicago Tribune interviewed Kendra,Blythe, and then Val. I averted my gaze from the cameras and microphones, scanning the rest of the Vanderbilt hall.
Kate stood near the back of the exhibition, and I wasn’t the least bit surprised that she was surrounded by three tall tuxedos. Barbara Gaines seemed to have left already. My shoulders fell, my face doing the same. I wished I had gotten more time to reconnect with her.
Deciding to take advantage of the thinning crowd, I greedily planted myself in front of the featured painting.
Lake Attersee’s waters were clear as glass, reflecting the orange and red sunset above. Rocks bordered the lake, giving way to plush grass. A wooden dock jutted out, stilting over the lake.
Serenity filled my soul like a fresh breeze off the water. A faint rippling on the far side of the lake centered around a floating lilypad. That lilypad was my favorite part: a small piece of blossoming whimsy. Although tiny, I could make out the minuscule lily’s petals fluttering in the air.
Seeing the painting again was akin to visiting an old friend. In college, I’d fallen in love with this specific piece of Felix’s long before I saw it in person. It inspired me so much that I wrote myentire master’s thesis on Lake Attersee and the effect it had on the realist movement.
When I’d first worked with Barbara, the news of its acquisition at a neighboring museum sent me squealing to tell Ryan. I even dragged him with me to its unveiling, shedding a few tears as I saw it for the first time. I spent many of my lunch breaks commuting just to sit beside it for a few minutes.
I wasn’t here when the Chicago Legacy Art Museum acquired Lake Attersee years ago—I had been busy chasing Anthony around in diapers. Once I got hired again, I almost cried when I found it had been taken down. Blythe explained that its storage in the basement archives was temporary but required to build anticipation for Felix’s exhibition.
Checking I didn’t obscure anyone else’s view, I stepped as close to the velvet-rope barrier as humanly possible. My eyes roamed the painting in greater detail, admiring its intricacy. My heart skipped a beat, then stopped.
No, that couldn’t be.
I rubbed my eyes.
Frowning, I squinted at the lilypad. The lily’s petals weren’t ivory, having yellowed with time. No,thatminuscule flower was white—stark white.
I shook my head, trying to confirm that the champagne hadn’t altered my vision.
The corner of the wooden dock sent a snaking shiver down my spine.
Visible brush strokes.
While some brush strokes were inevitable, Felix preferred to use smaller brushes to smooth out any ridges of residual paint. The technique contributed to the realistic quality of his paintings. He occasionally used a loose brush stroke for texture, but I had memorized this corner of the dock.
It wasn’t supposed to have one.
I clapped my hand over my gasp and stumbled away.
Iknewthis painting. IknewFelix. Thiswasn’this work.
I was looking at a forgery.
thirteen
AMANTHA
Blood pounded between my temples, foggy from champagne.
Do I tell someone?
