Page 7 of The Scarab's Game
A ten-by-twenty area had been earmarked for studying and cleaning pieces, including a tall worktable with an open space underneath it. Tools and chemicals crammed two shelves under the table, while more hid in cabinets lining the walls.
The space was a fraction of what my Aunt Penny had at home, but Dante had explained they contracted out more complex jobs to shops across Europe, depending on the specialists required.
I had the painting out of its frame and off the stretcher and was writing out a plan in my notebook. The painting was an early nineteenth-century pastoral scene by John Constable—two feet by two and a half, typical of his outdoor work. The brushwork was loose, giving an almost hazy appearance to the painting from a distance, but close up, I could see every stroke laid with skill and precision.
Maybe too much precision?
Aunt Penny would have handled something like this at home. However, Massimo’s regular conservator had made comprehensive notes the last time he cleaned it, so I had a solid starting point. I simply had to collect solvents, brushes, cotton, and other tools to clean a faint layer of dirt off the top, then apply a fresh layer of varnish.
I ran a hand over the bend at the edge of the painting, where it had wrapped around the stretcher. The small workshop didn’t have a heat or vacuum table, so I’d have to use simpler hand-held tools to remove the indentation before cleaning it.
There was a knock at the door, and Dante appeared. “I’m going across the street for coffee.”
As I looked up, he paused and smiled, his gaze resting on my outstretched hand. I snapped my hand back. “Sorry. I was getting a feel for the artwork.”
He came closer, stopping across the table from me, and ran a finger along the indented edge. “My father always told me not to touch things that don’t belong to me.”
I swallowed hard. Was I getting in trouble, or was he flirting? “Difficult to clean it without touching it.”
“Perhaps you should teach me how, so I also have an excuse.” Dante was exactly the kind of man I needed. A smoldering Italian who loved art—clear from the way he caressed the canvas—whose father owned not just one of the yachts in the harbor, but an art gallery in Monaco, and who knew how much else. He was a rich, charming distraction from my reality.
What was he like in bed?Did you seriously think that?Maybe he could get me over my cheating ex?
He wouldn’t, though. And that wasn’t what my trip was about. It was about freeing myself—not getting tangled up again. And the last thing I needed was to get involved with someone, even for a night.
Men are a hassle, Jenn. Remember that.
He rested his hands on the worktable. “Would you like a drink? It would only take us fifteen or thirty minutes.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I…” I tapped the stack of notes. “I need to get ahead of the project first.”
“I’ll bring you something, then?” He was persistent, if nothing else.
“That’d be nice.”
He gave a slight bow and left.
Yeah, Dante was the kind of man my father would approve of. Who my friends would high-five me over. No one would give me the side-eye if I broughthimhome.
Why couldn’t I have met him when my life was under control?
I sighed and paced the length of the conservation area, considering my next steps. Smooth out the creases, do a quick test along the edge to confirm the required solvents, and away I could go. Or maybe run the tests first to ensure I had sufficient materials for the cleaning?
If we had to order anything from Nice, Paris, or elsewhere, it would be best to have the order in as soon as possible. I pulled bottles of acetone and distilled water from a shelf at the back of the room, then donned a pair of nitrile gloves, a mask, and safety goggles. Step one: dilute the acetone.
After double-checking the notes, I rolled a few swabs, creating tools out of sticks and cotton batting. I dipped a swab into the solvent, pressed the edge of the canvas flat, and froze. Aunt Penny normally verified everything for me. This was a Constable. They expected it would fetch over two hundred thousand at the auction on Friday night.
What if I’d misinterpreted something?
What if I had the acetone concentration wrong?
What if I was supposed to warm the solution and had the wrong temperature?
Working without my safety net had my stomach twisting in as many knots as seeing Emmett last night. He said he’d drop by the gallery. I’d put on a little extra eye makeup this morning. My pulse had even jumped every time the front door’s bell had chimed.
Maybe that was the real reason I turned down Dante’s offer of going for coffee.
What if I missed Emmett’s visit?