Chapter 7
The room I was starting in was huge, as was everything in the mansion. Three immense paintings dominated the walls surrounded by smaller ones scattered tastefully to complement the larger. It reminded me of an art museum rather than a house, but then I had only ever been in art museums this big, not houses.
The room had one window, and if I had been the interior decorator, I would have focused my attention on the view rather than the art. While the art was beautiful, the seascape out the window was more dynamic. Sheer curtains floated over the big window, and I was glad to note that a special film had been placed on it to block the UV light. At least whomever had set up this room had designed it to hold the artwork.
I stood for a moment at the window, watching the waves break against the shore and sea birds fly through the air. It reminded me of this morning's sunrise and that made me smile and wonder what Mr. Belrose was up to. I couldn't see him out on the water, which meant that he must have had his meeting.
“Why aren't you working?” Mr. Belrose's deep voice asked, distracting me from my thoughts. I turned around, startled, to see him standing in the open doorway. All the joy on his face from this morning was long gone.
“I was just getting started,” I stammered, going to a table in the center of the room to lay out my supplies. I flushed, knowing I had only been standing at the window for a couple of minutes, but from his viewpoint it must have looked like I was doing nothing at all.
“I'm not paying you to stand around,” he growled. I nearly dropped my tablet on the floor, but managed to catch it in the nick of time. He glared at me. “There are deadlines for a reason. If I wanted someone to stand and look pretty, I'd hire a model.”
My face flamed to an even higher degree. I wondered if Elijah had remembered to feed him breakfast.
“Didn't you have a meeting?” I asked. All I wanted to do was snap at him to go take a long walk off a short cliff, but I didn't. He was my employer.
“It was canceled. Are you going to work or what?” He glared at me, daring me to sass back. But, I was a professional, despite the fact that I had enjoyed looking out the window. So instead of saying something I knew I'd regret, I put on my biggest smile and looked up at him.
“Of course, Mr. Belrose. I'll get right on it.”
I cocked my head to the side, willing sweetness to drip off every word. I made syrup look bland.
He frowned, opening his mouth and then closing it. I had to hold in my sense of accomplishment at throwing him off. He had obviously been expecting a smart-aleck, defensive remark and my overly-sweet response was not computing.
“Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Belrose,” I continued, still smiling and forcing sugar sweet niceness from every pore, “I need to get to work.”
With that, I turned back to my table and arranged my tools. I moved methodically and carefully, feeling his eyes on me as I went about my work. I ignored him, concentrating on what was now entirely my domain. This is where I was most comfortable. I was now entering my element.
Once my station was arranged to my liking, I went to one of the smaller paintings on the wall and carefully began my examination. It took all my willpower not to look up and say something snotty as Mr. Belrose kept watching me, waiting for me to do something he could criticize.
The first painting was small, only about a 10X8 piece of oil on canvas. It's something I could see my mother having painted and I immediately fell in love with it. It was of an impressionist piece of a boat floating in the moonlight. Blues and silvers dominated the canvas, with short brush strokes carefully invoking the feelings of a festive boat out on dark water.
I trembled taking it off the wall, not from nerves but because I could feel it in my bones that this was an important piece. It spoke to me. The frame was well made and I was glad to see that care had been taking in preserving and displaying the artwork properly.
“That came with the house,” Mr. Belrose informed me, the tone of his voice dismissive. “I'm sure it's not worth much. You should start on the Degas.”
I gritted my teeth and forced my face into a polite smile. I hated it when people told me how to do my job. If he was so sure the piece was worthless, then why the heck had he hired me?
“Thank you,” I said politely, beaming my smile at him before turning back to my original painting. “I'll be sure to let you know when I'm finished.”
I would get to the Degas when I got to the Degas. I had a system, one that I had perfected over the years, and I would be dammed if I was going to let him tell me how to do my job. Even if he was a billionaire.
I took the frame over to the table, pointedly ignoring Mr. Belrose. I could feel his temper heating from across the room. He wasn't a man that was used to being ignored. He was a billionaire after all. I rolled my eyes. He probably had people begging to ask “how high” at just the thought of him saying jump.
But I wasn't jumping. I wasn't even bending my knees to prep for a jump. This was the one thing that I was good at. The one thing that I knew made me worth something. He may be a billionaire, but an art connoisseur he was not. The painting was far from being worthless. Very far.
I smiled down at the painting without realizing and heard him let out a frustrated sigh. I peeked up just in time to see his back stomping off down the hallway. I rolled my eyes and told myself to be nicer next time. He was the one paying my salary and he was definitely not pleased that I had ignored his suggestion to start on the Degas. But, if he wanted this done right, then he had to let me do what I was good at.
I pushed him from my mind and focused on the painting. If I was right, and I usually was, it was a Berthe Morisot painting and probably worth around at least fifty-thousand dollars. The last time I had seen her paintings up at auction, a painting of similar size and style had gone for over one hundred thousand dollars.
I hummed gently, starting my real investigation of the painting. I was at peace whenever I held artwork like this. I loved this part of my job. To touch things that were little windows into the souls of painters, to hold something in my hands that had moved the lives of others, was exhilarating. To have it all to myself for just a moment, to be able to see every brush stroke and every careful line of color filled me joy.
I loved the challenge of authentication and appraisal. It was a puzzle that never ended. I always imagined that it was a game to see if I could distinguish real from fake, and I loved having to use all my knowledge of art and painting to make sure that something was what it appeared.
This particular piece was relatively easy as it had a certificate of authenticity from a museum I knew and respected, though, I still had to double check it, and check the certificate in order to catalog it for the auction.
I opened up my tablet to begin putting in the details when I heard a loud thunk from the room next door. Frowning, I carefully set down the painting and went to investigate the noise coming from the room where my father was working.