The Art Forger (16 page)

He exploded into his hearty laugh. “Right you are, Isabella.” Then he paused. “Do they ever call you Belle?”

“Some,” I replied. “Those who are particularly close.”

His eyes found mine, and for a moment I felt as if all the air in the room had retreated. “May I be considered to be part of that group?” he asked.

I could barely contain myself and quickly agreed. “Now what is your proposal?”

“It’s simple. I will paint an oil painting using the multilayered technique you so admire, if you agree to be my model.”

Well, Amelia, I cannot tell you how my heart leapt. A portrait of me by Edgar Degas in the classical style! Could I wish for anything more? And perhaps he would be willing to sell it to me at a lowered cost. “Do you really mean it?” I cried.

“I wish you to model nude,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “To add to my bather series. It will confound everyone that I’ve returned to the style of my youth. The critics will drive themselves mad trying to ascertain why. But it will be our secret, Belle. Just yours and mine.”

“But, sir, you are mad. I am far too old for such a thing.”

“Is that the only reason?” he asked with a sly smile.

I was so overwhelmed by his proposition that I did not understand the meaning of his words or his smile, so I continued, “I am not a young woman, and even then, I was never a beauty, so this is completely out of the question.”

Now he laughed uproariously, and it finally dawned on me that I had not mentioned the impropriety of his suggestion. I began to gather my things, feverish heat climbing my face. “And your proposal is most indecorous.”

“Oh, my dear Belle,” Edgar said when he finally caught his breath, “with your grace and fine figure, your extraordinary complexion and those lovely shoulders and arms, you radiate a beauty that defies age.”

I wrapped my shawl tightly over the scoop neckline of my dress. “I could never, sir.”

“It won’t be as you imagine, I promise you that. There is no shame. I am offering you a job that is actually quite boring and tedious.”

“I don’t need a job,” I declared, as I moved toward the door. “I am a married woman.”

Again, the mischievous eyes. “Then not a job. The painting will be my gift to you for doing me this great honor.”

A gift. I stood motionless, facing the door as my thoughts whirled. Edgar Degas was offering to make me a gift of one of his paintings. A gem for my collection, perhaps the crown, at no cost. Or at a cost that, between you and I, I would be both willing and honored to pay. The scandal would be delicious but, alas, your poor dear uncle would die of shame.

“It is impossible,” I said, and closed the door behind me.

Please kiss baby Jackie a hundred times for me and give my best to your Sumner. We shall be together soon and will be able to talk to our hearts’ delight. I so look forward to a big bustling family Christmas at Green Hill with a new precious baby to spoil.

I am your loving,

Aunt Belle

Twenty

I called Sandra Stoneham and told her I was working on a book proposal about Isabella Stewart Gardner’s personal relationships with artists of her day, a switch that seemed best given the whole stolen-masterpiece-in-my-studio thing. She was curious but insisted she wouldn’t be able to tell me anything useful as the museum controlled everything about her aunt. When I complained that the Gardner had been less than helpful in my pursuit, she immediately invited me over. “Oh, those people are so difficult,” she grumbled. “Everything has to be done
their
way.”

I pick up some hydrangeas—I’m thinking older ladies like hydrangeas, though I’m not sure why—at Copley Station, and I contemplate the lush blue orbs as the summer’s late dusk wraps itself around the trolley windows.

The directions are excellent, and I find the house easily, although the final leg is quite steep. She explained on the phone that the estate had belonged to her great-grandfather, Sumner T. Prescott, but in 2000, she sold the whole “kit and caboodle” to a developer, who carved her a “lovely apartment” out of the first floor, broke the rest of the house into condominiums and, built two dozen free-standing “cottages” on the property—if you can call these McMansions cottages. I see a swimming pool and tennis courts as I climb the front steps.

I figure Mrs. Stoneham has to be somewhere between eighty and ninety, but when she opens the door, I see I’m wrong. This handsome woman wearing a tennis outfit and sporting a full head of stylish hair can’t be any more than seventy. If that.

“Please excuse me,” she says, as she grabs her tennis bag and leads me into a vast soaring space with twelve-foot ceilings and dozens of tall windows, which is the living room, kitchen, and dining room. “My game ran late, and I didn’t have a chance to change.”

“It’s fine, Mrs. Stoneham. Not a problem, though I’d be happy to wait if you want to change. I really appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.”

“No, let’s talk. And it’s Sandra, please.” She points to a chair in the living room. “I was married for almost sixty years and still think of Mrs. Stoneham as my mother-in-law. That’s what she made me call her.”

“Sandra then,” I say as I sit. Guess that makes her older than seventy.

Her artwork also surprises me: mostly high-quality cubist lithographs by Picasso, Le Fauconnier, and Gris mixed with work by abstract expressionists such as Pollock, Rothko, and de Kooning. I squint at the Gris. It appears to be an original. There are a number of mixed-media pieces and some extraordinary metal and ceramic sculptures. Everything is unexpectedly contemporary: the kitchen with its granite breakfast bar and high-end appliances, the art, the furniture, Sandra herself. It’s clear I need to reevaluate my conception of eighty. Although her eyes did light up at the sight of the hydrangeas.

Sandra presses a glass to the water dispenser in the refrigerator. “Can I get you something? Water? Tea? Soda?”

When I tell her water is fine, she hands me the glass she just filled and gets another for herself. She downs her water, refills it, and sits across from me.

“You’ve got some fabulous pieces here,” I say. “That Gris is awesome.”

Her eyes twinkle. “But not what you’d expect from an old lady?”

“No, no. I wasn’t thinking that. I, uh, I’m just a bit awed by the collection.”

She laughs, and I question Rik’s description of her as a pain in the ass. “I have some traditional works also.” She sighs. “Although nothing from my Aunt Belle. Every piece she ever owned is in the museum.”

“She was your great-aunt?”

“Actually, great-great. My grandmother, Amelia Prescott, was her niece. Her favorite niece, I might add. My mother, Fanny, was Grandma’s only surviving child, and I’m the only one left, Belle Gardner’s only living relative.” Sandra purses her lips. “Something you might think the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum would appreciate. But no, they have no interest in maintaining Aunt Belle’s legacy, of upholding her preeminent place in history. It’s all about their artist-in-residence program and lectures by people who know nothing about my aunt or her work. Not to mention those people trying to dig up dirt. All of this about her having affairs or being friends with homosexuals. What does it matter? What matters is what she accomplished. Her museum. Her collection.”

I fear I’ve come to the pain-in-the-ass Sandra and search for a topic that will reestablish her good mood. “So, is this your contemporary art area? Do you have your older paintings in other rooms?”

Her stern expression disappears. “Yes, yes, that’s exactly right. Because this area has been renovated and modernized, I thought that would be appropriate. In the more formal areas of the apartment, I have my more traditional pieces. We collectors are a fanatical bunch, even down to the type of interior design that’s appropriate for our artworks. And that’s just the beginning of it. Once a piece of art crawls into your heart, you’ll never let it go.” She stands. “Come, let me show you a wonderful nineteenth-century painting of my grandmother.”

I follow her back toward the entryway. Directly across from the front door is a portrait of a beautiful young woman whose skin glows in a way that only the most talented painters are able to achieve. I must have missed it in my surprise at Sandra’s youthful appearance.

“This is Grandma Amelia. Lovely, Isn’t she?”

I lean closer and try to make out the signature. “Rudell? Never heard of him.”

“Rendell,” Sandra corrects. “Virgil Rendell. Not very well known.”

“He’s good,” I say. “Really good. And yes, your grandmother was quite a beauty.” But it’s more than Amelia’s beauty that makes the painting so powerful. It’s the light in her eyes, the warmth Rendell managed to capture, her inner happiness flowing outward, passing through time to touch the present.

“She looks so happy,” I say. “So innocent.”

“That’s because it was painted before she married my grandfather.”

I turn toward the other side of the apartment, which retains the house’s original moldings and wainscot. “So this is the traditional art side?” I point to a pair of handsome mahogany sliding doors held together with a fancy brass key, closing off what must have been the original parlor. “Can I see?”

“I’d be happy to show them all to you when I have more time.” Sandra looks at her watch and leads me to the living room. She takes her seat and I take mine. “So, let’s talk about your book.”

“As I said on the phone, I’m working on a book proposal on Isabella Gardner’s relationships with various artists, but I’m having trouble finding enough information. Your aunt was so significant to the art movement of that time,” I say, taking Rik’s advice to gush about Belle, “I can only image there must be many other artists she influenced who I don’t know about.”

“I’m sure that’s correct,” she says and smiles. “You’re an academic?”

“I recently received a Master of Fine Arts from the museum school, but I’ve always been fascinated by Belle Gardner, so I thought I’d give this a try. Can’t count on art alone to pay the rent.”

“Do you know Ben Zimmern?”

“Yes, of course,” I say with pseudoenthusiasm. “But my area was studio painting so I didn’t take any classes with him.”

“I’m on the MFA board, and Ben and I have worked together on a number of sculpture-related projects.”

“Are you also on the Gardner board?” I ask, hoping to move her away from a discussion of any other museum school faculty she might know. Boston is a deceptively small town.

Sandra frowns. “I was until I wasn’t anymore. Again, it’s their contemporary concerns I can’t abide. And now with the horrid new addition. A larger café. A bigger bookstore. Glass walkway. Ha! It was her home, her legacy, for pity’s sake. Aunt Belle is surely doing somersaults in her grave.”

There’s no good response to any of this, so I switch back to the book. “I’m looking for—”

“What’s your medium?” she interrupts.

“Oil.”

“When did you get your degree?”

I hesitate, her intensity making me a bit uncomfortable. “Three years ago.”

“Ah. Then you must have been a student of Isaac Cullion’s.” She shakes her head. “So, so sad. Such a young man. And such promise.”

Caught off guard, I hesitate a nanosecond too long. “Yes. Yes I was. Great talent.”

She studies me for a long moment. “I thought your name sounded familiar.”

I lower my gaze. What spectacularly bad luck.

Sandra leans over and pats my knee. “You won’t get any grief from me, Claire. I have friends at MoMA and know that things aren’t as straightforward as many believe.”

“You do?” My eyes meet hers, and I see that she does. “Thank you.”

She brushes this off. “So what can I tell you about Aunt Belle’s famous friends?”

I pull a notebook and pen from my backpack. “I know she hung out with lots of well-known people who weren’t artists, like Henry James and Julia Ward Howe, but I thought it would be interesting just to focus on the artists.” I look through the pages. “I’ve got lots of information on her relationships with Whistler, Sargent, and Ralph Curtis, but I need a few more, and I’m coming up short.”

Sandra beams at me. “Well, she was such an amazing patron of the arts. As you say, all arts, music, literature, architecture. A muse to many, but she did have her favorites.” She taps her finger on the arm of her chair. “Let’s see, artists, artists . . . There was Joseph Smith, Ralph Adams Cram, Martin Mower, and oh, yes, of course, Dennis Miller Bunker.”

I scribble down the names, smiling up at her, taking in her every word. “How about artists who were better known?” I ask. “I’d like to gear the book to both scholarly and popular audiences. Manet? Cassatt? Pissarro?”

Sandra shakes her head. “Aunt Belle wasn’t fond of the Impressionists. She probably didn’t have much to do with any of them.”