The Chrysalis (5 page)

six

AMSTERDAM, 1940

H
E WALKS ACROSS THE STUDY, HIS GAIT DELIBERATE BUT
not hurried. A man of fixed habits, he is determined to experience the fullness of his nightly ritual, to savor this last evening with her.

He reaches for a crystal glass and the bottle of Duhart-Milon, 1934. He pours the last drops of the precious liquid into the glass, thinking that he could never find another bottle, even on the black market. Knowing this, he has saved the vestiges of the liquor for this night.

Glass in hand, he sighs with pleasure as he looks around his study, his refuge from the Victorian-era clutter of the rest of his home. His wife and daughter decry the room, decorated in the new Art Deco style, as too stark, too modern, even cold. Yet the room's clean, fluid lines soothe his restless spirit and create the perfect spare backdrop for his treasure.

He walks toward the fireplace, which blazes and crackles with a freshly made fire. He holds the glass up to the light, admiring the rich reddish brown hue of the liquor as it gleams through the facets of the crystal. He settles down into his black leather club chair, positioned before the fire and mantel just so, and situates himself as precisely as the chair.

He stretches out his legs and crosses them at the ankles. He looks down into his glass and takes the smallest of sips, relishing the wonder of the wine's taste on his tongue and the slow burn as it makes its way down his throat. He readies himself to look over the mantel, at her. The series of motions is his private genuflection, a veneration of her and her message.

Just as he is about to lift his eyes to her, he hears the clip of fast steps approach the study door and then hesitate. After a moment heavy with apology, a knock sounds at the door.

“Yes?” he asks, as if he does not know who it is and what the unwelcome caller wants. He wishes he did not.

“Mr. Baum, sir, they have packed the rest of the paintings and loaded them onto the truck. They are ready for the last one, and they say they have very little time left.”

“I see, Willem, I see. Can they give me just a few more minutes?” Erich Baum understands the haste, though he begrudges it. The transporters, whom he refuses to think of as smugglers, have a narrow window through which they can sneak his precious paintings across the Belgian and French borders without alerting the authorities, and Erich cannot afford to delay the shipment to Nice by complying with the complicated snarl of import laws. Though many of his countrymen insist that the Netherlands will remain neutral through this war just as it did through the last, he will not ignore the letters from his daughter, Hilda, in Mussolini's Italy, warning him that the Nazi invasion is imminent. He must get his paintings to France for safety or sale, depending on the piece; he will not allow his cherished possessions to end up on the office walls of Göring, Himmler, or some other Nazi dignitary, and in any event, he needs the money.

“I am sure that can be arranged, sir.”

“Thank you, Willem.”

Erich closes his eyes and inhales deeply, pretending that this interruption has not occurred. The loss of his other paintings saddens him, but nothing like the visceral pain, the grief he feels at parting with her. So he imagines that he is experiencing his ritual as if it were any other evening, takes another sip of the wine, and finally raises his eyes.

She is as breathtaking as the first time he laid eyes on her, all those years before at the Steenwyck auction. With her outstretched hands and turquoise gaze, she summoned him from the jumble of portraits for sale; the rays of light illuminating her from within the painting seemed to pierce through the auction throngs, warming him to her message. As others bid furiously on Miereveld's signature works, he held his breath and waited for her number to be called so he could take her home:
The Chrysalis.

A knock sounds at the door again. Erich knows he will not be granted another reprieve. He cannot bear to witness the savage separation of her from the wall that has served as her home since the Steenwyck auction more than three decades ago. So he says his farewells to her and then opens the door, signaling Willem to send in the transporters.

seven

NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY

M
ARA AWAKENED IN A COLD SWEAT JUST AS THE GRAY
light of dawn trickled in through the slats in her living room window. The daylight first touched the heather-gray pinstriped couch on which Mara lay, then the painted brick fireplace flanked by glass-enclosed bookshelves and topped by black-and-white photographs of Mara with her grandmother. Finally, it eased down the long, dark hall to the kitchen.

She was still in her clothes from the previous night's auction and dinner, though her sheath was rumpled beyond recognition. The remnants of a memory teased her, pushing themselves into her consciousness despite the way her head pounded from all the champagne and mojitos. The recollection took firm shape, and she caught a vivid flash of sitting close, too close, to Michael in the booth of the tapas restaurant. “Oh God,” she thought, “he tried to kiss me.” Mara's stomach churned at the thought of what had almost happened.

Groaning, she changed into pajamas and crawled into bed. She tried to fall into the escape of sleep, but her stomach would not allow it. She tried a shower, hoping to wash away her shame and concern. Mara scrubbed her already aching skin raw, but she winced more at how she had allowed herself to get into a compromising situation with a client. How had she permitted herself to concede her professional boundaries? How had she let Michael believe that she'd be receptive to his advances? She knew the answer, of course: his undeniable physical draw and her past attraction to him, mixed with her years of solitude and far too many drinks.

After she dressed, Mara decided to walk to work. It was an indulgence she usually denied herself since a cab took half the time, but she needed to clear her head and formulate some sort of plan. The sun seemed particularly bright, so Mara put on her sunglasses and stopped off to get a large coffee, heavy on the milk and sugar. With each step, a new, troubling thought occurred to her. What if he tried to continue the relationship, despite her initial rebuff? Mara was not sure how long she'd be able to resist him. But even worse, what if he were angry about her rejection, so angry that he wanted her off the case? She saw her chance at partnership, so dependent on her rapport with the new client, Beazley's, disappear before her eyes.

As Mara passed the normally padlocked Gramercy Park, the only private park left in the city, she noticed that the gate was ajar, and she stepped in. Autumn had begun to transform the little sanctuary into an extravagant montage of fiery orange, brassy gold, apple red, and rich chocolate; the morning sun set it aglow. Mara slowed to a saunter. Fallen leaves crunched underfoot, and a crisp smell permeated the air. When she sat on one of the park's ancient wrought-iron benches, a leaf danced down and landed on her shoulder. Mara felt totally alone. She imagined that Michael weren't a client and that she were sitting beside him. The fantasy brought a short-lived smile to her lips, but then her cell rang. It was her secretary, reminding her of a departmental meeting over which Harlan Bruckner would preside, among other appointments. She tore herself from the park, reentered the bustle of the city, and rushed the remaining blocks to Severin in a cab.

Mara felt the eyes of impressed passersby upon her as she pushed the massive, always spotless revolving doors of Severin's colossal tower, though they seemed heavier than normal this morning. After passing through security, she rode a mercifully empty express elevator to her floor, her ears popping as the car raced upward as if it knew that its passengers charged by the tenth of an hour. She walked down the long hall toward her office, passing through the hum of computers and fax machines, long conference calls and slamming file drawers, bursting meeting rooms and smart people doing difficult work. Even now, with her misstep with Michael weighing upon her, the buzz of the Severin halls boosted her.

Before entering her office, Mara, still foggy, armed herself with a second large coffee. Her office seemed the essence of organization, a relatively clear desktop, much-referenced papers in standing folders, and cabinets for bulky case files. Yet, like her apartment, the drawers hid wayward articles, and the under-desk panel secreted mountains of shoes.

Leafing quickly through her morning mail, Mara spotted a message slip from Michael. He had called first thing. Regardless of the course he wanted to pursue and her own feelings, she knew that she needed to reestablish the proper order between them as quickly as possible. But she feared that she would weaken when she heard his low, gravelly voice; after all, that was how she had gotten into this mess. Sophia would help her to get back on the safe track, though Mara would have to brave a blast of condemnation first.

Mara headed down the narrow hallway to Sophia's office, barely nodding to any of the fellow associates she passed, and pushed open Sophia's closed door. An eager smile greeted her. “I was wondering when you'd work your way down here,” Sophia exclaimed. “How was the big shindig?”

Mara hesitated. She knew that she had to tell her everything to get what she needed from her friend. She took a deep breath and spread the evening out before Sophia, moment by moment.

“Good God, Mara. What the hell were you thinking?” Sophia unleashed the full force of her disapproval of Mara's behavior—as unwise, as unethical, as murderous to any impending advancement. She repeated all the details of Lisa Minever's disgrace, her potential financial and professional liability under the suit, her ostracism by former friends and colleagues, and her inability to find other work in the face of the publicity.

Mara offered no response, nor did Sophia really desire one. Sophia wanted an excuse to vent her anger at Mara. Clearly, she thought that Mara's gaffe reflected on her as well and jeopardized Sophia's plans for their shared future.

Sophia started demanding more information. Why had Mara yielded to Michael when she had been so strong in rejecting the overtures of other clients and even partners? “Why didn't you just nip this in the bud by telling him about the ‘boyfriend'?” she asked, referring to the elaborately detailed stories about significant others that Mara and Sophia concocted for just such situations. Without blinking, they could evoke busy investment bankers whose demanding travel schedules both prevented them from minding the women's long work hours and kept the “boyfriends” from attending all firm functions.

“Because I like him, Fee. I know it was stupid, but my feelings got in the way of my better judgment.” It felt good to admit the truth out loud, even though she knew she risked further outbursts from Sophia.

To Mara's surprise, Sophia's stony stare softened. “I'm sorry, Mara.” She squeezed Mara's hand. But then Sophia quickly and efficiently closed the door back over her heart and refocused her sights on success. “But you know the rules. If he's still interested in pursuing you, you have to draw the line for him as politely, but as firmly, as possible. Because if you don't and you decide to continue with him, you know what will happen if it all blows up. Do you really want to throw away all your hard work?”

“No.” At least, the self-protective, ambitious, Sophia-like parts of Mara did not. “Anyway, I'm probably making too much out of this. He's probably regretting last night and calling to ask if we can forget it happened.” She half hoped he felt that way, since it would make everything easier. Then again, she half hoped he didn't. “I just pray he isn't so furious that he wants to pull the case from me.”

“I doubt that very much. How would that look for him? How would he explain that to Beazley's or Harlan?” Sophia urged, “Mara, you've got to do the right thing.”

Mara nodded, squared her shoulders, and returned to her office. Before she even sat down, she checked the number on the message slip and reached for the phone, firm in her resolve but with her heart racing. “Michael Roarke, please,” she stated clearly.

“May I ask who's calling?”

“Mara Coyne.”

“Just one moment. He's on a call, but he asked me to interrupt him if you rang.”

Mara almost hung up, but she willed herself to wait. Her stomach, however, continued with its backflips, not soothed at all by the Mozart hold music.

“Mara,” Michael answered, his voice conjuring up images of them in the booth. It challenged her determination for a brief moment, and Mara held her breath, letting him speak first. “I'm so glad you called back. I've been thinking about you all morning.”

“You have?” The question escaped. Despite the echo of Sophia's admonishments and her own commitment to maintaining an attorney-client relationship with him, she couldn't stifle her instinctive reaction.

“All morning. I'm sorry if I came on too strong last night. But I want to see you again, and not just as your client. Can I?”

The word
yes
formed on her lips, but she forced the
no
to take its place. “Michael, I want to, but I can't.”

“What do you mean, you can't?” His voice brimmed with surprise, with disappointment, with anger.

“It's against the rules, Michael, though I really wish it weren't. But I will be here for you on the
Baum
case, working day and night to win it for you. Do you think that we can do that together?”

He paused for what seemed to Mara like forever. “Yes, Mara, I do. I just wish it could be more.”