A Beautiful Secret, page 23
In the gallery setting up for a new exhibition, Tegan saw Essie walk in with her friend, and realized why she had been so nervous to ask her out. Essie was a stunner, but Sandra was as pretty as any model Tegan had ever seen. Tall and blonde, with an athletic figure; strong shoulders, a Vee shaped torso, and an angular face that was no nonsense as well as exotic. Tegan went over and offered her hand. “Hi, I’m Tegan. No one goes out before ten or eleven, so why don’t you two come to dinner at my place and we can go out after? Also, we can take one car.”
With dinner in the oven, Tegan was in the home office working on her book when the doorbell rang. Taylor answered the door. After showing them to the living room, she ran to the office squealing with delight. She had met Essie, but not Sandra. She hugged Tegan and whispered into her ear, “Oh, my God. Why didn't you tell me she was such a fox? I thought I was going to faint.”
Tegan smiled at her. “What a coincidence. A tall, blonde, strong tomboy? Do I detect a pattern?”
Taylor laughed. “Maybe. Or perhaps she likes ‘em young and innocent like me. You better watch your step!”
Taylor was entertaining them in the living room when Tegan joined them holding a tray of drinks. Essie was wearing a floral print dress and high heels. Sandra was wearing black slacks and loafers with a long, semi-sheer white button-down shirt over a white silk camisole with no bra. Both were gazing with astonishment at the condo. With travertine floors and Italian leather furniture, it was a massive step up from where most college kids lived.
“These are my specialty 'Faux-Jitos.' A Mojito without the rum. Seltzer with lime, fresh mint, and simple syrup, but here is a bottle of La Cana Grande silver rum if anyone wants to add a splash.”
Essie laughed, “If I drank a mojito without rum, I’d be disowned,” and poured a little rum in her glass. When she looked at Sandra, she held out her glass for some as well.
After a simple dinner of roast chicken, steamed vegetables, and wild rice, Sandra and Essie insisted on cleaning up and doing the dishes. Afterwards, everyone ended up on the patio in the deeply cushioned rattan sofas watching the stars and chatting. Sandra and Essie were cuddled up under a blanket when Taylor asked Sandra where she was from.
“Johannesburg, South Africa. My father is an agronomist, and my mother is a teacher. We moved to California when I was sixteen, after my father was offered a job in Sacramento. I play water polo, and was lucky enough to get a scholarship to MU. When I finish my double of pre-med and bio-chem, I hope to get into grad school to study bio-chem, and then perhaps apply to medical school.”
Getting dressed to go out Tegan realized that Taylor was not going to get into the bar, ID or not. She was just too young and petite. Her first outfit, a tight, sexy black dress made her look too sexy, too noticeable. Casual clothes made her look like she was barely old enough for high school. Tegan had to call for help from Essie and Sandra. They came into the bedroom and shook their heads. Sandra went into the closet and came out with a black pin-striped pantsuit and jacket that made her look like a Coral Gables lawyer. Taylor had a pair of black-framed, low magnification reading glasses that she wore for fine print, and when she put them on with some chunky platform shoes, she had a possible chance to get in. Tegan squeezed into a skintight navy-blue scoop neck mini dress with nothing under it but a thong, with wedge hemp sandals and a tiny clutch purse. When she came out of the bedroom, all three mouths dropped open. Sandra said it first, “Holy shit. You can’t go out in public like that.”
Tegan looked down as her nipples started to harden. Taylor came to the rescue with a long, flowing scarf. “Put this around your neck and keep those damn nips covered.” As she looped it over Tegan’s shoulders, she whispered, “You look so fucking hot!”
The going out ritual was to take a tiny purse with only an ID, some cash, a credit card, and lipstick, in case it got stolen. Sandra offered to drive them in her Toyota Land Rover. The lot was already nearly full, and they found a place in the back and stood in line to enter. The bouncer took a long look at their IDs, comparing their faces before he waved them in. Four pretty women were always welcome, and the hostess took them to a table next to the dance floor, removed the “Reserved” sign, and waved for them to sit down. Essie and Sandra ordered a bottle of white wine, while Taylor and Tegan shared a large bottle of Pellegrino.
Tegan dug into her purse, took out her silicone earplugs, and slipped them in. The band was playing straight up rock-and-roll loud and hard. The music was so loud that they couldn’t talk, and when the next song started, Sandra pulled Essie onto the dance floor. Tegan and Taylor followed, but not before putting paper napkins over their glasses. This was Miami, after all.
Essie was a natural, and Sandra had no trouble with her moves. Taylor had been teaching Tegan to dance, so they were all excellent, but nothing like Taylor. She had been dancing all her life. Ballet, jazz, tap, hip-hop, salsa, samba, tango, you name it, but tonight she surprised them all with a freestyle shuffle dance like nothing they had never seen before. When the band played “Hot Legs,” Sandra put one of her legs between Tegan’s and started gyrating while Essie and Taylor cheered and hooted. Sandra was tall enough that her thigh was soon planted against Tegan’s panties as Tegan squatted down on it.
Tegan pressed her mouth to Sandra’s ear. “You have to stop, or I’m going to leave a wet spot on your pants.”
Sandra laughed and switched up their scissor so that her crotch was now sliding on Tegan’s thigh. They finally staggered from the dance floor, covered in sweat, hanging on to each other in delight. Guys elbowed each other to be the first to offer drinks and their company. It was uncomfortable until Sandra looked at the herd of unwanted suitors, shook her head, and kissed Essie’s ruby red lips.
It was four a.m. when they got back to the condo. Taylor insisted that they come up and pointed them to the spare bedroom and bath, the linen closet, and handed them each a pair of Tegan's sleeping boxers and an over-sized tee-shirt. Tegan reluctantly let Taylor remove her collar, and they took turns washing off the night club smell under the shower.
In the morning, Sandra was walking on air. Essie wasn't the only person that had been coping with butterflies. Sunday mornings were the best; a time to relax. Blueberry crepes with creme fresh and a pot of coffee would do just fine. Sandra was enamored with Essie. If Essie hadn't taken the initiative, probably nothing ever would have happened between them.
The same thing happened with Taylor and me. I wouldn't have approached her, no matter how strongly I was attracted to her. I'm a watcher, relegated to seeing other people live their lives.
Monday afternoon, Tegan handed the tattoo artist a black and white photograph of Taylor that she had taken the first time she saw her dance ballet. He transferred it onto her right shoulder blade.
I hope she likes it.
The editor called Tegan into his office the next day. “Tegan. You’re falling behind on your submissions. This will not do. The analytic feedback from the website shows that your articles are being read and linked on social media. We can’t disappoint our audience.”
Shortly after, Tegan tapped on Amanda’s door and fell into a chair. “I need a favor. I’m falling behind with the paper, and I need time to research and create my Monet series. Could I have a little time off?”
Amanda smiled, leaned back in her chair, and laughed. “I’ve been watching you running like a hamster in the wheel waiting for this moment. Are you kidding me? What about this whole thing don’t you understand? The gallery has hit record numbers. Your publications are famous, and your love life, well, I won’t go there. Take some well-deserved time off. I have more volunteers than I need. Your contribution here has been phenomenal, but your writing is important, too.”
From the next edition of the Everglade:
Little else is known about either Claude or Camille in the summer of 1866. For an artist as prolific as Monet, his lack of production during this time is puzzling. Later in life, he painted over 250 versions of ‘Nymphéa’ (Water Lillies) in just a few years. What happened during the summer of 1866? How could an artist who was obsessive about his creations do so little? Where are the missing Monets?
Chapter 28
Common sense is genius dressed in its working clothes
Ralph Waldo Emerson
If a picture is worth a thousand words, then a video is worth at least a million. Tegan activated the invitation link to the video teleconference. It started with an email, followed by a phone call from France to request an online meeting for an unspecified art consultation. Precisely at ten, Tegan accepted the incoming call message, and the screen sprang to life. A well-dressed man was sitting in his tastefully furnished office.
“Good morning, Ms. Favreau?”
“Yes, sir. Good morning.” It was best not to let someone know you spoke their language at first, in case they attempted to deceive you.
“Thank you for taking my call. I am Charles Leclerc, Art Director for Royal Renaissance LLC. We are working on a project that you may assist us with, if you would be so kind.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“I would like to show you something and ask for your opinion. May I?”
“Of course.”
He held a sheet of paper to the camera.
Is this a joke?
Tegan hid her exasperation and replied, “It appears to be a copy of a sketch. Specifically, a photograph, or more likely, a scan of a sketch from the mid- to late nineteenth century. Perhaps a high-resolution digital image edited for sharpness and contrast, color-balanced, and printed on standard matte photo paper.”
“Are you quite sure, Ms. Favreau?”
She took a closer look. “No, I was mistaken. It appears to be eleven by seventeen cotton fine art matte finish paper.”
Tegan knew that eleven by seventeen-inch paper did not exist in the nineteenth century. The standard large size sketchbook was thirty-one by forty-seven cm, or twelve by nineteen inches. The original image had either been scaled up or down, then cropped to fit the modern paper.
He set the image down and returned his gaze to the camera. He looked to his left, as one is apt to do when someone else is in the room, listening. It was a little rude having someone listening without their knowledge.
“I was referring to the subject. Can you offer an opinion on that?”
She knew in an instant what it was. “Perhaps.” Tegan could afford to be coy. They were the ones on the hook, not her. She didn’t want to appear eager. They were going to come to her.
“Would you be so gracious as to share your opinion with me, if you are so inclined?”
Ah, that’s better. A show of respect.
“It’s a sketch of Camille Doncieux.”
He picked it up and looked at it. “Really? You can see that from Miami? How can you be so sure?”
The biter had been bitten. Now Tegan was on the hook. “Her boyfriend rented the dress.”
“Boyfriend?”
Tegan sighed and gave him what he wanted, but withheld that she knew the date and location of the sketch. She would not give away any more knowledge to a total stranger.
“Claude Monet. They had not yet married, so I referred to her by her maiden name.”
“Even though this is only a copy, is it possible that Claude Monet could have produced this? Or, more likely, is it a forgery?”
“To determine that, I would have to see the original and examine it. The original, not a copy. Only then could I offer an opinion. However, there would have to be an excellent explanation of why someone would forge a sketch of a painting that does not exist.”
He broke into a smile and turned again to his left, confirming that at least one person had been listening in on the conversation. “Ms. Favreau, I must apologize for my rude behavior, but this is a very sensitive subject, as you must know. My principal would like to speak with you now—with your permission, of course.”
“You have my permission.”
He got up, and another handsome, impeccably dressed man settled into the seat. “Ms. Favreau, I am impressed and astonished. I am thankful that my associate insisted on contacting you. My name is Egan Pernod. I am constantly on the hunt for art for my hotels and my collection. When I come across something extraordinary, of course I am interested. Your conclusions are perfectly aligned with ours. I will get to the point. Would you be interested in consulting for me regarding this project? I assure you that you will be generously compensated for your time.”
With classes and articles for the paper and the gallery, Tegan had no time to spare.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pernod. That won’t be possible. I am a full-time student, and I am quite busy at the gallery. I do not have time available to research such a small lead on a copy of an obscure sketch.”
There was a pause, and the tension mounted over the six thousand miles of air between Miami and Paris. Of course Tegan knew of Monsieur Pernod. After inheriting a run-down hotel from his uncle in a dubious neighborhood in Lyon, he’d built a luxury resort hotel empire in France, Italy, Spain, Ibiza, Majorca, and other places she had never heard of. He was worth billions, and was a collector of the first degree.
“What if I were to tell you that this sketch does indeed exist?”
Getting warmer. “Perhaps...”
He sighed, looked to his left, and she heard in the background, in French, “I told you so.”
He picked up another object from the conference table and held it to the camera. It was indeed an authentic pencil sketch. The bold lines and strokes showed a master had done it quickly and confidently. From studying his sketches and caricatures, Tegan knew with certainty who that master was.
“I am interested.”
“Bien; when can you come to Paris?”
Christmas vacation was the perfect opportunity to fly to Paris and meet Monsieur Pernod. Tegan insisted on bringing Taylor as her assistant, and they provided two premium economy tickets on a non-stop direct flight from Miami to Paris on Air France.
Tegan told Taylor. “You have nice clothes, but mine are all cheap crap. Will you go shopping with me?”
“Of course, but if you want to look classy, you would be better off asking Mom.”
Tegan called Macy’s at Aventura Mall to see if they had a watch she had seen on Madison Avenue when she was in New York. At the mall, they found three upscale outfits and three casual around-town outfits for Tegan, and a few items for Taylor as well. With their arms loaded with shopping bags, Tegan led them to Macy’s.
“Are you Mr. Bettsack?” she asked the gentleman behind the jewelry counter. “I’m Tegan Favreau. We spoke on the phone about a Classima Dual Time Zone Watch in rose gold with a brown crocodile strap?”
“Yes, Of course, Ms. Favreau. It has arrived. I’ll get it for you.”
It was a men’s watch, but the styling was classic, more unisex than masculine. When Tegan put it on, she fell in love with it. It was just the right size, and the rose gold was the perfect color. With dual time zones, Tegan could set one for Miami and one for Paris.
Helen turned over the price tag and gasped. “Tegan, this watch is four thousand dollars!”
“Don’t worry. What I wanted was a Cartier Tank A Vis Privee Dual Time Watch. The retail for that is twenty-eight thousand five hundred dollars, so this is a bargain. Plus, Baume and Mercier is a prestigious watchmaker from Geneva. I can’t meet Pernod wearing a Timex.”
Taylor took her hand. “It’s beautiful. I love it.”
Helen pointed to another watch in the case. “May I see that one, please?”
It was similar, a Baume & Mercier Women’s Swiss Classima Black Leather Strap Watch. She fastened it on Taylor’s wrist. “Do you like it?” she asked her daughter.
Taylor extended her arm. “I love it.”
Helen took out her credit card and went to hand it over, but Tegan stopped her.
“I offered to use a debit card instead of a credit card to save the store from paying the surcharge.”
Helen took out her debit card. “You just saved me a ton of worry about figuring out what to get you two for Christmas.”
Tegan had learned not to argue with Helen. Once she decided, no one could dissuade her. Instead, Tegan hugged her and whispered in her ear, “Thank you so much.”
At last, their errands were done. The day of the flight came and they travelled across the Atlantic. When they arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport, Pernod’s driver met them at the airport and delivered them to a suite at the Royal Renaissance Jardin des Tuileries on the Rue de Rivoli. They would settle in before their appointment with Pernod the following day.
Tegan pulled the sheer white draperies aside. River Seine was visible beyond the garden. As Taylor and Tegan were unpacking their clothes, the phone rang. They had spoken French since the takeoff in Miami, so Taylor picked it up and answered in French. Tegan had forgotten to warn her to only speak English.
“The maitre d’hotel insists we come to dinner at eight.”
Now they know we speak French. Merde.
Dinner was phenomenal. Tiny portions, each as delicate and indescribable as the next stimulated their pallets without making them feel too full. After dinner, they walked to the Place de la Concorde and then to the 1791 arch bridge to admire the city’s lights. Arms linked, they leaned on the railing to watch the River Seine flow beneath them.
The following afternoon, two Secret Service-like gentlemen escorted them to Monsieur Pernod’s office. Tegan looked spectacular in a navy-blue Anne Klein shawl collar sheath dress suit. Taylor had released her from her collar for the first time in a month, and replaced it with a solid gold hoop with a screw back connector. With her blonde hair and miles of legs, she looked like a model from California. Taylor looked magnificent in an A-line dress with floral print.
