Gladly Beyond (5 page)

He was the kid sitting on the front row of class. Hand popping up to answer every question.

I had never liked that guy.

“Well, that depends on several factors.” The Colonel ticked off on his fingers. “Am I impressed by your appraisal and expert knowledge? Did you display professional behavior throughout? At the end of the day, I will hire the person who I feel will get the job done.”

I nodded, my pulse beating in excitement as I tugged on the arms of my suitcoat. Given the little I understood of the Colonel’s family history, there were likely undiscovered gems in his collection.

Branwell and I were perfect fits for the Colonel. Between our industry connections and, uh, GUTs, we would be able to easily assess and organize his collection.

I needed this job. Business had been slow, and I could see the writing on the wall. Either things picked up here or I was going to have to move D’Angelo headquarters to a larger city, like Paris or New York.

I
really
didn’t want to move. Florence was home, and my family needed me here. Just the thought of leaving my mom and grandma alone to care for my brothers and their
issues
—

I swallowed. Adjusted my tie again. Not going to happen. This job would be mine.

“So here are the contracts.” The Colonel slid a folder down the table to each of us. “Whitman Auction Services has already signed the contract, so you’ll find an addendum in yours, Mr. Whitman.”

Pierce flipped his folder open, scanned the paper inside. Scowled.

“You’ve added a Nuisance Clause?” His snooty British accent ratcheted up a notch.

I opened my own folder, rubbing a hand against the back of my neck. Sure enough.

At no time will any job applicant harass, interfere with, hamper and/or plagiarize the efforts of another job applicant. Evidence of this behavior will result in immediate dismissal.

“I prefer to call it my Sandbox Rule,” the Colonel said. “Basically, you all will play nice in my sandbox. Keep your hands and feet to yourself, and no stealing others’ toys.”

“This is patently ridiculous.” Pierce grunted in disgust. “We’re all adults here—”

“The jury is still out on that one, son.”

“—so there’s no need to treat us like children.”

“Then don’t act like one, and I won’t have to,” the Colonel said.

I kept my mouth shut, suppressing a grin. Pierce was doing an admirable job of digging his own grave.

“I’m not a babysitter, and I’ve got no patience for anyone who makes trouble,” the Colonel continued. “Any employee of mine will act professionally at all times.”

“Seems only fair.” Claire leveled a laser-eye look at Pierce. “I, for one, want to be hired on my own merits and abilities, not because I cheated my way to the top.”

Claire had one of those silky female voices—urbane and smooth—but threaded with the faintest tang of New England.

I liked it a lot more than I should.

Everyone in the industry had been surprised when Claire became involved with Pierce Whitman. Pierce with his hang-dog, nerdy vibe and Claire with her tall, elegant . . . presence. I remember seeing a photo of them together. Her in high heels, towering a good four inches over him. A supermodel with her accountant boyfriend.

“I assume you are going to tell us about the object we are here to assess?” Pierce asked as we signed the documents. Again, the kid at the front of the class who thought he was so astute but was mostly an annoying kiss-up.

I sat back. Still keeping my mouth shut. I crossed an ankle over my knee, foot bouncing.

“How much do you know about the Battle of Cascina?” the Colonel asked, steepling his fingers.

A thrill chased my spine.

Given how fast Claire’s eyebrows went up, she had a similar reaction.

“The actual fourteenth century battle between Florence and Pisa?” Claire paused. “Or Michelangelo’s lost masterpiece?”

The Colonel’s tight smile said it all.

Madonna mia.
Did the old man actually have a lost Michelangelo? My mind spun with possibilities.

The Colonel rolled his hand at Claire.
Go on.

Eyes wide, she swallowed.

“I’ll have to do a little research about the actual battle itself, but early on in his career, Michelangelo was hired to paint a fresco of the Battle of Cascina on the western wall of the Hall of Five Hundred in the Palazzo Vecchio. The much older Leonardo da Vinci was hired to paint another battle on the wall opposite. Both paintings were to be monumental in scope, around thirty feet long and twenty feet high. It’s also the only time the two Renaissance masters worked together on a project.”

“Wonderful!” The Colonel’s expression seemed nearly parental-proud.

Hmm, was someone already the teacher’s pet? And what did that mean for Branwell and I?

“According to history, Michelangelo never actually painted it,” Claire continued. “He did complete a full-scale cartoon which hung
in situ
in the Palazzo Vecchio for several years, but he never transferred the drawing from the cartoon to the wall. Of course, that didn’t stop other artists from making copies of it. The most notable copy is that of Sangallo, a student of Michelangelo’s—”

“Sangallo’s drawing is currently owned by the Earl of Leicester, I believe,” Pierce said, metaphorical hand up, jumping into the conversation.

Claire nodded. “The original cartoon was lost at some point after Sangallo made his copy. It’s unclear what happened to it exactly. Given its massive size and the fragile nature of fresco cartoons—”

I snorted. That was an understatement.

Or maybe I just didn’t like being left out of the conversation either.

Every eye turned toward me.

“Sorry. Just agreeing with Claire.” I folded my arms feeling my suitcoat pull through my shoulders. “In Italian, the original word is
cartone
, a mix of
carta
meaning paper and the suffix
-one
, which means big.” I pronounced
-one
, sounding out each letter, as Italian is wont to do—
OWN-ay
. “So a Renaissance cartoon was just a big paper. Or rather, scores of smaller pieces of paper taped together with a flour and water paste to make an enormous sheet the size of a modern billboard. Not exactly the most stable medium. I can’t imagine any significant portion of Michelangelo’s original drawing surviving.”

Claire shot me an annoyed are-you-done-stealing-my-thunder look.

Got the memo. Clearly not a fan.

The next month promised to be a dog-eat-dog free-for-all between Claire, Pierce and myself. Sandbox Rule or no.

“Let me show you kids what I got.”

The Colonel motioned to Natalia, who pulled several large photographs out of another folder and passed them down the table. I leaned forward and snagged one.

It was a photograph of a drawing of Michelangelo’s
Battle of Cascina
.

I stared at the image and whistled, pulse thumping.

How do you represent a medieval battle?

Michelangelo’s chose to draw the very beginning. The battle occurred on a hot day in July and, according to legend, many of the Florentine mercenaries had been swimming in the River Arno when the horns called them to arms. Michelangelo captured that panicked moment when the naked men scrambled ashore, some struggling to get dressed, while others engaged Pisan forces in the background.

It was a brilliant
tour de force
allowing Michelangelo to showcase his understanding of anatomy with the twisting, turning naked figures. The composition pulsed with energy and movement.

“So this is . . .?” Pierce’s voice trailed off.

“Not the original cartoon, I imagine. What are its dimensions?” That was Claire.

I set my photo down on the table. Propped my foot over my knee again.

“The drawing is a single sheet measuring approximately three feet wide by two feet high—”

“Way too small. The original cartoon would have been ten times that size,” Claire murmured, head down.

The Colonel nodded.

Pierce pulled out a jewelers loupe and studied his photo. “The detail is amazing, even in the photograph.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Claire didn’t look up.

Pierce. “Is this another unknown copy?”

Claire. “Or an original Michelangelo sketch?”

“We’ll need to compare it against Sangallo’s drawing—”

“That means contacting the conservator at Holkham Hall in Norfolk.”

“Do we still have contacts up there?”

“Probably.”

“Uh-mmm.” Pierce adjusted the loupe.

I raised an eyebrow, catching the Colonel’s gaze. Both of us surprised by the sudden harmony in the Land of Pierce and Claire.

Did they even realize they had slid into an easy, working relationship?

“I’m sure they could email us some scans for comparison,” Claire said.

“Exactly.” Pierce nodded. “I’ll call and get Heather right on it.”

He might as well have doused Claire with cold water.

Her head snapped up so hard I winced.

The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

Pierce lost his nerdy facade for a brief moment. An ugly smile tugged at his lips.

That last comment of his had been
deliberate
. I tamped down a sudden urge to rearrange his smile with my fist. What an absolute douchebag.

I wasn’t a huge fan of Claire Raythorn. But
no one
deserved what Pierce had done to her.

A bright flush crept across Claire’s cheeks, and she sucked in her bottom lip, nostrils flaring. Cracks appeared in her composure.

Within her eyes, I caught a glimpse of something so broken, so alone . . . jagged fragments of soul . . .

My heart gave an unwanted lurch.

The Colonel stepped into the tense moment.

“I’ve already contacted Lord Leicester’s estate, and I have an excellent copy of Sangallo’s drawing on hand. There is no need to involve any of your staff.” He shot a quelling look at Pierce.

Claire cleared her throat. “A mass spectrometry analysis would tell us quite a bit, particularly age. We would only need a tiny amount of material from the edge of document. Is that agreeable to you, Colonel?”

“Of course. As long as you don’t damage the sketch. I want to know what I have in my possession.”

I nodded my head. Assuming nothing was amiss with Branwell or myself, it shouldn’t be too hard to get to the bottom of the mysterious drawing. Our
abilities
being what they were.

Pierce started in about sample collection and scheduling. Apparently he wanted first crack at the drawing. No surprise there.

Branwell and I would consult our GUTs and have an answer in minutes. Then use the rest of the month to build evidence supporting our knowledge. Who was I kidding? We’d have a solid case in less than a week. A month was a ridiculously generous amount of time.

Across from me, Claire shifted. Still no shadows.

Damn. What was up?

And given what was at stake here with the Colonel, now was not the time for my GUT to go on the fritz.

Out of curiosity, I spread my palms on the table top, staring at the family signet ring on my right middle finger. I took a deep breath and centered.

Generally, the images of people’s past lives floated involuntarily around them. It was nothing I could control or direct.

But if I concentrated, I could see glimpses of the past life of an object—a directed form of psychometry. In this case, the table before me.

The table blurred around the edges. Like flipping through a slide show, images flickered into view. The darkness of years and years of storage. Servants in uniforms placing flowers on the table. Dinner guests whirling around at hyper speed. First in Edwardian lace, then Victorian hoopskirts, Regency empire waists . . .

Back, back. Farther into the past.

Ah.
There it was.

A workshop. A craftsman using a thin chisel to carve sinuous tracks for the inlay. I studied his clothing. Smocked shirt with flap-front knee breeches. Long hair in a queue but unpowdered. Late eighteenth century. Probably French. If Branwell were here, he could tell for sure.

I let my concentration go. The present reality slid back into place, the ghostly shapes melting away.

Hmmm. That had all been normal.

I lifted my head. Claire instantly turned her face away.

Interesting. My little episode had not gone unnoticed. Many assumed it was a small seizure. Which I guess, in certain respects, it was.

She was still shadow-free.

I studied her a minute longer, helpless to look away.

Pale. Delicate. Carved porcelain.

Fragile.
The word popped into my head. Which seemed like a lie. Claire was anything but fragile. And yet . . .

A powerful surge of protectiveness swept me. My heart thudded in my ears.

I swallowed.

Why? Why her?

And more importantly, what secrets did her missing shadows hide?

Five

Claire

T
he Colonel broke up our meeting a little after noon.

The men instantly stood up and started into typical male posturing, each jockeying for position.