“Make sure the painting is secure and straight.”
“Would you like to do this?” She groaned. “You have no idea how much pressure it is to hang arealSeurat, and you’re making it a thousand times worse. Zip it.”
He grinned, leaning casually against the wall. “I’m just trying to help. You said you wanted to do it yourself. Hey, I offered to hireotherprofessionals so you wouldn’t feel the pressure.”
She stepped down the ladder for her conservation gloves. “You also offered to ‘eyeball it,’ which is the kind of phrase that makes art conservators and gallery owners have a heart attack. There’s a system, a level of precision, William. It is atrès sacréprocess,” she exaggerated, sounding like Guy.
With the painting in hand, he walked to her. “Yeah, fifty-five-million-dollars sacred. Make sure you place it over the security sensors.”
Placing the old-school level on the ladder shelf, she smiled. “You really should be wearing gloves when you hold it, you know.”
“Sorry. I’m not a professional.”
“Ha ha. Don’t worry. I promise to be careful. It’ll be beautiful and secure. Trust me.”
“Yeah, I have a long list of your ‘trust me’s.’ What about the escargot in Paris? And remember when you dragged me to Coney Island and forced me onto that ancient rollercoaster?” He tapped his temple. “Inever forgot. You scarred me for life.”
“Oh, please, save the drama. You had a great time and you’re still alive. So what if it got stuck at the top for an hour?”
He groaned, and she held her laughter at bay. The day he recalled was hysterical; he hadn’t talked to her for twenty minutes when they got off that rickety bone shaker. His legs were like jelly.
Once again, she balanced, both hands gripping the ornate gold frame as she gingerly lowered it onto the two anchored picture hooks. Placing the level at the top, she instructed, “Stand back there, and tell me if it looks straight.”
William tilted his head, squinting up. “If bystraightyou mean slightly drunk and listing to the left, then yes, perfectly straight.”
She gasped. “It isnotcrooked! I used a level!”
“Move it a little to the left,” he said.
“Your left or my left?”
“They’re the same left. My left.”
She adjusted it.
“Nope. Try the other left.”
She blinked. “I’m telling you, it’s straight.”
“I’m looking right at it. It’s dipping on the left side,” he said, his brow furrowing. “Or maybe the wall’s uneven. This is a turn-of-the-century house.”
She exhaled slowly. “It’s not the wall, or the house, or the level.”
“Then maybe the painting’s warped?”
“Babe,” she said with exaggerated patience, “It’s a one-hundred-and-thirty-year-old Impressionist masterpiece. I think an august auctioneer like Sotheby’s would have caught it.”
Again, she descended the ladder, walking to him to see what he saw. “Um ... it’s a little off on the left side after that last adjustment. Maybe the floor is slanted from the house settling.” Grinning with a chortle, she looked up at his smug look. “Fine. I’ll say it—you’re right. It’s crooked.”
Back up the ladder, she shifted the painting and then leveled. “Okay,now, it’s perfect,” she said, leaning back from the wall just enough to examine it. “How does that look from down there?”
“Still crooked and not centered.”
“Stop it! Maybe youshoulddo this!”
“Hell no! My palms are sweating just watching you climb the ladder.”
She glanced down at him, laughing. “You’resweating? I’m six feet in the air holding a rare Seurat while you second-guess my aptitude by justeyeballingit.”
