“It was ages ago, and studying a painting isn’t the same thing as being able to reproduce it.” If I were capable of creating paintings like Monet, I sure as hell wouldn’t be working as a personal assistant.
“It’s still relevant.” His tone brooked no argument. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”
“I’m sure there’s plenty I haven’t told you, but I can’t think of anything that relates to the Monet.” I waved my arms emphatically. “I’m not trying to hide things from you, but I had a whole career in art before I came to work here, and there could be dozens of coincidences that I haven’t thought of.”
“Well, if anything does cross your mind, let me know.”
“Fine.” I winced, hating how petulant I sounded.
We didn’t talk on the journey to my apartment. When I let us in, Zeke instructed me to wait by the door while he checked each room for intruders. I didn’t know who he expected to find, but he was back soon after and seemed satisfied. He locked the door from the inside.
“Show me your paintings.”
“They’re in the spare room.” I brushed past him and headed to the smaller room opposite mine. It could be used as either a small bedroom or an office, but I used it primarily for storage. I switched the light on and carefully lifted the sheet that covered the canvases resting against one wall.
“These are all you have?” Zeke asked.
“Yeah. I sold everything else a while ago.” I’d needed every bit of money I could get, and while my name had been smeared in the art world, casual buyers didn’t know my reputation so it had been easy enough to sell the paintings online, although I hadn’t made as much as I would have from a gallery sale with a collector who fully recognized their value. “These are the ones I couldn’t sell. A couple of them were too similar to others I’d done, a couple aren’t at the standard I prefer, and one I held onto for sentimental reasons. Then there’s this.” I picked up one of the canvases and turned it to face him. It was a reproduction of a Degas that featured young girls dancing. “Bergen challenged me to see who could make the moreaccurate copy. It was stupid to play along with him, but I did it anyway.”
His eyebrows shot up. “That’s a forgery?”
I winced. “‘Forgery’ is such an ugly word. It’s a poor copy. I never intended for anyone to actually believe it was an original. If you see here”—I pointed near the center—“this girl is wearing a pink sash. That wasn’t part of the original. It’s my way of differentiating it, although any art afficionado would be able to tell it isn’t actually by Degas even without the sash.” I sighed. “I could copy his work all I like, but I’d never have his skill.”
Zeke squinted at the painting, studying it carefully. “It’s beautiful.”
I laughed. “You should see the original.”
“Show me.”
I brought a photo of the painting up on my phone and offered it to him. “Seeing it in person is far better, but this will have to do.”
He scanned the screen, then looked back at my painting and made a thoughtful sound.
“Not the same, right?” I prompted.
“No,” he agreed. “But at first glance, the uninitiated might not notice the difference.”
I smirked. The chance of anyone mistaking my work for a Degas was infinitesimal, but it was nice to have my ego stroked.
“Let’s see the others,” he said, returning my phone and turning back to the wall of canvases.
I showed him the painting I’d done of a bouquet of wildflowers, which I hadn’t felt able to sell because I’d done another of the same bouquet from a different angle. Next was the painting of the Chicago skyline that I’d botched and not been able to fix properly. He took a moment to study each, as well as the others. His gaze lingered on the finalpainting, an image of the mirror from my old bedroom with my reflection showing in the glass. I’d based it off a photo Bergen had snapped of me from behind, and there was something about it that meant I hadn’t been able to bring myself to get rid of it.
“Jesus, Fi,” Zeke breathed. “You’re so talented. You should be doing this for a living, not answering phones and replying to emails.”
I bit my lip and tried not to let his words get to me. I would have liked to be painting, but I’d let Bergen steal my credibility and my enjoyment of the process. Maybe there was a chance that if everything worked out, I’d be able to get it back.
ZEKE
I was stunnedby Fiona’s talent. I’d always known she was a competent woman, but she gave the impression of being all about efficiency and realism. These paintings were something else. They had an almost dreamlike quality. And they were her leftovers. What did that say about the ones she’d sold?
“Unfortunately, there aren’t many galleries who’d be willing to work with an artist with my reputation,” she said ruefully.
I kicked myself. I should have thought of that before I opened my mouth. “I’m sorry.”
She started to turn the paintings back around. “It is what it is.”
“Wait.” I touched her hand to still her, and a jolt of electricity sizzled through me.
