“The artist who painted most of these works never signed them with his name, just this little dingbat. As soon as I saw this painting, in particular, I knew. The brushwork, the intricate detailing, I recognized it from the illustrations Heinz has been doing for Austin’s story.”
“What’s the deal with the tree then?”
“Heinz’s last name. Schoenbaum. I looked it up. It means ‘beautiful tree’ in German. I did a Google search and found an old article fromNew Yorkmagazine about an artist who was the darling of the New York art scene in the eighties and nineties. His work was being exhibited nationally, even internationally, and regularly selling for high six figures. And then, in 1992, he just dropped out of sight.”
“You’re talking about Heinz?” Patrick asked.
“Let me show you something,” Kerry said. She led him to the small bedroom off the kitchen that she’d discovered earlier.
“So, this is where he painted,” Patrick said. “What else did that article say about Heinz?”
“He grew up here in the city, studied art at the Pratt Institute on the GI Bill, bounced around at different jobs, always painting on the side, until he was part of a small group exhibit held in a warehouse in the Meatpacking District, where one of his paintings caught the eye of a wealthy collector. That painting sold, and the collector’s friends started buying his work too. Pretty soon, he was able to support himself with his art.”
“If he bought this building, I’d say he did pretty well for himself,” Patrick commented.
“He was at the top of his game, and then, bam. He apparently just vanished,” Kerry said. “I couldn’t find any other mentions of him on my Google search, other than auctions listing resale prices of his work, after that ’92 article.”
Patrick followed her back to the living room, where she dropped down onto the sofa by the fireplace.
“So, his paintings still sell?” he asked, sitting beside her.
“Definitely. The collector I told you about? She passed away last year, and her estate sold one of Heinz’s paintings, a nude done in oil on board, for one point two million.”
“Wow.” Patrick gestured at the art-filled walls surrounding them. “There’s probably a small fortune just hanging in this living room, huh?”
“Not so small a fortune,” Kerry corrected him.
“Hey.” Patrick put his hand over hers. “Kerry, did you mean what you told Heinz? That you’d stay here until he’s better?”
She nodded. “Unless he calls the cops and has me evicted.”
“Will Murphy be able to make it home for Christmas?”
“Doubtful,” Kerry said. “He’s been watching the weather apps, and the interstate is still like an ice rink. He’ll stay at Claudia’s place until the roads are in better shape. In fact, he’s supposed to bring me my clothes as soon as he finishes breaking down the tree stand.”
“Won’t your mom be disappointed about both of you missing Christmas?”
“We talked. Murphy had already called to tell her and Dad about Spammy. And about Heinz. She understands. Like she said, we can have Christmas anytime.”
“Your mom sounds like a good sport,” Patrick said.
Kerry leaned her head back against the sofa cushions. “I feel badnow, because I basically accused her of being a doormat for taking care of my dad after his heart attack.”
“She has a good heart. Like her daughter.”
“It was Austin who wouldn’t let us rest until we found Heinz,” she reminded him. “So give yourself some credit here too, pal, for raising a child with such a strong sense of compassion.”
“My little weirdo,” Patrick said, shaking his head. “He does have friends his own age, but ever since he could talk, Austin’s just seemed to relate more to adults. I know he’s a great judge of character, because he fell in love with you at first sight. And so did his old man.”
Kerry sank back into the sofa cushions and studied his face. “Don’t do this,” she pleaded.
His smile came easily, spreading across his lips like warm honey. “Too late. You can’t run away like you did last night. No place left to hide.”
“What you’re asking me to do—move up here, with no job, no place to live, no prospects, is just plain crazy. Even if I wanted to…”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you? Do you want to be with me? That’s what it comes down to, Kerry. Everything else, we can figure out. Together. If that’s what you want.”
“I’m scared.” The words were rushed and squeaky, as though an anvil rested on her chest.
