Read Online Restoration: A Novel (Contemporary / Women's Fiction) by Elaine D Walsh - Free Book Online
Authors: Elaine D Walsh
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walked away hoping he’d abandon
his vigil and join her on the sofa, where she searched the coffee table drawers
for the restaurant review.
“Can I have this painter’s name?” he asked. “I’d like to
see what else he or she has done.”
She shuffled through the drawer anxiously. “I don’t
remember it offhand, but I’ll look for it.”
“Please. Thank you.” He bent over and studied the
artist’s signature in the right-hand corner of the painting.
“I found it,” she chirped with the urgency of household
smoke detector.
She scanned the review, her eyes jumping from the page to
Ben, who continued puzzling over the artist’s signature.
“Where is that paragraph where he talks about the
appetizers, oh here it is. Listen to this.” Her voice rose with each
sentence. “He writes: ‘Forget about dinner. Once you sample the sun-dried
tomato pesto smeared on a warm piece of focaccia, you’ll want to order every
other appetizer on the menu just to make sure you sure you haven’t missed any
other gastronomic delights this bistro serves up as appetizers.’ ”
“Tess.”
“ ‘Bruschetta, roasted eggplant and pepper salad’ ” She
kept her attention focused on the article.
“Tess,” he said more forcefully.
“The entrees sound mouthwatering, too.”
“Tess,” he demanded, and her head snapped in his
direction. “You painted these. Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“Come on, Ben, doesn’t it seem pretentious having one’s
own work prominently displayed in her own home?” she said as if it annoyed her
to have to explain this to him.
“Do you have other pieces here?”
“In my bedroom, but I’m sure you wouldn’t think it was a
good idea to go in there.”
He frowned. “Do you mind?”
“Suit yourself.”
He walked into her bedroom and returned a few minutes
later seemingly mystified. “When did you paint these?”
“College.”
“You’re very good. You have to know this. Your
professors couldn’t have looked at these without seeing that.”
“I just thought they were saying that because they wanted
to sleep with me.”
He smirked at her attempt to humor him. “Is there
anything else I can look at that you’ve done?”
“The rest of my paintings are in Florida in my father’s
attic.”
“Are there enough pieces for a show?”
“I showed some of my work in college.”
“I’m talking about a real show. Not something for a
grade.”
“Ben, now you’re really sounding ridiculous. They’re just
paintings I did in college. They don’t even qualify as works of art.”
“Come on, Tess, don’t be modest. They’re good, and you
know they’re good.”
“They’re all right.”
“What are you working on now?” he asked.
“Nothing. I don’t paint anymore.”
He sat next to her on the edge of the sofa, set his
wineglass on the coffee table, and studied her.
“Why are you wasting your time restoring other people’s
work when you should be creating your own?”
“Excuse me,” she snapped, “but I don’t think my career is
a waste of time.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that as an insult. Being an
art critic is as close as I could get to a career in art without having talent
of my own. If I had the God-given talent to create the art you do, I wouldn’t
be wasting my time reviewing it. But you, Tess, you have real talent.”
“Thank you.” She tried sounding humble, and her
halfhearted acknowledgement placated him.
“Think about painting again,” he urged.
She nodded, uncommitted in her response and knowing that
what he suggested wasn’t an option and never would happen.
CHAPTER 6
Francesca spent the morning and early afternoon schooling
Tess in infrared camera technology to see beneath painted surfaces. They
worked through lunch, pouring over hidden details of centuries-old works. In
the late afternoon, Sharon’s voice on speakerphone interrupted them.
“Tess,
his vigil and join her on the sofa, where she searched the coffee table drawers
for the restaurant review.
“Can I have this painter’s name?” he asked. “I’d like to
see what else he or she has done.”
She shuffled through the drawer anxiously. “I don’t
remember it offhand, but I’ll look for it.”
“Please. Thank you.” He bent over and studied the
artist’s signature in the right-hand corner of the painting.
“I found it,” she chirped with the urgency of household
smoke detector.
She scanned the review, her eyes jumping from the page to
Ben, who continued puzzling over the artist’s signature.
“Where is that paragraph where he talks about the
appetizers, oh here it is. Listen to this.” Her voice rose with each
sentence. “He writes: ‘Forget about dinner. Once you sample the sun-dried
tomato pesto smeared on a warm piece of focaccia, you’ll want to order every
other appetizer on the menu just to make sure you sure you haven’t missed any
other gastronomic delights this bistro serves up as appetizers.’ ”
“Tess.”
“ ‘Bruschetta, roasted eggplant and pepper salad’ ” She
kept her attention focused on the article.
“Tess,” he said more forcefully.
“The entrees sound mouthwatering, too.”
“Tess,” he demanded, and her head snapped in his
direction. “You painted these. Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“Come on, Ben, doesn’t it seem pretentious having one’s
own work prominently displayed in her own home?” she said as if it annoyed her
to have to explain this to him.
“Do you have other pieces here?”
“In my bedroom, but I’m sure you wouldn’t think it was a
good idea to go in there.”
He frowned. “Do you mind?”
“Suit yourself.”
He walked into her bedroom and returned a few minutes
later seemingly mystified. “When did you paint these?”
“College.”
“You’re very good. You have to know this. Your
professors couldn’t have looked at these without seeing that.”
“I just thought they were saying that because they wanted
to sleep with me.”
He smirked at her attempt to humor him. “Is there
anything else I can look at that you’ve done?”
“The rest of my paintings are in Florida in my father’s
attic.”
“Are there enough pieces for a show?”
“I showed some of my work in college.”
“I’m talking about a real show. Not something for a
grade.”
“Ben, now you’re really sounding ridiculous. They’re just
paintings I did in college. They don’t even qualify as works of art.”
“Come on, Tess, don’t be modest. They’re good, and you
know they’re good.”
“They’re all right.”
“What are you working on now?” he asked.
“Nothing. I don’t paint anymore.”
He sat next to her on the edge of the sofa, set his
wineglass on the coffee table, and studied her.
“Why are you wasting your time restoring other people’s
work when you should be creating your own?”
“Excuse me,” she snapped, “but I don’t think my career is
a waste of time.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that as an insult. Being an
art critic is as close as I could get to a career in art without having talent
of my own. If I had the God-given talent to create the art you do, I wouldn’t
be wasting my time reviewing it. But you, Tess, you have real talent.”
“Thank you.” She tried sounding humble, and her
halfhearted acknowledgement placated him.
“Think about painting again,” he urged.
She nodded, uncommitted in her response and knowing that
what he suggested wasn’t an option and never would happen.
CHAPTER 6
Francesca spent the morning and early afternoon schooling
Tess in infrared camera technology to see beneath painted surfaces. They
worked through lunch, pouring over hidden details of centuries-old works. In
the late afternoon, Sharon’s voice on speakerphone interrupted them.
“Tess,
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