Read Online The Art Forger by B A Shapiro - Free Book Online Page B

accepted for the MoMA show, and by doing so, give the painting its authenticity. Markel was there in his role as Isaac’s dealer, but his opinion mattered to us almost as much as Karen’s. Markel knew Isaac’s work better than anyone. If he was fooled, we were home free.
    I wished we’d put out water. I needed some but didn’t want to move. Isaac and I had been fitful and edgy before they showed up. We knew what we had done, what we were doing, and we didn’t know how it was going to turn out. I glanced over at Karen, who was taking a photograph of my hourglasses, and at Markel, who was also inspecting them, and thought I might faint. I assumed Isaac was in a similar state.
    I had tried to get him to talk about how he felt. But, of course, in true Isaac fashion, he evaded, joked around, then evaded some more. Maybe he didn’t want to talk or maybe he didn’t know how he felt.
    For me, it was simple. I had painted 4D as a gift, to help him when he needed help, to get him through a bad patch. As far as I was concerned, 4D was a bridge I helped build to carry him to his next piece. And I wanted more than anything for Karen and Markel to buy into the painting, for it to hang in the show, and for Isaac to move on and do the kind of work only he could do.
    Karen turned and held out her hand to Isaac. “Congratulations, Isaac. It’s wonderful. Better than wonderful. Better than any of your previous work that I’ve seen. We’ll take it.”
    I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until I heard it come out in a long hiss. I threw my arms around Isaac and squeezed long and hard. He barely responded. Shock. Shock and relief. I stepped away, grinning.
    “Great. Fabulous.” Markel pummeled Isaac on the back. “I agree. It could be your best.” I knew that this wasn’t just “agent speak.” Markel truly agreed.
    “Thanks,” Isaac said stiffly, almost trancelike. “Thanks both of you.” Then he looked over at me. “And a tremendous thanks to you.”
    While the three of them clustered around the painting, I went to the freezer and pulled out the bottle of champagne I’d hidden behind the ice cream. “Champagne, anyone?” I called.
    Markel came over and took it from me. “May I do the honors?”
    I scrounged around the cabinets for wine glasses and handed them to Markel. “Let the festivities begin.”
    When we finished off the champagne and moved on to wine, Isaac began to loosen up. In fact, he became positively loquacious.
    “Yes, it was really eye opening to work with time in a completely different way. The series has always been about time as linear, flat, a speck of our experience. But this opened it all up, pulled it out in all directions, gave it depth.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “I can’t even remember when I came up with the idea.” Then his eyes lit on mine, and he grinned. “It was Claire.” He raised his glass to me. “Let’s drink to my brilliant, talented, beautiful Claire.”
    We all toasted, and then he leaned over and kissed me. “Who’s a great talent in her own right. It won’t be many more years, Karen, before you’re showing her work.”
    “I’d love to see some,” Karen said.
    “You’ll be sorry you said that,” I warned. “I have your number.” Maybe there was such a thing as karma, as Small was always insisting. Maybe this was my payback for helping Isaac.
    “Please do call. Send some slides. I should be in Boston again in a month or so, and if I like what I see, I’ll pop over for a studio visit.” Karen Sinsheimer was nothing if not politic, and I understood it might mean little. But it also might mean much.
    “Oh, you’ll want to make a visit,” Markel said. “Claire’s work is different from Isaac’s.” He waved at 4D . “In some ways, night and day from this. But she’s got a sure eye and an even surer brush. The quality of her colors is quite remarkable.”
    “Amen to that.” Isaac gave my shoulders a squeeze, then turned to Karen