Part 7 (1/2)
”No, we're just practicing. Miranda Romanac, this is Courtney Hill and Ronan Mariner. We work together.”
”Your music is wonderful.”
”Our lunch hour. Come on, sit down. We're going to run through this again and then we'll talk. We're playing 'Ferny Hill.' Do you know it?”
”I'm sorry, I don't.”
”You'll love it. Let's go.”
They started playing. I started crying. I didn't realize it until Courtney looked at me and her eyes widened. Then I felt tears on my cheeks and gave a gesture that said it was the music. And it was, more than anything else. Nothing could have been a more perfect antidote to what happened earlier. Irish folk music is the most schizophrenic I have ever heard. How can it be so sad and happy at the same time, even within the same note? Simple and direct, it tells you yes, the world is full of pain, but this is the way through. As long as you're in the music, the bad things stay away. They performed the tune perfectly. For those few minutes, I cried and was more content than I had been in days.
Finis.h.i.+ng with a flourish, they looked at each other like kids who had sailed through a great adventure without a scratch.
”That was beautiful.”
”It was good, huh? But let's get down to business. What have you brought us?” Hugh looked at me and obviously saw the tears but said nothing. I liked that.
I undid the strings and paper around the painting and held it up so all three of them could see it at once. They looked at it, then at each other.
”Is that what I think it is? A Lolly Adc.o.c.k?”
”Yes.”
Hugh took it from me. They huddled over it, making quiet comments, pointing here and there.
”Hugh didn't say anything about you bringing in an Adc.o.c.k.”
”I would have, if I'd gone to Dublin,” Hugh said.
Ronan rubbed his mouth. ”You know what my gut reaction is? Stay the h.e.l.l away from it, Hugh. Even if it's real, after the Stillman fiasco, people are going to be gunning for anyone who authenticates an Adc.o.c.k.”
Hugh brought it close to his face and sniffed. ”Doesn't smell fake.”
”It's not funny, Hugh. You know exactly what he's saying.”
”I do, Courtney, but that's our business, isn't it? We call them as we see them. If we're wrong, then we're wrong. Who knows, we may find out it's a fake when we check it out.”
”I still agree with Ronan. Whatever we might get out of it, it's not worth the trouble.” She looked at the painting and shook her head.
”Fair enough, but would you begin to check it for me?” He spoke quietly. The others got quickly out of their chairs and headed for the door.
We sat and listened to them walk down the hall. Far away, a door closed.
”Why were you crying?”
”I thought you were going to ask where I got the picture.”
”Later. Why were you crying?”
”Does it matter?”
”Yes. When you came in, your face was somewhere else. Someplace bad.”
”Excuse me?”
”You weren't expecting this.” He held up his violin. ”You had a different face on and you had to change it very fast. For one second I could see you brought something awful in from outside. The tears proved it.”
”You're a good detective, Hugh.”
”It's only because I care.”
What could I say to that? We sat long moments in silence.
”Someone hit me.”
”Do you need help with them?”
”I don't think so.”
”Why would someone want to hit you?”
”He thinks I'm a b.i.t.c.h.”
Hugh took two yellow hard candies from a s.h.i.+rt pocket and handed me one. As I unwrapped it, he opened the other and popped it in his mouth; then he picked up the violin and began to play quietly.
”I don't think I'm a b.i.t.c.h.”
He smiled. ”Who is he?”
”A man I've been dating.”
He nodded, silently saying, Go on. He played the Beatles' ”For No One.”
I started out slowly but was full speed ahead in a few moments. I described how we'd met, the dates we'd had, things talked about, what I'd thought of him right up until the fateful slap.
”A painting licker.”
”What do you mean?”
”There's a man in England who goes around licking the paintings he loves. Locking's not enough for him. He wants a more intimate experience with his favorite pictures, so when he's at a museum and guards aren't watching, he licks 'em. He has a postcard collection of each one he's done.”
”Crazy.”
”It is, but I understand it. I think that's what happened with your man: he couldn't have you and it drove him crazy. So he did the only thing he could do to own you for a few minutes: scared you. It always works. For today, or however long you're going to be afraid of him, he does own you.”
”d.a.m.n it! d.a.m.n that power men have. Whenever they don't like something, they can always. .h.i.t us. You'll never know that feeling. Always that little bit of fear in our heart.”
”Not all men hit women, Miranda.”
”But you can, and that's the difference.”