False Impressions. Laura Caldwell

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      11

      Madeline led me into the gallery. I stalled for a second, standing next to the jeweled tree sculpture, taking in the man who’d just entered.

      He was gorgeous. You could see that, even from the side. He appeared like any normal guy, wearing jeans and a brown velvety jacket and standing near the painting of the woman in two different times. But like Madeline, something was different in the air because of him. Something felt fun, electric. Or maybe it was Madeline’s reaction to him.

      “Isabel Smith,” she said, “this is Jeremy Breslin.”

      Jeremy Breslin turned, took some steps toward me and shook my hand. I looked up at him, and into bright, navy blue eyes. Mesmerizing.

      I started to pull my hand away, afraid that if I kept gazing into those eyes, I might say something silly. But he held on to my hand. He looked at me, very curiously.

      He’s looking at all of me. I don’t know why I thought that, but that’s what it felt like. Again, it reminded me of Madeline, the way she took in the whole of things.

      Madeline explained that Jeremy operated a hedge fund, that he was originally from Boston and his wife’s family had been clients of hers for years.

      During this introduction, Jeremy kept holding my hand. When Madeline stopped, he seemed to realize it and let my hand go. It felt cold without his touch.

      “My apologies for staring at you,” he said. Then, as if for explanation, “My first girlfriend was a redhead.”

      “Ah,” I said. “Well, you know the redhead rules.”

      He smiled. “What are the rules?”

      “Let me ask you this, that first girlfriend of yours—would you say she was your first love?”

      He nodded. “Yes.”

      “One of the rules says that if the first person you fell in love with was a redhead, or the first person you had…ah…you know, adult relations with was a redhead, then—” I shrugged “—you’ll always have a thing for redheads.”

      He laughed. “You’re right. I have a thing for redheads.”

      “Sounds like you’re doomed.”

      “Happily,” he said.

      “So, Isabel,” she said, “Jeremy is the one who—” She glanced around the gallery. No one else was there. “Jeremy,” she said, turning back to us, “is the one who discovered…” She cleared her throat. “Some improprieties with the paintings.”

      “Oh, the…?” I said.

      “Yes,” Madeline continued, “Jeremy was the one who discovered the issue of forgery from some work he had bought from my gallery.”

      “How?” I asked him.

      “I’m getting divorced, so we had to have our assets valued. My lawyer found an art appraiser to review what we’d collected.”

      “He determined you had fakes?”

      “Yes. At first, he told us that something was bothering him about the pigment on the piece, something he didn’t expect to see. He had it tested and found that the pigment hadn’t been available—didn’t even exist—when those pieces were done. It was very new. Therefore, they were forged.”

      “They? How many paintings were forged?”

      “Two.”

      “And you bought both of those from…”

      He nodded.

      “Both from me,” Madeline said, taking full responsibility. Madeline turned to Jeremy. “Isabel will be helping me at the gallery, so I wanted her to know everything.”

      “Of course,” Jeremy said. “Having you work here will be wonderful.” As he spoke, his eyes lighted on me again, and I felt some kind of current travel up my spine. I stopped myself from quivering visibly. I’m not really a quivering kind of girl, so the moment was odd.

      Jeremy held my eyes a little longer. If he was upset about discovering that some precious artwork had been forged, he didn’t show it.

      “Izzy.” He paused. “Is it okay if I call you Izzy?”

      I nodded. “That’s what most people call me.”

      “Even though ‘Isabel’ is much more beautiful,” Madeline added, smiling.

      Jeremy nodded. “Well.” He paused. “Izzy, this may seem a little quick, but could I take you out sometime? Just for a drink?”

      “Oh, I don’t know…” My eyes shot to Madeline.

      “You should!” Madeline said. “Jeremy has traveled everywhere, done so many things.” She took a few steps and put a friendly hand on his arm. “He’s a charming conversationalist. You can speak with him about anything. Absolutely anything.”

      It was those last two words, spoken firmly, that made me realize Madeline very much wanted me to go out with Jeremy. And even more importantly, to discuss the issue of the forged paintings with him.

      I looked back at Jeremy Breslin.

      “Tomorrow, perhaps?” he said.

      “I’d love to.”