The Chrysalis Read Online Free Page A
Author: Heather Terrell
slid out the Dutch auction catalog.
The glossy publication contained painting after painting of vast light-filled churches, serene domesticity, minutely crafted still lifes, and bucolic scenes of villagers: all the subjects that made the Dutch artists famous and their artwork coveted. Mara recognized certain pictures and artists. The night before, she had pored through her musty college art history books, trying to refamiliarize herself with the golden age of Dutch painting so that she could speak intelligently to Michael about the auctionâs artwork. Her crash course reminded her why the seventeenth-century Dutch artists once captivated her: Their exquisite, unprecedentedly realistic paintings were rife with symbols and puzzles, something Nana would have loved. She had scoured through her textbooks trying to determine where
The Chrysalis
âs creator, Johannes Miereveld, primarily known as a gifted portraitist, belonged amid the pantheon of artists, but his approach didnât fit into any of his contemporariesâ molds.
As Mara perused the catalog, fragments of a hushed conversation drifted into her awareness. The conspiratorial tones piqued her interest, and she strained to see the speakers without being seen herself. She leaned forward to replace the catalog on the coffee table and glanced over at two men waiting on a nearby couch, with their backs to her.
âI hear that Mastersonâs is being accused of putting up a Hebborn for auction,â she heard one man whisper to the other. Though she was unfamiliar with what she assumed was the artistâs name, Mara had become acquainted with the art auction house Mastersonâs over the previous few days. The firm was Beazleyâs fiercest rival.
âLet me guess. A Hebborn that looks like a Corot?â the other man murmured back.
âWho knows? It could be a Hebborn that resembles a Mantegna or a Tiepolo.â
Suddenly, Mara realized that the two men must be talking about a master forger.
âWell, I know that I wouldnât want anyone looking too closely at the âCastiglionesâ weâve sold in the past.â
Mara listened to the two men chortle at the thought. Engrossed in their tête-à -tête, she jumped when Michael tapped her shoulder. She looked up and noticed that his cowlick dipped down as he stooped to greet her and that the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Mara admonished herself. The evening before, she had given herself a stern talking-to: She acknowledged her attraction to Michael, but she reminded herself that she had a clear line to walk and a professional relationship to build. She knew she couldnât strike that balance if she allowed herself a physical reaction to him.
He shepherded her into his office, which was aglow with the afternoon sun. His antique captainâs desk of gleaming wood and brass fittings sailed on the waves of a richly hued Aubusson rug and cast its sights on a panoramic view of Central Park. The walls were buttery suede and covered with art. On a prominent wall closest to his desk hung several black-and-white sketches of a man in robes. The subject seemed familiar to Mara, and when she asked Michael about them, he told her they were drawings of Saint Peter by a Renaissance artist with whom she was unfamiliar.
Arms crossed, Michael rested against his office door; he was clearly awaiting her reaction. Mara had given up her romantic delusions of a book-lined, mahogany-paneled lawyerâs office long before, and she was having a hard time imagining the luck of working in this richness. As she ambled around the room, running her fingers along shelves and tabletops, the compliments tumbled out one on top of the other.
He beamed a charmingly sheepish smile. âThanks, Iâm almost embarrassed by it sometimes, especially after six years behind that banged-up metal desk at Ellis. Unlike my former white-shoe partners who found it appropriate for the associates to
The glossy publication contained painting after painting of vast light-filled churches, serene domesticity, minutely crafted still lifes, and bucolic scenes of villagers: all the subjects that made the Dutch artists famous and their artwork coveted. Mara recognized certain pictures and artists. The night before, she had pored through her musty college art history books, trying to refamiliarize herself with the golden age of Dutch painting so that she could speak intelligently to Michael about the auctionâs artwork. Her crash course reminded her why the seventeenth-century Dutch artists once captivated her: Their exquisite, unprecedentedly realistic paintings were rife with symbols and puzzles, something Nana would have loved. She had scoured through her textbooks trying to determine where
The Chrysalis
âs creator, Johannes Miereveld, primarily known as a gifted portraitist, belonged amid the pantheon of artists, but his approach didnât fit into any of his contemporariesâ molds.
As Mara perused the catalog, fragments of a hushed conversation drifted into her awareness. The conspiratorial tones piqued her interest, and she strained to see the speakers without being seen herself. She leaned forward to replace the catalog on the coffee table and glanced over at two men waiting on a nearby couch, with their backs to her.
âI hear that Mastersonâs is being accused of putting up a Hebborn for auction,â she heard one man whisper to the other. Though she was unfamiliar with what she assumed was the artistâs name, Mara had become acquainted with the art auction house Mastersonâs over the previous few days. The firm was Beazleyâs fiercest rival.
âLet me guess. A Hebborn that looks like a Corot?â the other man murmured back.
âWho knows? It could be a Hebborn that resembles a Mantegna or a Tiepolo.â
Suddenly, Mara realized that the two men must be talking about a master forger.
âWell, I know that I wouldnât want anyone looking too closely at the âCastiglionesâ weâve sold in the past.â
Mara listened to the two men chortle at the thought. Engrossed in their tête-à -tête, she jumped when Michael tapped her shoulder. She looked up and noticed that his cowlick dipped down as he stooped to greet her and that the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Mara admonished herself. The evening before, she had given herself a stern talking-to: She acknowledged her attraction to Michael, but she reminded herself that she had a clear line to walk and a professional relationship to build. She knew she couldnât strike that balance if she allowed herself a physical reaction to him.
He shepherded her into his office, which was aglow with the afternoon sun. His antique captainâs desk of gleaming wood and brass fittings sailed on the waves of a richly hued Aubusson rug and cast its sights on a panoramic view of Central Park. The walls were buttery suede and covered with art. On a prominent wall closest to his desk hung several black-and-white sketches of a man in robes. The subject seemed familiar to Mara, and when she asked Michael about them, he told her they were drawings of Saint Peter by a Renaissance artist with whom she was unfamiliar.
Arms crossed, Michael rested against his office door; he was clearly awaiting her reaction. Mara had given up her romantic delusions of a book-lined, mahogany-paneled lawyerâs office long before, and she was having a hard time imagining the luck of working in this richness. As she ambled around the room, running her fingers along shelves and tabletops, the compliments tumbled out one on top of the other.
He beamed a charmingly sheepish smile. âThanks, Iâm almost embarrassed by it sometimes, especially after six years behind that banged-up metal desk at Ellis. Unlike my former white-shoe partners who found it appropriate for the associates to
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