Chapter 9 - The Restoration
Spring came to Lexington six months later.
The dark, freezing days of winter had given way to bright, warm sunshine that made the dogwood trees bloom in brilliant shades of pink and white across the five-acre estate.
The house was no longer quiet.
In the sunroom overlooking the rear gardens, little June Bennett was sitting at a low wooden table, happily coloring a drawing of a butterfly with bright yellow and purple crayons. She was wearing two matching white socks.
In the adjacent kitchen, Mara was preparing lunch. Over the last six months, with her tuition fully secured by an educational grant I established through Cole Restoration, Mara had completed her library science certification. She now worked as the primary archival manager for my company’s historical records division, earning a executive salary while continuing to manage the estate’s daily operations with absolute peace of mind.
I walked into the kitchen carrying a large, heavy wooden crate stamped with certified international customs seals.
Mara looked up from the counter, a bright, genuine smile illuminating her face. "Is that from Geneva, Mr. Darius?"
"It arrived an hour ago," I smiled, setting the crate carefully onto the large oak island.
Over the last half-year, working alongside Detective Vance and the FBI Art Crime Team, we had successfully recovered eight of the fourteen original paintings Simone had illegally sold to international buyers. Through court injunctions and asset forfeiture seizures from Simone’s offshore Cayman accounts, every single piece was being systematically repatriated to the Ross-Cole Art Trust.
I took a crowbar and carefully pried open the top panel of the crate.
Inside, wrapped in layers of acid-free paper and thick protective foam, was The Reading at Sundown.
The real original.
I carefully lifted the canvas out of the box, setting it onto the island.
Evelyn Price walked into the kitchen, leaning lightly on her cane, wearing a pair of white cotton conservator gloves.
She stepped up to the canvas, pulled out a small magnifying glass, and spent three silent minutes inspecting the craquelure pattern on the lower left quadrant.
Evelyn looked up at me, her sharp blue eyes shining with quiet, emotional satisfaction.
"Thomas Wilmer Dewing, 1884," Evelyn pronounced softly. "The zinc white is yellowed, the canvas is tight, and the soul of the work is completely intact. Welcome home, original."
Mara stepped closer, looking at the vibrant, luminous brushstrokes of the woman sitting at the piano near the sunlit window.
May you like
"It’s beautiful, Mr. Darius," Mara whispered. "It doesn't look anything like the fake one."
"That’s because authentic things have a weight to them, Mara," I said, looking at her and then toward the sunroom where June was laughing. "You can copy the surface, but you can't fake the foundation."
