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I email Henry and book him in for an appraisal. I photograph the painting, adding some close-ups of problematic areas, then carefully re-wrap the picture and add a label with details of artist, subject, date of arrival, and action taken. Then I log this information with the images, onto the company’s software.
I check the other emails in my inbox. There’s nothing surprising apart from one that has ‘Notice: change of ownership’ in the subject line.
“Margot. Sorry to interrupt. Have you seen this?” I point to my laptop screen. “Something about M&L’s new owners.”
“Yes, yes. Not to worry. The sale went through last week. I was told that everything is staying the same. But we have a new boss, apparently. Although Nigel’s a bit twitchy about it. So don’t say anything around him.”
Nigel is the main buyer at Mayfair & Lewis. He likes to think he is the one-stop shop when it comes to buying and selling high-ticket art. Sure, he knows his stuff. He graduated from the Courtauld Institute in London, the most prestigious seat of learning for art historians and dealers. He struts around, blustering facts with his boomy voice. If he is in the gallery, I make sure I have some important and exceptionally urgent task, that needs my undivided attention, far far away from him.
So, the gallery has a new owner. I’m sure things won’t change that much. I don’t think I ever met the old gallery owners. The M&L business was part of a portfolio of faceless partners. I don’t know how these things work, but as long as the gallery keeps making a profit for the people at the top, we should just be left alone to do our jobs. Business as usual.
Henry stops by to see the new acquisition.
“I was in the neighborhood,” he says with a cheery smile. “What do you have for me?”
I carefully unwrap the painting of The Duchess of Monmouth by eighteenth-century British artist George T Stanley, who was a bit hit and miss in the art world. Most of his works are competent enough but lack the finesse of the truly great painters of his time, such as Reynolds, Gainsborough, and Lawrence. This picture, I felt, once Henry had worked his restoration magic, would be one of Stanley’s finest. Underneath all the layers of dirt and years of neglect was a picture of sublime sensitivity.
“Ah yes,” says Henry on close inspection. He was looking at the painting through his special glasses under ultraviolet light. “It’s going to require a little effort but, yes, I think I can make her beautiful again.”
“That’s great. I had no doubt,” I say pulling a sheet of bubble wrap across the delicate painted board. Henry leans against the table and puts his equipment away in the carry case.
“You have a new boss, I hear.”
“That’s right. I don’t know much about him or her.”
“Italian, Margot says. So, hopefully, he or she will be bringing over some fabulous pieces for me to work on.” Henry smiles warmly. “The market is mad for Florentine post-renaissance, so you, my darling, are going to be super busy.” He taps me playfully on the shoulder and heads out. “Ship The Duchess over today and I’ll start on her right away,” Henry says as he heads for the door. Then he stops and turns around. “You’re not going to tell me what the gallery paid for her, are you?”
“Company policy, Henry. And also, I don’t have a clue.”
Henry laughs. “I know. Just teasing.”
Chapter 2
Gianni
Mykneeaches.Itcomes and goes. Instinctively I reach a hand down to rub the joint as if the action will erase the injury that ended my professional soccer career.
Swimming helps. I lap the pool a few times. The motion not only helps my knee but also sorts my head out.
I am learning all about the family business that I will inherit from my father, Carlo Moretti. I’m trying not to get overwhelmed by the weight of responsibility. There are a great many irons in the proverbial fire. When I say family business, I really mean businesses because my family, the Moretti, is one of the most influential and wealthy in Tuscany and has a number of different income streams.
My grandfather started with a small vineyard and made wine. Very good wine. He was an enterprising and extremely clever businessman who saw opportunities and seized them with both gnarly calloused hands. He acted at exactly the right moment, anticipating a growing market both at home and internationally. So, by the time my father took over from him, when I was a young boy, the Moretti empire of land, olives, and wine production had skyrocketed.
This massive birthright will fall to me, one day, to continue. I work closely with my father and the board of directors as I learn the facets of business. Papa is always on hand if I need advice or to sound out an idea. But he trusts me to take care of the family legacy. And I want to be ready to accept that trust and responsibility when the time comes. This mindset hasn’t always been the case.
When I was younger, I didn’t want any part of the family business. I wanted to play soccer for my country in the World Cup final. I was mad for it. Playing soccer was all I cared about. I was obsessed. Playing soccer consumed every minute of every day. Until, one day, I met an angel.
Yes. I believe in angels because I met one and she was real. And, bam! For the first time in my life, and probably the last, I was in love.
I know. I was young: a foolish romantic who fell hard. Just like that. What they say about Cupid’s arrow is true. I felt it fly into my heart, and I knew, as soon as I saw her, sitting there, cross-legged, with that intense concentration on her face, I knew it was love. Pure and simple. The blond-haired angel was sketching the view of the river and didn’t even know I was there watching transfixed. Her long, tousled fringe curtained her face. She swept it aside with the back of her hand. And I was caught. Mesmerized by her.
I finish swimming my laps and dry off on one of the sun loungers on the patio overlooking the sundrenched vineyards of the surrounding hills. The green and yellow landscape is punctuated by tall dark spikes of Cypress trees. Everything I see, stretching out to the horizon, belongs to my family, the Moretti.
Maria brings me a freshly squeezed orange juice.
“Grazie, Maria.”
“Prego, signor.” She smiles and nods respectfully and places the glass on the table underneath the sun umbrella beside me.
