Chapter Text
He didn’t remember the café being this crowded the last time he was in New York. Then again, he didn’t remember the eight new galleries he passed on his way here, either, and the High Rise was teeming with people instead of wrapped in weeds. How Manhattan had changed in a mere blink of an eye.
The space was cramped with young adults, some dressed for work in proper attire, others looking unkempt like they rolled out of bed. A few looked more affluent than others; their parents were likely covering their ever-rising rent in up-and-coming neighborhoods he’d never been to. There were people around his age were scattered throughout, mostly working, except for one or two tourist groups. He knew the owner, a fellow Frenchman, and refused to go anywhere else for his caffeine fix when visiting. He had, after all, been one of his initial investors.
Vincent checked his watch again as he waited on line. He had wandered down to Chelsea from his hotel in Midtown to peruse the galleries and still had ample time to return and change before the auction began later that evening. He had his eye on a rare Moreau painting and had every intention of taking it back to Paris with him, where it bloody well belonged.
Rumors within Parisian collector circles were swirling about paintings containing small incongruities, mostly those already held by institutions and museums. Granted, many works in esteemed collections were likely forgeries in some form, if only in the sense that the artist might only have done one or two brushstrokes and signed the canvas.
At first, he thought it nothing but gossip; perhaps the artist wasn’t well-liked or the deal was shadier than the auction house let on. Upon closer inspection of a painting he knew by heart, he had seen an additional figure sprawled out in a corner, covered in boils. It fit the scene and was chronologically possible for such a figure to be there, certainly. But that space used to be devoid of anything except the background imagery. He’d been going to that museum for most of his life, he’d been able to spot a difference almost instantly. Vincent couldn’t help but wonder if the conservationist had cleaned it too well.
Buying the Moreau tonight meant a rare piece for his collection and possibly sparing it the same fate as the other work. He needed confirmation on who one of the buyers could be. The focus seemed to fall on French artists or those being considered by French museums or foundations. Vincent only caught a few more of the paintings with small differences; he had seen enough to make connections, but he was far from understanding the motivation.
The line finally cleared up and he ordered, conversing with the owner as he took over to personally handle Vincent’s drink. A small to-go cup followed beside his larger drink; something for the bodyguard he had left near the door, a courtesy he never mentioned or asked for, but appreciated nonetheless.
Autumn warranted a jacket; the climate wasn’t much different between France and America, at least as far as he was concerned. He’d already needed the black Burberry trench coat before boarding the plane. It gave a good dramatic flair as well, he thought.
Vincent neared his destination, Gallerie LeClaire , a place with which he had a long history, and stopped to peer in the window at the paintings on easels, framed in modern, dark wood. He trusted Arthur’s perspective, and knew he could rely on the connoisseur to find something new when he wanted it, whether it be a piece or the artist themselves. TJ was doing fine on his own, with the occasional reminder of his transgression, of course.
The Parisian could do with a new project.
He checked his reflection, preening for a moment as much as one can with only one hand, and then entered the large space, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. The bodyguard stood at the threshold of the space, keeping his distance and only moving when his boss left his field of view into a different room.
A few employees lingered about, mostly on phones or tablets presumably answering emails, posting on social media or interacting with clients. One of them, a tall blonde he assumed more interested in modeling than art, approached him and attempted small talk about a particular work. He would never consider buying the painting. It was garish, almost vulgar in its color use. Unable to hold his tongue, he gave a snarky response and asked if Arthur was in.
At least learn the techniques and terminology , he growled mentally.
Her heels clicked as she walked away and up a set of stairs by the entrance, her face stoic but cheeks burning. She was replaced by Arthur, thick reading glasses perched on his nose and red hair speckled with grey at the temples. Gallerie LeClaire was one of the first American galleries Vincent visited when he came to the lower section of Manhattan more than ten years ago. Arthur had worked with another dealer the entrepreneur knew in Paris and their paths had crossed a few times. When it came to acquiring anything across the Atlantic, the man in front of Vincent was the only one he could trust.
Arthur was followed by another woman, older than the girl who had gone to fetch them. She was average height, not as waif-like as the blonde, dark brown hair swept back at the nape of her neck. At least she looked capable of holding an actual conversation or reading body language. She carried herself straight and tall but lacked the haughtiness he’d come to expect from others in this industry.
“Vincent Karm, I should have known you’d be in town,” Arthur held out his hand and Vincent shook it,
“Apologies for not calling ahead, I flew in late last night. I wanted to stop and see what the auction houses hadn’t gathered for the floor tonight.” The charming smile he returned to Arthur was one of the rare genuine ones he wore. Vincent was pleased to be among people who knew how amazing the human mind was in being able to create masterpieces of all kinds.
“Well, there’s plenty of it,” the owner replied, continuing in a soft tone as a group of people walked in, “and I have some backroom pieces as well. We signed a new artist last week and the show doesn’t open until next month.”
“ Merci , Arthur.” Vincent turned around to take a glance at the painting he was looking at before he had been interrupted. Still ugly. He hoped Arthur wasn’t losing his touch. A low beeping permeated the space, but he ignored it-it certainly wasn’t him, he kept his phone on vibrate.
"Unfortunately, Vincent, I must step out, I have an appointment to keep," Arthur tapped his smartwatch to turn the notification off. "Sophia's my second-in-command, she can see to any questions or follow-ups."
Vincent watched the owner leave before his eyes fell on the woman finishing notes with a stylus on the tablet she carried. He could see names and tasks, things to do by the end of the day. It wasn't like Arthur not to introduce people, especially assistants. She matched her coworker from earlier, dressed in a fashionable black dress with three-quarter sleeves. Simple but it was clearly designer, tailored to her specifically, modern but clearly not new . Her light blue eyes scanned the screen before locking the tablet and giving him her full attention.
He had to fight to keep his face impassive as a small shock ran through him. She could be striking when she wanted to be.
"Does he always do that?" Vincent asked, breaking the silence. "Not fully introduce you and then throw you to the wolves?"
He’s almost as terrible as me. Almost.
"No, his mind has been elsewhere today, he's caught up in a project. I'm Sophia Cousland." She held out her hand, her arm rigid and formal. She kept a distance, the smile on her lips not meeting her eyes. It would have fooled anyone else. But not him. She was practiced in pleasantries while maintaining a boundary, and not just from her job.
Usually women were the opposite with him, warm, smiling, doing anything to be near him. She was uncomfortable despite being in familiar territory. Not scared, not terrified of what he was capable of, simply uncomfortable. Well, that was new.
"Vincent Karm." He took her hand and shook it, surprised at the strength she had in her grip and how warm it was, despite her frigidity. He rarely cared for others' emotions, but he kept his charm in check. He could work with uncomfortable, she'd warm to him soon enough.
"Shall I leave you alone to look around? You barely got in the door before Vanessa cornered you." Ah, there was the hint of a sense of humor, if the glint in her eyes was anything to go by.
Genuine, despite the distance she prefers to keep...
"Fifteen minutes should suffice, and then I wish to see the backroom.”
“Of course, Mr. Karm,” she walked away and towards the front desk, leaving him to his thoughts.
She came back exactly fifteen minutes later, carrying only a small cluster of keys and her cell phone in place of the tablet. His bodyguard followed and took his place near the door, a silent watcher.
Many of the pieces were already framed, propped up against the wall with their pricing and didactic information tucked into the frame’s corner. Once again, she kept her distance, answering questions but not conversing much. Vincent was growing tired of hearing himself think.
“Who’s your favorite artist?” He asked.
Sophia looked a bit startled and Vincent was slightly pleased with himself at having caught her off-guard by speaking to her casually. He continued studying the painting in front of him but glanced at her again, her eyes looking somewhere to her left in thought. He saw a spark ignite in her eyes as Sophia said, “Gustave Moreau, although Artemisia Gentileschi is a close second.”
Part of him expected stock answers of Impressionists or Renaissance artists, or some modern unknown to all except those stalking social media. Moreau was only recently considered relevant, having been the teacher of Matisse and Rouault. And Artemisia’s story was a brutal one.
As he looked at the American woman and considered his next words, he found himself hoping she could only relate to the artist on the level of not being taken seriously by male colleagues. Vincent wasn’t considered by many to be kind but the mere idea of any personal connection between her story and Artemisia's turned his stomach.
“Not many people remember Moreau,” he mused, cocking his head to examine a work from a different angle. “They remember the staircase in his house, but never his paintings.”
“I’ve spent the past six years working with his oeuvre, which culminated in a journal article. He’s a hard artist to forget.” He didn’t have to look at her to know he had broken a bit of the mask she wore. There was a lilt of excitement in her voice and he wondered how often anyone asked about her thoughts or insights. “The staircase is an afterthought compared to Jupiter and Semele .”
Most usually choose his biblical paintings , Vincent thought. He remembered seeing an article about Moreau and other artists recently, one of the few things he had made time to read entirely through. American writer, New York based, one of the younger authors to be published in this quarter’s edition of the journal.
“Which publication?” Vincent leaned in to a smaller frame hung at eye level, admiring the vibrancy of the colors. It caught his eye more than the others but it didn’t look or feel as unique as he would like.
“Oxford Art Journal was the only one willing to do a retrospective piece this quarter.”
Mind of an academic and someone who understands the art market and its game. She could do nicely.
He gave a soft laugh to himself before stepping back and turning to her. “So that was you. Rare for someone to write so beautifully without getting caught up in academic jargon. I see Arthur finally took my advice and hired someone with a brain.”
She didn’t know how to react to his bluntness about her coworkers, the excitement she exuded vanishing. He had the feeling her ambitions were a sore spot with her work environment, where it was expected of her to behave as an arm-piece and flatter guests when she wasn’t working beside Arthur.
“You read it? I didn’t expect anyone to actually...I was under the impression the Journal just needed the padding this edition.”
She sounded almost shocked. Why wouldn’t it have been read? The publishers clearly thought highly of it, that alone should have been every indication of her skills.
“I found it coherent and refreshing, Ms. Cousland, especially from one outside of academia.”
He had, in fact, thoroughly enjoyed the piece. Not many writers outside of Europe captured Moreau correctly, as passionately, as those who dedicated their lives to Symbolism did.
“Not everyone has the same enthusiasm for the boring part of this industry, Mr. Karm,” she replied, pretending to brush dust off her sleeve, her previous professional tone returning. “Many would prefer to live in the present than make sense of the past to understand the present and the future. I’m the latter.”
Oh, yes. She would do very nicely indeed.
“I believe I’ll wait and see the response for the opening show. Arthur has taste and my suitcase has little room.”
“Of course.” She led them out of the backroom and into the gallery, which busier than before. He watched her scan the room to see if anyone caught her eye or motioned to her to come over. The girl she’d called Vanessa was deep in conversation with a tourist couple and young man gestured to parts of a painting to an older, eccentrically dressed woman. Sophia turned back to him and he expected her to say something, her brow creasing slightly as if considering something. It disappeared as quickly as it came, the mask falling back into place as he passed her his business card. He knew full well Arthur had his contact information on file already. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Karm.”
“Thank you, Ms. Cousland, for your hospitality. Give Arthur my regards.”
He walked across the gallery, turning his head to peer at the works as he passed by, listening to soft whispered conversations. Vincent half-expected her to catch up to him but instead he heard Sophia’s voice joined in with the eccentric woman’s in the back of the gallery.
Vincent found himself stopping in his tracks, curiosity striking him. He often preferred attending auctions alone, especially when it came to dealing with gossip regarding his relationships. He was known for his entrepreneurship and investing in young and talented individuals but he was one of the few who managed to keep his private life out of publication. He would like to keep it that way.
But giving her an opportunity to see a work by an artist she admired and spent most of her education learning about could provide good incentive. It would be a chance to see how she was outside of her work environment. Here, she was stilted, stuck in her duty.
He motioned to his guard to wait for him as he turned and walked back to Sophia, who was surprised to find he was still there. She excused herself from the conversation and covered the distance between them, not bothering to hide her puzzlement. He briefly thought that she moved with a grace and purpose he only saw in those without the need to prove anything to anyone but never once forgetting those around her.
He knew arrogance quite well and she wasn’t capable of being so. She’d been surprised about her article, after all.
“Is something wrong, sir?” She tilted her head to the side slightly as she peered up at him.
“Ms. Cousland, you’re aware of the 19 th Century European auction’s lineup tonight, I take it?”
She nodded, humming an affirmative sound. “A lot of pieces that haven’t been seen out of private hands in at least a decade, it’s a beautiful lot. Do you have your eye on something?”
“The Moreau is the first to be sold outside of Europe, I plan to take it back with me to Paris. You captured his spirit magnificently in your article and I thought perhaps you might like to see it before it sells?”
Vincent watched her blue eyes widen as her eyebrows rose in disbelief. “I…I’m honored to be given that opportunity but I’m not sure I’ll be done here by the time it starts.”
“Tell Arthur I invited you.” Vincent shrugged, looking off to the side for a moment. Arthur was more than willing to accommodate his odd requests, he was a high-spending long-term client. “He’ll be more than willing to let you leave early to get ready.”
“That might give him the wrong impression, since he doesn’t know about my article.” She shifted, adjusting her posture so she stood straighter.
“No one else’s opinion of you should matter in your decisions, Ms. Cousland. I’ll send a car in a few hours,” Vincent adjusted his tie as he gave her a small smile, accepting her curt nod and eye contact as resignation that she was not getting out of his invitation before making his way back to the door.
Initially uncomfortable but enthusiastic when her mind aligns with her heart. That, I can work with . He thought, exiting the gallery and heading into the crisp autumn air.