Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Charlie was very tempted to see how much of her time he could steal away, and not just for the job.
“Señora Romero?” Charlie murmured politely as he came to stand beside her. “Congratulations on your coup of obtaining the sale of the Bautista Blanco collection.”
The woman arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him, her sharp eyes assessing him as she granted him the barest nod. “Thank you. It was only natural that the Blanco family elected to go with The Blue Wind to handle the sale of his most critically acclaimed period.”
Charlie took a leisurely sip of his champagne as he looked over the painting in front of him while listening to Kairo rattle off some important background details. Bautista Blanco was a highly successful painter and sculptor who hated to sell his work. That meant when he died three years ago, every gallery in Buenos Aires and quite a few overseas fought for the right to show and sell some of his most valuable pieces. It was Isabella Romero who beat out the competition in the end.
“His Endless Road series was a personal favorite of mine. How Blanco captured the isolation and hopelessness of man nearing the end of his life was quite stunning,” Charlie said, repeating almost word for word another reviewer’s criticism.
Isabella’s expression thawed a little, and the arms she’d been holding across her stomach loosened as she turned toward him a fraction. “Interesting. Most people find the austerity of the work too off-putting. They prefer the warmer, more hope-filled pieces of his youth.”
Charlie affected a nonchalant shrug. “If I want warmth and hope, I will turn to Thiago Vergara.”
The laugh that escaped Isabella was deep and throaty with a burn that warmed his chest, reminding him of good scotch. “Don’t we all. No one could do hope like Thiago.”
“Yes, but he managed it without the whimsy and feeling of childishness. It was drenched in realism and starkness. That no matter how bleak the moment, you felt justified clinging to that hope.”
As he spoke, the gallery manager shifted fully toward him, her arms falling to her side while her expression blossomed into a bright smile. “Exactly. Thiago Vergara never shied away from the reality that glared back at him.”
“I knew you’d understand,” Charlie warmly murmured. As a new server passed close by, he snagged a fresh glass of champagne and held it out to Isabella. “I understand your father was quite a fan of Mr. Vergara. I’ll admit that I was curious if he passed his appreciation of Vergara’s work on to you.”
She accepted the glass, a speculative look entering her eye. “My father taught me to appreciate true genius. He was lucky enough to have been friends with Thiago when they were both young.”
“His was a genius that was cut short far too soon. The world was gifted with too few of his paintings.” Charlie took a sip of his champagne and grinned at Isabella. “Though, I have heard whispers that some lost paintings have been discovered in recent years. I would love your professional opinion on those rumors.”
She sighed, but there was still a tolerant air about her. “Those rumors surface every few years about most dead geniuses. Doesn’t the world have enough Picassos?”
“So, it’s utter bullshit.”
Isabella shrugged one shoulder. “For the most part. There were a handful uncovered in the late eighties after the fall of the military government. They’d been stolen from Vergara’s studio. His girlfriend confirmed they were the last pieces he’d been working on or completed. At that time, all his work was accounted for. No more so-called lost pieces to be uncovered. But those that were found in the eighties tend to give people irrational hope that there might be more out there.”
With a smirk, Charlie lightly clinked the edge of his flute against Isabella’s. “The world could always use a little hope in the form of Thiago Vergara’s light.”
“Thiago Vergara was a fucking hack and a blight on our society,” a harsh, angry voice interjected into their conversation.
Charlie twisted about to narrow his eyes on a short man with nearly black hair and a beard that lined his angular jaw. The stranger’s gaze skimmed over Edison, who was standing a few feet away by Charlie’s elbow and seemed to dismiss him. Charlie received the same brief appraisal before moving on to Isabella. The woman’s entire demeanor froze over, and while she didn’t turn her back on him and snub him directly, Charlie had a feeling that she very much wanted to.
“You don’t consider Vergara to be a national treasure? Most of the world does,” Charlie drawled.
“The world is filled with sheep and idiots,” the man sniped with a curl of his upper lip. “Vergara was a known drunk and hedonist. His wild leftist ideals were a monstrosity and an embarrassment.”