Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“Hello, Autumn,” he greets softly.
“Hi.” That was meant to be casual and nonchalant, but it comes out like a squawk.
“Would you like something to drink, or some refreshments, perhaps?”
I would have loved a strong drink, a double vodka, but I grasp my knapsack harder, and shake my head.
“Thank you, William.”
Behind me, the door closes with a soft click. We are alone. A blind panic hits me and I blurt out the first thing that comes into my head. “It must have been very difficult to build a house like this on a mountain.”
“Yes, I’m sure the architect and builders had their share of difficulties, but I wouldn’t know.”
I couldn’t help myself. “You just paid for it.”
His mouth twists. “Ah, you don’t approve of money.”
I dig in. “The kind of riches it takes to build a house like this is usually ill-gotten.”
“I’m afraid I have to agree with you,” he concedes.
I stare at him with surprise. “Did you just admit your money is ill-gotten?”
He shrugs. “I built my fortune on the considerable pile my ancestors left behind. No doubt much of it must have been acquired on the backs of the oppressed and dispossessed.”
“And you don’t feel bad about it?”
I see a flash of some emotion in his eyes, but I do not know him well enough to know what it is. “A clean slate was denied to me.”
I wanted to ask him what he meant, but he changes the subject smoothly.
“Have you dined?”
“Uh, I had a very heavy lunch, Mrs. Appleby’s lasagna from the deli, so I’ll be good until I get home later tonight. If you need to eat, I’m quite happy to hang around and to set up my gear.”
“In that case, we’ll have a late supper after you’ve finished painting for the night.”
“No, that’s okay,” I reply immediately.
“It will save you the trouble of cooking when you get back,” he adds suavely.
Ramen noodles is not exactly cooking and I really don’t want to spend more time in his company than is strictly necessary, but it seems churlish to refuse his hospitality. “All right.”
He nods. “Good. Let me show you the house and you can pick out a suitable room for you to paint in. Leave your things here until we find the right location for you.”
He starts moving towards the door and as he passes me I get a whiff of his fragrance and the hairs on my skin rise. He smells like those stormy nights when the air is alive with electrons and excitement. When he gets to the door he turns back to look at me, one eyebrow raised.
“Coming?”
I pull myself out of my stupor, hurriedly place my knapsack on the floor, lean my stretched canvas on the floor against a chair, and go to him.
As he shows me around the house, I listen to his melodious voice call out the names of the rooms, each one a beautiful work of art in itself. The whole house is a treasure trove. There are Greek and Roman marble statues, ancient tapestries from Persia, intricate stone friezes, and marvelous paintings, some of which I recognize as masterpieces worth millions. And yet there is no part of the house which is not cold and unwelcoming. The whole house is awe-inspiring and beautiful… and strangely dead.
I spot a painting in one of the grand rooms that makes me do a double take. It can’t, it… but the style is so similar. “Is that?” I whisper.
“Yes, it is.”
“But I have never seen a picture of this painting anywhere.”
“That’s because it’s never been photographed. It’s been in my family ever since it was acquired directly from the painter.”
I walk towards the painting in a daze. Wow! An original, one of a kind, Van Gogh masterpiece, the world has never seen. It seems almost unbelievable. And his family bought the painting directly from Van Gogh! What a story! I stare at the painting of a vase of what looks like red dahlias on a wooden table. It is similar to his painting of sunflowers, but somehow so much richer.
“It’s so, so, so beautiful,” I say in an awed whisper.
“Have it if you want,” he offers from behind me.
I whirl around in shock. “What?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “If you like it so much, have it.”
I stare at him incredulously. “This is the only painting of red flowers that Van Gogh has ever done. It must be worth hundreds of millions.”
His mouth twists into a bitter smile, and he makes a dismissive waving gesture. “All these things are worthless to me. Nothing gives me joy. Take it. “
I shake my head. “I can’t. It’s too much.”
His eyes never leave mine. “How about an exchange? Your painting of the castle for this one.”
My jaw actually drops with disbelief. The first thought that flashes into my head is: is he serious? Yes, he looks serious. Next: is he a madman? If indeed he is, he gives a very good impression of being sane. After that: What cat and mouse game is he playing? Because nobody in their right mind would exchange a Van Gogh for my amateurish painting. My chest fills with suspicion and distrust.