Receive Me Falling (26 page)

Mrs.
Whitting turned over in her bed as she felt her husband’s weight collapse the
mattress next to her.
 
The musky stink of
exertion and the ragged, wet sound of his labored breathing filled the room.
 
A pungent, ashy smell emerged from beneath
the sweat, and Mrs. Whitting found herself shivering in spite of the close
heat.

11

Desmond
Foxwell arrived early.
 
Nothing irritated
Meghan more than someone arriving early for a meeting.
 
She had just finished drying her hair and was
still in a bathrobe when she heard a knock at the villa door.
 

           
Fifteen
minutes early.

           
Meg threw on a sundress and ran to
answer the door.

           
“You’re early,” she said.

           
“If that’s a problem I can wait for
you in the car.”

           
“No, no, you’re already here.
 
Have a seat.
 
I’ll be out in a minute.”

           
“This is a beautiful little place,”
said Desmond.

           
“I like it.
 
Help yourself to some tea if you’d like.
 
I just made a pot.”

           
Meg ran back to her room, threw her
hair in a ponytail, and reappeared minutes later in the living room.
 

           
“Before I take you on a tour of the
property, I want you to know that the appraiser said I could ask about a
million per acre,” said Meg.
 
“There are fifty-seven
acres.
 
Would Grand Star be able to
afford that?”

           
“Does that include the old
plantation house on the property?”

           
“I’m meeting with someone to discuss
the value of some of the paintings in the home, so those may or may not be
included in the price.
 
That price does,
however, include the house.”

           
“With some negotiations, I feel that
Grand Star could make you a very reasonable offer.”

           
“All right then,” said Meg.
 
“Let’s go.”

           
Meg drove Desmond over to the
property and gave him a tour.
 
Much to
Meg’s relief, Desmond seemed content to simply peek in the windows of the old
plantation house.
 
She felt protective of
the place, and he felt like an outsider.
 
He was impeccably dressed, and Meg wondered to herself how he could stand
hiking around the grounds in his long-sleeved starched shirt, long pants, and
shiny, black shoes.
 
Little drops of
sweat were beginning to seep through his shirt, and he alternated between
dabbing his shining face with a handkerchief, snapping photos with his digital
camera, and scribbling in his notebook.
   

           
After the tour, Meg drove Desmond
back to the villa.
 

           
“I’ll get back to you as soon as I
speak with my partners about this project.
 
I’m optimistic that they will be willing to take it on.”

           
Meg was forced to shake Desmond’s
sweaty hand.
 
He nearly crushed her
fingers with his grip.
 
    
After he had gone, Meg went into the house
and called Brian.
 
He did not answer his
home or cell phone numbers.
 
She plugged
in her laptop and checked her email, but there were only a few work
messages.
 
Her office was respecting her
vacation time.
 
There were only a few
minor questions her administrative assistant had for her on email.
 

           
Work.
 
What to do about work?
 

           
Nelson had been elected to another
term as Governor, but Meg was feeling unsure of her position at the
office.
 
She couldn’t bear the thought of
going back to work for him, but was unable to quit her job due to the recent
problems with her estate.
 
She loved
political work, but was becoming convinced that politics corrupted those it
allowed to rise through its ranks.
 
A
knock at the door interrupted Meg’s thoughts.
 
It was Gwen Flynn and Dr. David Parfitt.

           
David was balding and kept his gray
hair trimmed very short and neat.
 
He had
a carefully edged black beard and black framed glasses.
 
Despite the severity of his appearance, he
had a warm and engaging manner.
 
Gwen was
tall and thin with a shock of long red hair that she had attempted to confine
in a low ponytail.
 
She was dressed in
black from head to toe, and looked rather like Klimt’s Danae.
 

           
“You’ve no idea how eager I am to
see the West,” said Gwen.

           
“Alleged West,” said David with a
smile.
  
“Miss Owen, are there any
medical facilities nearby?
 
Miss Flynn
will surely have a stroke if the mural proves to be authentic.”

           
“There’s a number by the phone,”
teased Meg.

           
Gwen and David smiled.

           
“May I offer you a drink, or would
you like to go right over to Eden?”
asked Meg.

           
“Eden?”

           
“That’s the name of the
plantation.
 
The mural is painted
directly on the wall in the dining room of the house.”

           
“There are no records of West having
ever traveled to Nevis,” said Gwen.
 
“This will be an exciting find for art
historians if it proves to be his work.”

           
“I found something interesting,”
said David.
 
“West and a student of his,
James Heath, published a work in 1811 entitled The Death of Lord Viscount
Nelson.
 
I found this significant because
Lord Nelson was famous for his marriage to Frances Woolward Nisbett, a widow
from Nevis, at the Montpelier Plantation.
 
Perhaps West was inspired to take on Nelson
as a subject due to his time spent on the island.”

           
The group traveled to the
house.
 
David carried a small black bag
that looked like an oversized, old-fashioned doctor’s bag.
 
Meg led Gwen and David through the foyer,
parlor, and the empty library.
 
They
admired the house and its furnishings and speculated about its owners.
 
As they rounded the doorway to the dining
room, Gwen stopped and let her mouth fall open

           
“It’s him.”

           
David walked up to the painting and
stared at it.
 

           
“It would appear that way,” he said.
 
“I’m afraid, however, that I’ll need to do
more to verify its authenticity than simply state its similarities to West’s
body of work.”

           
David opened his bag and removed a
camera, tripod, and light meter from its insides.
 

           
“May I photograph the art?” asked
David.
 
“I will take as few pictures as
possible.
 
I wouldn’t want the imaging to
damage the mural.”

           
Meg shrugged.
 
She had snapped about fifty photographs of
the mural without even considering the effect it might have on the
painting.
 

           
David took six shots of the
painting—four up close at various points of the mural, and two from far
away.
 
One of the shots was exclusively
of the signature and date.

           
“The signature looks authentic and
is positioned in a way typical of the artist,” said Gwen.

           
David took out a magnifying glass
from the bag and inspected the painting, while making notes.
 
Gwen walked along the mural inch by inch.
 

           
“Have you seen this?” she asked.

           
Meg and David directed their eyes to
where Gwen was pointing on the painting.
 
Meg couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed before.
 
There was an angel hidden in the dark foliage
on the perimeter of the painting.
 
She
was difficult to see because she was dark-skinned.

           
“A black angel?” asked Meg

           
“Not exactly Ralphaelite,” remarked
David.

           
“And look at her foot,” said Meg.
 
“It looks as if she is stamping out
sugarcane. Was West an abolitionist?”

           
“I’ve never come across information
stating that he was, but that means very little,” said Gwen.
 
“Abolitionists weren’t especially popular.”

           
“But that must have some other
meaning,” said Meg.
 
“I mean, the man was
presumably commissioned to paint a mural in a plantation home, funded by slave
owners.
 
Do you think that he would
insult them on their very walls?
 
Perhaps
the paint has faded.”

           
“The angel’s features are
African—faded paint or not,” said Gwen.
 
“And Meg, how many times have you looked at this painting?
 
You’ve never noticed her before.”

           
“You’re right.
 
I’ve looked at the painting and photographed
it at least a dozen times.
 
I’ve never
noticed her.”

           
“By the time the family could have
noticed her, if ever, West could have been long gone. He surely didn’t spend a
substantial amount of time here.
 
There
is no historical record of it.”

           
“That means nothing,” said
David.
 
“History reveals itself in small
ways. What we know of the past is a mere glimpse.
 
We postulate, make connections that aren’t
necessarily appropriate, and run with it. The body of history is so much more
than we can ever see.”

That
night Meg, Gwen and David dined together at Eddy’s Bar & Grill.
 
It was a local hotspot, and Karaoke
night.
 
They ordered wings, fries, and Carib
Beer.

           
“It’s so good to be away for a few
days!” said Gwen as she slid her hand around David’s neck.

           
He leaned over to kiss her and
rested his hand on her leg.

           
“We have to be very discreet in Florida,”
said David.
 
“The whole professor/student
thing doesn’t go over well.”

           
“And you’re old enough to be my
father!” laughed Gwen.

           
“If I conceived you at twelve.”

           
They laughed and watched a large
woman and three slim men sing
Leaving on
a Midnight Train to Georgia
.

           
Meg felt herself relax.
 
Spending time having wings and drinks at a
bar with friends reminded her of being home and happy.
 
She and Brian were very close with a man from
his department at St. Johns
and his wife, and the couples enjoyed spending time in casual bars for happy
hours, poetry readings, or even karaoke.

           
“Singing is one of my hidden
talents,” said Meg.