wasn’t sure she should say so. The gleam in Bernard’s eyes made her nervous. “Why?”
“I grew up looking at that woman.”
“You—you did?”
“Yes, she hung in our dining room.”
No way. Piper couldn’t believe her good luck. She’d been prepared to strike out, and here the man was saying he’d seen the painting. “Does your father still have the painting?”
Bernard shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I sold most of the collection when we closed down his house. To pay his expenses. The nude was sold with the others.”
She should have known the search wouldn’t end easily. Still, there was hope. “You wouldn’t know the name of the man who bought it, would you?” she asked.
“I keep records for every painting,” Bernard replied with a sniff.
“Could we get the name?” Frederic asked. Piper started. She had assumed he was studying the painting, and so his deep voice caught her off guard.
“Yes, but it will take me a few minutes to pull up the record on the computer.”
“Thank you,” Piper said, speaking as much to Frederic as to Bernard. “I truly appreciate the help.”
“I’ll be back with the information as soon as I can. In the meantime, you now have plenty of time to study the Biskup. It’s called Zoufalstvi.” His smile was smug as he gestured toward the painting. “I know you’re going to be as impressed with his style as I am.”
Piper walked up to the painting. It was contemporary art, a mash-up of black, white and red, which she assumed had some kind of meaning. She understood the price well enough. She paid less for the entire year of culinary school.
“What do you think?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.
Frederic stood where she left him, taking in the painting from a distance. “Interesting,” was all he said.
“Your friend isn’t really expecting you to buy it today, is he?”
“Oh, he is. Bernard never jokes when it comes to artwork. If he says the painting is a good investment, then I’m sure it is.”
“And you would what? Just write a check if you liked it?”
“If I liked it.”
She shook her head. The idea of writing a check for an amount that took her months upon months to save—and that was with pinching every single penny—boggled her mind. Here Frederic talked about dropping that amount like he was buying a new shirt. “Do you like it?” she had to ask.
“Do you?” he asked back.
“Honest opinion?” He nodded. “I’m not sure what I’m looking at. It all looks like a bunch of colors to me.”
She squinted, trying to make sense of the image. In a way, it was similar to the other paintings in Frederic’s house. They too were modern, but warmer and with brighter colors. This painting was definitely not warm. It did conjure up emotion, a weirdly familiar feeling in the pit of her stomach, but she wouldn’t call the sensation pleasant. Nor would she want to feel it every day.
“It’s a very sad-looking painting,” she said.
“I should hope so.” Footsteps sounded on the wood floor, and suddenly Frederic was at her elbow. “Zoufalstvi is Czech for desperation.”
No wonder it left her feeling empty. “I don’t see why anyone would want to buy such a depressing picture. But then, I’m not much of an artist.”
“Really? I thought chefs considered cooking an art form.”
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
