Painter of Time Read online

  Table of Contents

  Painter of Time

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Historical Facts

  THE PAINTER OF TIME

  Copyright © 2015 by Matthew O’Connell

  Published by Station Square Media

  16 West 23rd Street, 4th Floor

  New York, NY 10010

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in this book are the product of the author’s imagination

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations in articles and reviews.

  Editorial: Write to Sell Your Book, LLC

  Cover Design: Kathi Dunn

  Interior Design: Karen Hudson

  Production Management: Janet Spencer King

  Printed in the United States of America for Worldwide Distribution.

  ISBN: 978-0-9966693-3-7

  Electronic editions:

  Mobi ISBN: 978-0-9966693-4-4

  Epub ISBN: 978-0-9966693-5-1

  First Edition

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Mari, my soul mate and best friend

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to specifically thank Kevin Klinvex, Gary Weitzman, Dennis Doverspike, my wife Mari, and everyone who read earlier versions and shared their insights, suggestions and most importantly provided positive feedback and encouragement.

  Many thanks to Kathi Dunn for her beautiful cover design and to Annie Nichol for her outstanding attention to detail and grammatical fluency in reviewing the manuscript.

  Finally, I owe special thanks to my editor, Diane O’Connell (no relation), who has helped me develop as a writer and taught me to understand the real craft of writing. Her straightforward feedback and ideas were and are invaluable to me.

  Chapter 1

  New York, June 2009

  The brush moved gently. Firmly. With a confidence belying generations of experience. His breathing was rhythmic, deliberate, but not forced. His attention was at once on the painting and at the same time on the horizon, the distant past—lost in thought, an active meditation. He focused on his brush strokes, long and smooth, careful not to hold his breath, at least not for very long. Sometimes when he was deep in a painting and concentrating on tiny details he would forget to breathe, so as to keep his hand steady. But it was a bad habit. If he did that too much or for too long, he’d get light headed and, in rare cases, he'd even passed out. No, it was important to match your breath to your brush strokes. Like yoga, but with a brush in your hand.

  He stopped and laid the brush down, sat back and studied the painting. Is that how it was or am I trying to improve what was there? The cherubic child reached up for his mother’s face. The plain face of the mother holding her young child looked off to the side and downward as if she were watching a dog playing in the grass. Why didn’t she look directly at her young son, just as he looked at her? Would a mother look this way? Were the eyes correctly positioned or had time distorted their view? He quieted his mind and thought back, trying to remember how it had originally looked, or at least how the painter had intended it to look. It was a common problem he ran into, almost daily. His job was to restore, to conserve. To bring back the glory of what was. How had it looked before time, the elements, and neglect had taken their toll? His job was not to improve, not to fix errors that most people, even art critics and historians, never saw but that stood out to him like a nose ring on the Mona Lisa. Such was his job. Restore. Don’t improve and definitely don’t detract from what was there in the first place.

  He stepped away from the painting and looked at it from a short distance. He could see the shimmer of the new paint, but other than that you wouldn’t have known it had been touched up just moments before. That was the plan. Enough for now, he thought. He carefully cleaned his brushes with turpentine. He smiled softly as he performed the routine task that he had completed thousands, perhaps millions of times. Routines were one of the world’s hidden joys. Like washing your face in a basin of warm water, with fragrant soap, scented with lavender from the fields of Provence and drying it with a plush, clean towel. Even the pungent smell of turpentine and linseed oil used to clean the paint from brushes was a timeless smell that you would never confuse with any other, like pine needles and fresh cut grass. Weren’t these the things that made life rich, made it worth living? Indeed they were, he thought.

  He stretched, trying to work out the kinks that come from sitting and focusing intently for three hours at a time, and from the accumulation of a lifetime of painting. He took several deep, long restorative breaths, hoping that the increased oxygen flow would shake off his fatigue.

  He walked slowly to one of the stone benches in the Medieval, cloistered garden. It was warm, with creamy, titanium white clouds slowly making their way across the cobalt blue summer sky. He took out his lunch from his well-worn leather satchel. A thermos of Earl Grey tea, carefully mixed with milk and sugar, a tomato and cucumber sandwich on white bread with the crusts carefully trimmed. He rarely sat with anyone else. Solitude was underrated as far as he was concerned. Besides, it was hard for him to carry on small talk. Who do you like on Idol? Have you seen the mouse chasing the dog on YouTube? He was never sure how to answer. He wasn’t even sure what they were talking about most of time. Fortunately, most of the other restorers were introverts and tended to keep to themselves as well.

  Anthony never thought of himself as a loner. In fact, he really wasn’t. Introspective and thoughtful, an observer as opposed to a wallflower, but more than anything, tired. He wasn’t bored with life per se, but he was certainly tired of the ever-flowing stream of transient nonsense that made up the vast majority of people’s lives. It wasn’t that he was trying to be an intellectual snob, trying to figure out the existential nature of being, the reason for our existence, a higher purpose or anything like that. He was guided more by John Maynard Keynes’s observation that, “In the long run, we die.” That seemed to sum it all up. It was hard to keep up with the revolving, predictably mundane nature
of what most people found to be important.

  He looked around the garden. It was June and the trees were full and heavy with deep, Windsor green leaves. Fortunately, there was a nice breeze blowing. Summer in New York could be awfully hot and humid, to the point where drawing in a full breath was a Herculean effort. It sat on you, pushing your lungs downward and taunting them to take in the saturated air almost bursting with moisture. Those months were still ahead of him. June was a great month in most of the places he had lived. The cold of winter was a distant memory and the rains of spring had left everything vibrantly green, colorful and lush. It wasn’t the hottest month of the summer and anyway, after the rain and cold, a little heat was more than welcome. Every season had its upside, but June was definitely a good time of year.

  A small Japanese maple that had recently been planted in the far corner of the garden caught his eye, its delicate leaves seeming to float in the air. It wasn’t the beauty of the tree that caught his attention, but that it was out of place. This particular species should not be in a Medieval European garden. It was as if this sapling had somehow snuck in unnoticed into a place it knew it did not belong but was gamely trying to fit in, unseen. He smiled to himself and hoped that no one else would recognize that this tiny tree shouldn’t be here, and that it would be allowed to flourish in its own right, hidden in a quiet corner.

  He finished the last bite of his sandwich and sipped what was left of the warm, sweet tea in his stainless steel cup. He closed his eyes and felt the soft summer breeze, heard the sparrows chirping and smelled the fresh green of early summer. He allowed himself to be absorbed in that moment, a brief glimpse of near perfection in a constantly moving world that was far from perfect.

  Chapter 2

  Mackenzie stood at the top of the staircase and looked at the paintings that studded the walls. Not just this wall, but almost every wall of the house. Some she had done as a girl, some as a young adult. There were a few that she was proud of, that probably could rightly hang in anyone’s house. Some, mostly the early ones, were paintings that had sentimental value and would only be hung in the home of a parent, a reminder of days gone by. She cringed as she looked at some of the paintings that had brought her so much praise in junior high. She was an aspiring artist then, filled with talent and potential. Since then she had painted much better works than these, works that she was truly proud of, but which were stacked in a corner now somewhere in the attic. She’d have to talk with her father about some rearrangements. But for him, this wasn’t a place to exhibit art; it was a place that brought back memories. A photo album of sorts. This one just happened to hang on the walls. She didn’t want to take that away from him, but she also wanted him to know that she wasn’t that same fourteen-year-old girl who won the art prize at the local junior high. She wanted him to see her for who she was now, and not just the girl he remembered. It would be a challenge, but not an altogether unpleasant one.

  It was early, but the house was already bright with sunlight streaming in through the large wood framed windows on the first floor. It reflected off the parquet floor and accentuated the contrast between the royal blue walls and the crisp white framing. That was her mom’s touch. Her mother knew how to make the house seem chic but also homey. Even though it was in the South Bronx, it always reminded Mackenzie of one of those quaint cedar shake houses on Cape Cod, or at least somewhere on the Long Island Sound.

  The distinctly magical smell of bacon mixed with freshly brewed coffee had caught her attention when she stepped out of the shower fifteen minutes ago and had speeded her descent to the dining room. Her dad was an early riser. Always had been. He was also a big fan of a solid breakfast. Typical mornings in her house consisted of some combination of bacon or breakfast sausage with eggs, pancakes or French toast, and sometimes hash browns or home fries on the side. Occasionally her mom had succeeded in convincing her father to eat something with a bit more fiber and a bit less fat, but not often. To him, bagels and cream cheese was health food. Getting him to toss on a tomato and a sweet onion along with some smoked salmon was a major victory. Beyond that, you were pushing your luck.

  “Kenz, you up?” she heard her father’s distinct baritone call up from the kitchen. It was the same voice she heard almost every day growing up. Like most kids, she had tried to squeeze the last few precious minutes of sleep every morning before school.

  Ironically, her mother was the one who had died of cancer before she turned sixty; the pharmacist who knew what was in everything and made sure that her family avoided overly processed food, even when the term “processed food” wasn’t yet in vogue. The one who watched her weight and exercised before exercising had become popular. As is often the case, she was the one whom cancer decided to take in its steely grip and refuse to let go. Her father, the cheeseburger-eating police detective who eyed vegetables with suspicion was the one who looked like a man twenty years his junior.

  Mackenzie made her way into the tiny kitchen where her dad was finishing up the eggs.

  “Mornin’, Dad. Smells good.” She poured herself a cup of black coffee and took her first sip of the morning. Coffee smelled better than it tasted, she thought, but it sure did taste good, especially the first cup in the morning.

  “Hey, Kenz. I wanted to make sure that you got off to a good start for your first day in the real world.” Then, in his best Groucho Marx voice, he added, “Even if fixing old paintings is only on the fringe of the real world,” and laughed. “Not sure what you ate in college but I can’t think of a better way to hit the ground runnin’ than some bacon, eggs and coffee. You want one egg or two?”

  “Let’s go with two this morning. Any toast?” she asked but she already knew the answer. Of course there would be toast, probably sourdough, but possibly pumpernickel or rye.

  “Yep, I got a couple slices ready to go, can you press the button for me?” he nodded towards the toaster.

  “Sure. What have we got today?”

  “I picked up some sourdough at Rubin’s around the corner. It looked good.”

  As they worked their way through breakfast, her dad looked over at the Siamese cat curled up on the dining room chair next to Mackenzie.

  “Seems like Octagon, or whatever his name is, has made himself at home pretty quickly. I thought cats take time to warm up to new places.”

  “Octavius,” she corrected him, knowing full well that seasoned detectives don’t forget names easily. “I think he likes it here. He probably smells me. In any case, cooking bacon probably helped bring him out of his shell.” She gently stroked his back as he sat in a tight curl. He started to lick her hand with that sandpaper tongue all cats possess. It burned, but she knew he was expressing some form of affection and didn’t want to punish him for that so she endured the pain.

  “I hope he enjoys the smell, because there sure as hell isn’t going to be a lot leftover to eat. I wonder if I should dab a bit of bacon fat on that canned stuff that he eats.”

  “Dad, I buy premium cat food because it’s supposed to be more nutritional for him. I don’t think he needs any bacon fat added.”

  “You sound like your mother. But it’s probably better that I don’t give him any. Once he gets a taste for it he’ll be climbing all over the counter when I’m cooking, and he’ll start snubbing his nose at your fancy canned food.”

  She knew that under that gruff exterior lay a pussycat with a heart of gold. Her dad and Octavius had a lot in common, she thought. Both gave the illusion that they wanted to be alone, and both made a lot of noise when they were bothered, but when all was said and done they enjoyed the company of someone else, whether it be person or cat. She knew that the two of them would be close friends in no time, if it hadn’t happened already.

  “So what time do you have to be there this morning? The I-95 can get pretty backed up this time of day. You should leave yourself at least an extra fifteen minutes.”

  “I know, Dad. I don’t have to be there until nine so I have plenty of time.” So
metimes she wondered if her dad thought she was sixteen as opposed to twenty-six. “Somehow, you know I did find a way to make it to class on time every day for the past six years.” She had just finished up her masters in fine arts from NYU and had moved back in with her father to save some money. She also felt bad for him puttering alone in the house now that her mother had passed. In fact, half Mackenzie’s stuff was still in boxes upstairs.

  “School and work are different. You miss a class and you grab the notes from someone else. You miss work and they soon find a way to get someone who actually wants to come to work.”

  “I know. Dad, I won’t be late. It shouldn’t take that long to get there. I did a dry run of the route a couple of times. If everything goes well, it only takes fifteen minutes, but I’m allowing for at least a half an hour. I’ve got plenty of time.” Unlike many places in New York City, it was much easier just to drive to the Cloisters from their house in the Bronx. It was less than six miles, but because of the way the trains ran it would take over an hour to get there via the subway. It was great being back with her father, and it sure helped out with expenses, but she wondered if she was going to be able to get used to the constant parental oversight. She knew it was based on love, but still, it was a bit annoying.

  “You nervous, Kenz?” asked her dad as he sat across from her.

  “No,” she lied. “Why?”

  “’Cause one of the things you do when you’re nervous is fold things. You’ve folded your napkin back and forth for the past five minutes. I thought you might be making one of those origami birds or something.”

  She smiled and looked down at her napkin that showed a spider web of creasing. “Pretty good, detective.”

  “You’d have to be an idiot not to be a bit nervous for your first day. It’s perfectly natural. It’s a new job, a new place, new people, the whole nine yards. You’re gonna do great. You always do. Just don’t be late.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Don’t worry, I’ll be there on time.” Even though she craved independence, she liked the fact that her dad watched out for her. Joseph Ferrara knew his daughter almost as well as she knew herself, and maybe in some ways more so. He always had, which gave her comfort. It meant she wasn’t alone.