Flirting With Forever Gwyn Cready (best book series to read txt) 📖

25

THE AFTERLIFE, ARTISTS SECTION

Mertons waved away the proffered bal politely and shaded his eyes from the sun. He’d never been a fan of bocce. Too much rol ing. Not enough cracking. Give him cricket any day. He even liked that odd American version. And though he’d only seen it twice, long ago, the sound of the bal connecting with the hardwood had stayed with him.

“Thank you, no. I’m just here for a few minutes, though the espresso smel s delicious. I’d love a cup of that if you have one to spare.”

“Certainly,” Rembrandt said, lifting the pot. “ ’Tis excel ent today.”

“Where’s Peter?”

Rembrandt, who was waiting for Velázquez to align his shot, tilted his head toward the rise beyond the end of the path. “At the canvas. Always at the canvas.”

Even at this distance, Mertons could see Peter’s drawn face. “I take it he’s not glad to be back.”

“Glad?” Rembrandt shrugged. “ ’Tis not a word we use with Peter.”

“I have some news for him.”

“He wil not be interested,” Rembrandt said.

“In this he wil .” Mertons drew the journal from his suit coat pocket. “It just arrived. I’ve only scanned the headline myself, but I suspect he’l find it to his liking.” He opened it and read. ” ‘ The Girl with a Coral Earring Stripped to Canvas. Simon & Schuster announced yesterday the much-anticipated novel from Campbel Stratford, The Girl with a Coral Earring, a fictography of painter Anthony Van Dyck, has been scrapped due to narrative issues.’ Blah, blah, blah. He did it.”

Mertons had to smile. Special projects were rare, and not al ended wel . They were fraught with complications and a gamble on the best of days. But despite his success in derailing the book, Mertons had been unable to find the hole in the fabric of time Stratford had used. A shame, real y, as it would have been quite a feather in his cap.

According to Peter, Stratford disappeared after he had adjourned to the scul ery to clean his brushes, though the look on Peter’s face while he said it had made Mertons wonder.

With a bow, Mertons left the journal on the table, picked up his cup and broke away from the men. He wandered slowly up the fieldstone path cut into the lavender, to the top of the rise.

“How goes it, my friend?”

Peter stiffened, receiving the question almost like a blow. “Another day. They are the same.”

blow. “Another day. They are the same.”

Mertons considered the pal id complexion and the eyes, stripped of their usual proud ferocity. “Your new life, the one you wil be reborn into, is coming. The Executive Guild is working on it as we speak.”

“I—I would be grateful for it.”

“There is news that might please you.”

The sadness left his face for an instant. “They approved my request to return to 1673?”

“What? Oh, no, Peter. I have told you. It cannot be. Even for a day. I’m sorry. I know now how much it would mean to you to convince Charles to sign that writ.”

Peter had confessed his ulterior purpose to Mertons and begged to return for a day or two to convince the king, but the Guild had been adamant. Once the misinformation had been planted with the writer, there was to be no more interaction with the past.

Peter nodded. The sadness returned and he went back to his painting.

“There is something else, though,” Mertons said.

“Oh?”

“It was in the news this morning. Miss Stratford’s book has been canceled. Seems the narrative took a turn for the worse.”

If Mertons had expected a cheer or even a victorious

“Aye!” he was disappointed. Peter’s only reaction was a brief half smile.

“I am glad for the sake of the Guild.” Peter reloaded his brush with paint.

“And the Guild appreciates your time, though, of course,

“And the Guild appreciates your time, though, of course, we were not as lucky in discovering the writer’s source of travel.”

Peter grunted. Mertons knew the man’s heart had never been in the assignment.

“I, er, found out a bit more about her motives.”

“Did you?”

“It certainly doesn’t excuse it, of course, but it seems she is in line for a promotion at her place of business—a museum of art, actual y—and publishing a book is apparently an important hurdle in achieving that goal.”

“Let us hope she finds contentment elsewhere.”

Mertons smiled. Dry wit was an improvement over dour moodiness.

“Uh, she may get the promotion yet.”

“How?”

“The variables weren’t robust enough for significance, but directional y she appears to be heading for it. It seems she has negotiated the gift of a rather expensive painting to the museum—a Van Dyck, oddly enough,