An Object of Beauty: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

money about him.
    “Do you have a card?” he asked.
    Lacey said she was out but told him: “You can reach me here, I’m Lacey Yeager.”
    The man wandered away, looking puzzled as he surveyed other pictures in the gallery. It was then that Lacey realized he was not a customer,and she had a dim visual recall: he had followed her in from the subway and had just wangled her name and phone number.
    When she arrived at the office floor, there was a phone call already waiting for her, but she backed away from the friendly secretary and waved it off, miming, “Take the number.”
    Over the next few days, several people inquired about the Avery, but Lacey didn’t know who they were, and Tanya wouldn’t tell her.
    Lacey took one extra gamble. She manipulated Tanya into predicting the outcome of the Avery in front of Cherry Finch. Assuming an air of indifference, Lacey said in her most casual voice, “What dya think that Avery’s going to bring?”
    “High estimate at most,” said Tanya.
    “So seventy-five?” Lacey said, making sure the number registered in everyone’s brain.
    American sales started at ten a.m. Unlike the flashier Impressionist and contemporary sales that began at a glamorous seven p.m., where people dressed in their showcase clothes, the day sales attracted attendees who wore brown pants with blue blazers and shirt collars that lay crushed under their lapels. Lacey had improved her single invitation from Heath Acosta to attend one sale into a standing invitation to attend any sale, and nobody seemed to notice.
    The auction started off with a few alarming bumps. An uncharacteristic John Singer Sargent oil, decent enough, died a lonely death without a single bid. The failure was made even more visible because the auctioneer quickly escalated false bids against the reserve to give the illusion of furious bidding, only to promptly sputter out upon reaching the reserve, where he was forced to dwell in a few lingering seconds of ringing silence. It felt as though a shroud of death had fallen over the room. This was especially alarming as last year a Sargent had stunned the crowd, topping out at seven million dollars. Sargent was desirable, more desirable than Milton Avery, and Lacey felt a nervous chill asshe acknowledged to herself that the sale could have a disappointing outcome. One would think that the seven-million-dollar figure would motivate at least one buyer to pop for a hundred grand, even for a not-so-great Sargent, if only for the signature, but the auctioneer had to muffle his obligatory announcement, “Passed,” by saying the word exactly as his gavel struck the lectern.
    The Avery now seemed like an outside shot to reach even the reserve. There was a sign of life as a Whistler watercolor, expected to bring between sixty and eighty thousand, sparkled enough to double the estimate, and Lacey’s emotions began flip-flopping like one of Winslow Homer’s just-landed trout.
    The carousel turned and the Avery swung into view. Now she worried about the frame. Sotheby’s tarted-up lighting reflected harshly off its expensive silver leaf. Thankfully, an art handler, who rode in with each picture, tilted it forward to diminish the glare, and the picture looked better than ever.
    “Let’s start with thirty thousand…” Then the auctioneer quickly manufactured a frenzy with an ersatz bidding war: “Thirty-five, forty, forty-five thousand, fifty thousand…” One would have thought there were a hundred bidders in pursuit of this bashful Avery, but really there were none. Then there was that ugly pause. The next bid, fifty-five thousand, would mean that the picture had sold to an actual, existing buyer. A savvy collector might read this pause, if no bids followed, as an opportunity to buy the picture after the sale at a discount and would sit on his hands instead of bidding against the reserve. Lacey looked around to the few recruits, including Tanya Ross, who were manning the phones, hoping for