Clasping his fingers in front of his chest as before, Cesare again ducked his head and moved rapidly to an adjacent room. He held open a heavy wooden door, allowing us to pass into the area first, and the moment I did so, I felt a change in the temperature and humidity. “Oh,” I said, my hand flying to cover my gasp of delight and surprise when I caught my first glimpse of the walls.
The size of a basketball court, this room had been added on to the old fortress, much the same way the porch leading to the terrazzo had been. Instead of a comfortable, modern room meant for relaxation, however, this addition clearly served one purpose.
Like the foyer, the room glowed. Strategically placed spotlights threw joyful explosions of illumination across the expanse. Ceiling-high windows, screened so as to prevent the sun’s rays from falling directly upon any artwork, brightened the marble floor. The two-story walls were a comforting cappuccino brown, and four cushy, orange sofas lined the room’s center. Two sofas faced north, two south. This was a gallery meant for long, lingering visits, for hours of art appreciation.
And what appreciation! I glanced over to Bennett, who was watching me with a bemused expression. I wanted to rush over to the Monet on the far right, but just then a Sophie Gengembre Anderson nymph caught my eye. I started, stopped, and tried to remember to breathe. There was so much to take in at once.
“You’ve far exceeded my expectations,” Bennett said to Nico, who grinned up at his friend with unabashed glee.
“You like it, then?” Nico asked.
Bennett’s answer was to stroll along the left wall, upon which hung a large John Singer Sargent masterpiece—an oil painting bringing all the pain and preparation of war to vivid, oversized life. “Where in heaven’s name did you unearth this?” he asked, arms spread in conspicuous delight. “I’ve wanted this one for my collection, but I hadn’t heard of it coming on the market for decades.”
Nico curled and twisted his hand over his head, the way a magician might. But instead of producing a snowy dove, he pointed to Cesare. “There is my secret. Cesare brings beauty into my life. If it were not for this man’s able assistance, my old villa would be nothing but a barren prison. With his help, it has become a museum—much like your Marshfield,” he added with a wink up at Bennett, “where I can collect treasures and enjoy them during my last few years here on earth.”
“Father, you mustn’t talk like that,” Irena chided. “You promised me you’d stay here, with me, for a very long time.” She waited for him to look at her. “Remember?”
A look of understanding passed between them. He reached for her slim hand with his weathered one, and they gripped tight for a long moment. “Don’t worry, child, I have no plans to escape this mortal coil. Not yet.”
Bennett stood about ten feet beyond the Sargent painting, next to a waist-high, sleek metal pedestal upon which a bronze cast sculpture stared out from beneath its Plexiglas container. With his hands spread, almost as though he intended to embrace the clear box, Bennett grinned. “You still have it. After all these years?”
“Of course,” Nico said, wiggling two fingers behind him. Angelo wheeled him forward. The rest of us followed in their wake until we surrounded the piece of art. I wasn’t positive, but I would have guessed that this small masterpiece was a Picasso. I glanced to Bennett, who read my mind. He nodded.
“Wow,” I said, coming around to get a closer look.
“Nico purchased this—oh, how long has it been?” Bennett asked.
“Too long,” Nico answered with a snort. “We were but young boys.”
Bennett seemed delighted to tell the story. “We were just out of school and hadn’t found our footing in the business world yet,” he said. “There was this wonderful gallery in Paris, right off the Champs- Élysées.” To Nico: “You and I spent too much time there.”