Grace Takes Off(11)

            “We spent too much time in the bar across the street, you mean.” Nico sat forward now, eager to be part of the telling.

            High spots in Bennett’s cheeks flushed pink, though he didn’t seem displeased. “Thank goodness there’s no law against being young and foolish.”

            Cesare gave an appreciative chuckle. Irena giggled. Angelo, not understanding, stared straight ahead.

            To me, Nico said, “Your boss could have been quite the ladies’ man. The women found him handsome, charming, and excruciatingly polite.” He shrugged. “For an American.”

            Bennett was shaking his head. “I had Sally back home, waiting for me.”

            Nico shook a finger. “You weren’t married yet.”

            “We were engaged.”

            Nico rolled his eyes. “She would never have found out.”

            Bennett sent his friend a warning look. “We were talking about the gallery.”

            “Which we visited almost daily.”

            “And one afternoon,” Bennett said, his eyes taking on a dreamy cast, “there it was. On display—in the back of the shop, mind you—next to a few trinkets that had been gathering dust over the months we’d wandered through.” Snapping out of his reverie, he said, “But you got to it first.”

            “That I did,” Nico agreed.

            “To my eternal chagrin.”

            Nico picked up the tale. “I purchased the skull immediately, using every franc I had on me, and even begging a few off of my good friend here. We knew there was a chance I’d been had, but there was an equal chance that the gallery’s proprietor hadn’t recognized the artist.”

            Bennett took a deep breath, staring off into some middle distance, as if the past was displayed there as clearly as if the events had taken place yesterday. “We raced to a reputable auction house”—at that he nodded acknowledgment to Cesare—“one that may very well, in its day, have been as respected as yours is, and we allowed their experts to take a look.”

            Nico grinned at Bennett. “And to think that on the trek to the auction house we were playing with it.”

            Bennett stretched out an arm, cupping his hand. “Alas, poor Yorick!”

            “You didn’t,” I said.

            “We did,” they said in unison.

            I was aghast. “With an original Picasso?”

            Bennett’s eyes crinkled with mirth. “Only on the way to the auction house. At that point, we still weren’t sure if we’d picked up something valuable or a piece of junk.”

            Cesare had moved closer to the group, his dark gaze bouncing between the two men as they bantered. From the auctioneer’s antsy body language, I got the impression that he wanted to join in the joviality but didn’t quite know how.

            Next to her dad, Irena smiled, keeping a protective hand on his shoulder because, caught up in the moment, Nico seemed ready to leap out of his chair. “Do you remember the look on the proprietor’s face?”

            Their laughter floated in the high gallery around us, filling the airy space with cheer and comfort. Bennett turned to me. “That’s when we knew,” he said. “The auction master called in one of his associates immediately and we were treated with the utmost respect. We discovered that Picasso had created this during the war, and even though bronze casting was forbidden at that time, a faction in the French Resistance kept the artist supplied.”