Mister Impossible, Maggie Stiefvater [uplifting novels txt] 📗

one hundred percent sure the collection it came from was made up of sweetmetals. All she knew was that it had been a similarly eclectic assemblage of works that went for unexpected prices. And that it was very, very secret. More secret than one would expect a collection that included bed frames, lamps, and fine art photography to be. It had taken a lot of legwork and social pull to get even that much information. It felt like a lot of hours invested for the possibility of looking at maybe another sweetmetal to see what it had in common with El Jaleo and the other sweetmetals she’d seen. This one was a photograph, so that was unique, at least. And what other leads did she have, anyway?

Inside, the condo was modern and spare, taking advantage of the church’s soaring ceilings to incorporate sleek, tall sculpture and dripping, laser-clean lighting. Not Jordan’s style, but she could appreciate it. Declan would probably have been wild for it. It was a grown-up, very expensive, very specific version of his blank townhome, combined with the abstract art he’d hidden away in his attic.

“I know this is kind of corny,” Sherry said. “This whole thing. But I’ve just loved the idea of it ever since I was a kid, and I got too old to be in it myself, and now that Harlow’s just big enough to be painted, I thought, I’m going to do it, I’m going to pull the trigger before I change my mind or Donald talks me out of it.”

“There’s a long tradition of it,” Jordan said. “So you’re in good company. John White Alexander isn’t what I would have imagined you’d want, though. Not with your style.”

Sherry looked around the room. “Oh, this is Donald’s style. I got to do the library and bedroom, he got the living room and the dining area. We divided the territories in the peace accord.”

“Oh, I see,” Jordan said as Sherry led the kids into a library. It was far more what she would have expected for a client requesting John White Alexander, a traditional and mannered contemporary of John Singer Sargent. There were dark floor-to-ceiling bookcases and an ornate, hulking desk holding up a Tiffany lamp. Fiddly bronzes were tucked into alcoves; the rug was a hand-knotted number so shabby that it must have cost a fortune. There was a gap in the shelves just the right size for a Jordan Hennessy take on John Alexander White.

“This is very handsome,” Jordan said.

“Thank you,” Sherry replied, but she was examining her phone with annoyance. “I’m sorry to spend your time like this, but it looks like the nanny’s not checking her phone. She wasn’t even supposed to be here today, but there was a mix-up, so I told her to stay on, and of course she took the kids out on a walk. I’m going to have to go catch up with her before she takes them to the aquarium or something. Do you have a minute? Help yourself to coffee—I just put a pot on. Follow your nose … the kitchen’s just over there.”

Once they were alone, they immediately went to get coffee. The kitchen was beautiful and unused except for the gadgets on the counter: coffee machine. Blender. Bread maker.

“This coffee is hairy,” Matthew complained.

“It’s fancy,” Jordan said.

“Everything’s fancy here. What’s that lady mean about her painting? Why does she think the painting’s bad before it already started?”

“Oh, ’cause it’s not an original,” Jordan explained, opening and closing every drawer and cabinet in the room. “Because she doesn’t want me, you see? She wants John White Alexander, but he’s very dead, which isn’t good for business. So she’s got me, and she wants me to put her li’l daughter in one of his paintings.”

Sherry had hired Jordan through fairly ordinary word of mouth to do one of her least sexy but most common forgeries: historical pieces redone with the faces replaced with clients’. Sherry’s was at least a tasteful request, her young daughter done in the same style as Alexander’s elegant Repose or Alethea, two pieces subtle enough to look like homages rather than out-and-out gimmicks. Jordan tried to avoid painting clients into the Birth of Venus these days.

“Like Photoshop,” Matthew said. “Oh, gosh, oh, no, that sounded mean, I didn’t—”

She laughed. Matthew couldn’t sound mean if he tried. “You’re not far off. It’s not a direct copy, that’s why I’m more swish than the other people doing it. I’m supposed to do the painting Alexander would’ve done if he’d been around, not just a photocopy. His palette, brushstrokes, composition. My brain. Her daughter. New painting.”

“Sounds hard.”

“It’s not. Well, not anymore. It’s just my job.” Swallowing the rest of the fancy coffee, she pushed off the pure-white counter to gaze at the living room walls. No photographs. She wondered if the sweetmetal was even in the house. She couldn’t feel anything; it wasn’t like El Jaleo, where part of her could always tell it was around the corner even before she saw it. Barbara or Fisher had said something about sweetmetals wearing off. Maybe it had worn out.

“It’s a cool job.” He was glancing at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Probably he thought he was being discreet, but he wasn’t. His face was curious. “Cooler than Declan’s other friends.”

“He has friends?” Jordan asked, mouth amused. She doubted this highly. Friends required honesty, which wasn’t a thing Declan had a lot of. “What do they do?”

“Number jobs? Politics. They wear ties. They have these things.” He made a gesture to his face that managed to convey facial hair. “Declan stuff.” Jordan was surprised to see that Matthew seemed to believe in the neutral, boring person Declan presented to the rest of the world. That meant Declan had played that role even at home.

“Do you go to school, Matthew?”

His golden, carefree expression went troubled, and then it went blank. This was a very different expression than the one he’d had before. Something