“Your father’s home?”

“Yes. We brought him home yesterday.”

“Are you OK with that?” She stood back, her knowing gaze upon him once more, reading his doubts. “Is that good?”

“It is.” He seemed to discern the truth of it there on the spot. The hell with more treatment, home and family were what was needed. Care. Hope. Faith. “It’s good.” He smiled at her as if it were her doing. “We’ll see how it goes from here.”

When she did nothing further, he started down the hall toward the kitchen, his mind already seeing the stairs beyond, the small chamber and that other woman who was the third part of this triangle. Ana took his arm and pulled him the other way, toward the stairs going up.

“No, no icon today. Just you and me.”

He let her lead him up the stairs, his legs willing but his muscles clenched, while his heart began to race. Weird fears hounded him once more. He wanted to be up here, with her. He wanted to be down below, with it. She couldn’t really mean to keep him from it. The idea angered him, and the anger shamed him. He strained to control his emotions as Ana stripped her clothes off, slowly, methodically. It was no good. She saw everything, he could tell.

“I want this to be about us, Matthew. I want there to be some part of this that is only about us.”

She pulled his shirt up and pressed her breasts and belly against his skin. Her cool flesh and hard nipples demanded his attention. His body reacted, scorning his anger, ignoring the lack of instruction from his troubled, suspicious mind. Fotis’ words came back to him. Who knew what her own secrets were? At this moment, who cared? Her tongue found his; he remembered the night they had spent together. He wanted more of that, wanted to lose himself in her. The Mother of Christ receded, but did not disappear from his thoughts.

9

The priest sat in a low chair in the corner, yet seemed to command the room. In the few minutes of small talk that accompanied everyone’s getting settled, Matthew learned that Father Tomas was Greek-born but ordained in the American branch of the church, and served Bishop Makarios in New Jersey. He had arrived alone, no aide accompanying him. Fifty-some-thing, gray temples and curly black hair, a lined, trustworthy face, and kind eyes. Little was said at first about his purpose here, but he produced documents from the Holy Synod in Athens that seemed to satisfy Ana’s lawyer, Wallace.

In the only bright corner of the dark study sat the Holy Mother, on an aluminum easel, staring out at all of them. Matthew had looked at her a long time before the priest came, while Ana and the lawyer conferred, but now he turned his chair away and tried to clear his mind. Tomas had examined the icon when he arrived, but since then had mostly ignored it, his eyes instead roaming over the massive oak bookcases, hardly settling anywhere but taking in a good deal.

“Your grandfather collected more than paintings, I see.”

“Yes,” Ana responded. “He was very proud of his book collection. Maybe even more than he was of the paintings. I think he felt closer to them.”

“Of course,” the priest agreed. “One can be more intimate with a book, hold it, turn its pages. A book is a friend. A painting simply hangs there, aloof.” He glanced upward again. “I see some friends of my own on these shelves. Dostoyevsky. Flaubert. Kazantzakis. And some rare titles. Maybe we can talk books after we talk art.”

“How about we take one transaction at a time,” Wallace cut in. Late sixties, gray-haired and rheumy-eyed, a gravelly voice and a hacking cough that bespoke a lifelong cigarette habit, recently kicked, judging by his fidgety fingers. Nothing in his slumped posture, shifty gaze, or false-friendly delivery conveyed trustworthiness to Matthew, but Ana seemed to rely on and defer to him.

“Indeed,” Father Tomas said.

“Now,” Wallace shuffled his notes to no purpose, “I assume we can take your satisfaction with the work as a given.”

“If you refer to its artistic quality, I am hardly the proper judge, yet I pronounce myself well pleased. Of course, it’s suffered much wear.”

“Over the centuries,” Matthew said. “Not in the last sixty years.”

“In any case,” the priest continued, “while this might put off a collector, for my purposes it merely helps to establish the work’s age. And adds to its mystery.”

The lawyer cleared his throat, seemed to want to spit.

“And you’re satisfied that this is indeed the icon you’ve been pursuing.”

“The Holy Mother of Katarini. Again, I am not an art historian, but it conforms in every way to the description. Some of my brothers in Greece know the work firsthand, and will be able to identify it. What does your own expert say?”

All three of them looked at Matthew. Though he had resisted pushing Ana toward a decision, he’d been aggressive in his support once she made it, fearing that the lawyer might change her mind. He had even asked to be present for these negotiations. It hadn’t occurred to him that anyone would be asking him questions.

“Well, it matches everything I know about the Katarini icon. Of course, I haven’t tested it for miraculous powers.” Only the priest laughed. “I can say with confidence that it’s pre-iconoclastic, which alone makes it extremely rare, and that it’s a work of high artistic achievement.”

“In your opinion,” quipped Tomas.

“And according to the standards for religious art of that time.”

“You are Greek?”

A harmless question, but Matthew hesitated. “Yes, I am.”

“Then I shall consider your opinion doubly valuable.”

“So we’re agreed on those points,” the lawyer insisted.

“Indeed, Mr. Wallace,” sighed Tomas, with a long-suffering smile. “We can move on to the financials, as I can see you’re eager to do.”

“We discussed a figure a few days ago.”

The priest created a dramatic pause by sipping from his water glass, staring hard once more at the object of his affection.

“Hardly a discussion. You simply named a figure. A very high figure.”

“We don’t think so.”

“Perhaps a million and a half dollars is a modest sum by your own standards. The church of Greece is a small church in a small country, and I understood this was to be taken into account. We have never heard of any icon selling for such a price.”

“I doubt that an icon this rare has been offered for sale in any of our memories.”

“Fair enough. Yet an icon of considerable reputation was sold a few years ago for less than a third of the sum you name. That is the highest price we know of. It is perhaps lamentable that these items which we revere are not held in the same regard by the art community as certain secular masterpieces, but there it is. No one pays such prices for icons.”

“I have to tell you, Father, that we have already received an unsolicited offer of that much from a private buyer.” Wallace clearly enjoyed the silence which followed his little bombshell. Matthew was as stunned as the priest, and wondered if it was true. “Mind you,” the lawyer continued, “we haven’t pursued it, and it is not our desire to go private with this thing, but a number like that commands respect. Look, the Russian market is drying up. They’ve stolen everything they can out of that country. The price for all icons will rise, but for an extraordinary one like this…”

“Of course, one cannot account for the eccentricity of collectors,” Tomas said, recovering his composure. “I was under the impression that our only competition was institutional. Tell me, was the Metropolitan Museum prepared to pay anything close to this price?”

The priest was not looking at him, but Matthew wondered if he was supposed to respond. Instead, Wallace jumped in once more.

“We never got to that stage. For all I know, they might.”

“Even if it turned out the work was stolen?”