The lemon-scented wax always left a dull film on the gold leaf if I did not buff it dry immediately. I worked the soft flannel cloth over the carved corner of the frame, right where the gesso had begun to hairline crack after forty years above the mantle. It was a massive piece, four feet across, containing the five figures my father had labored over during his final summer in the studio.
Robert stood by the front window, the plastic tag of his car keys clicking against his palm with a dry, rhythmic snap. He had not taken off his driving gloves, though the furnace was already humming its warm, dusty breath through the floor registers.
“The appraiser from Cleveland said three weeks,” Robert said, his words coming in that rapid, clipped style he used when he was running out of patience. “We list it by Friday, we have the certified funds before the first snow.”
