Sapphire Nights (Crystal Magic Book 1)(86)
Sam remembered her one encounter with the surly security guard. He hadn’t seemed to be a bad man, but unhappy might describe him. Was that what Valdis had channeled—Juan’s unhappiness that he was poor and the Kennedys were rich? Her aunt could have picked up on that while Juan was still alive.
“I think they’d like it,” she said, keeping her voice light so as not to encourage him if he didn’t want to do it. “Families always think the best of their relations.”
“I’ll cover the red with a dab of tempera. That seems to limit the corrosion. Maybe Monty will take it to the family for me.”
He finally took the time to study her. “You are more interesting than the Kennedy side of the family. You resemble the Ingerssons. Valerie has those same delicate cheekbones.”
Ridiculously pleased that he’d noticed a family resemblance, Sam brushed at her cheek. She hadn’t realized anyone knew of her relation to Valdis. “My parents tended to paint me as square blocks or eagles or other weirdnesses, so I don’t see myself as others do.”
He nodded understanding and began rummaging through a stack of paintings. “The Ingerssons and their tribe eventually gave up portraits, probably due to the paint corrosion. But the artwork that survived is quite distinctive.”
He pulled out a faded canvas and held it in the sunlight, where she could see it. The subject appeared to be artists painting other artists, a vain conceit, but Sam recognized her own face in that of the woman being painted. She touched the woman’s wild mane of hair. “My grandmother?”
He nodded, and pointed at one of the artists in front of an easel. The man’s face was turned away. Only his blond haystack of curls was visible. “Your grandfather.”
“Well, I see how I came by the unruly hair,” she said, forcing a lightness she didn’t feel. How did he know about her family? “You didn’t paint this, did you?”
“No, this was done before Valerie was born. She’s a little younger than I am, so I’d say this work is over fifty years old, just before your grandfather’s art became famous and brought notoriety to the commune. It’s not signed, but Valerie says it looks like her mother’s style. They were probably standing in front of mirrors so she could capture both of them at work. It used to hang in the lobby but Carmel had it taken down.”
“This paint didn’t corrode,” Sam noted with interest.
“But it faded, so they were experimenting with different mediums. We can learn so much from examining the work of the masters.” He set the oil back in the stack.
Sam wouldn’t call her grandparents masters if that was an example, but she nodded agreement anyway. “I noticed a painting in the dining room that resembles the mural in the diner. Was that done back then?”
He frowned. “Given its condition, most likely, although it appears a good deal of tempera was applied in some attempt to repair it. I never met most of the people the painting and the mural represent, so I can’t say if they’re a good likeness.”
“Perhaps the lodge’s canvas just needs a good cleaning, like the one at Dinah’s. Do you think anyone would mind if I took a look at it?” Sam wasn’t certain if she was learning anything valuable, but talking to Lance had been interesting. She’d have to ask Elaine about using crystals in paint.
“Not at all.” He waved vaguely in the direction of the lodge. “Go before the lunch hordes descend, and no one will know you’re there.”
Feeling as if she’d been dismissed, Sam thanked him for his time and loped toward the lodge. She hadn’t done a study of the Santa Cruz mountains, but in general along an oceanic fault, she assumed she would find sandstone and granite. If Daisy was finding crystals for her sculptures, and artists were grinding them into paint, she would guess there was some form of quartz diorite as well. She wasn’t a geologist, but she liked rocks. Diorite polished up nicely and made pretty kitchen counters. It was too hard for detailed carving, but she supposed it could be ground to add sparkle.
The dining room was empty. The lodge’s business hadn’t picked up since the fire. She’d hate to see the town dry up and blow away if the tourists didn’t come back. But she had ideas bubbling of how they could work with the burn site—if her step-grandmother would listen. Except Mariah wanted to keep Carmel away—odd.
Sam found the painting she’d noticed the one night she’d eaten at the lodge restaurant. It was too dark to really see it. Looking around, deciding there was no one to notice, she lifted the frame from the hook and carried it to a window. The porch overhang prevented too much sun from entering, but the light by the window was brighter.
She had seen Lucinda Malcolm’s work. This wasn’t it. She’d hoped it might be a valuable piece the Kennedys could sell to help cover expenses until the burn site was restored. But this was just what Lance had said—a tempera-dabbed oil, probably from half a century ago. It was another trite conceit—the artist portraying himself and his friends as the disciples at the Last Supper. The Jesus figure in the center was sitting behind a counter that looked like Dinah’s, and resembled the curly-haired man Lance had identified as her grandfather, although his hair was considerably longer in this work.
Anyone who portrayed himself as the Savior had to be an arrogant prick. She assumed his disciples were other members of the commune. They were all very young. Disappointed, she returned it to the wall.