Attribution by Linda Moore

Author:Linda Moore
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press

CHAPTER 18

The Fiat chugged along in the predawn over La Mancha’s sleepy plains toward Madrid. This journey propelled the two of them in the opposite direction from that train ride that brought them together toward the Prado and a moment of truth for La Gloria. Don Quixote’s windmills waved at them as they passed the hills where Cervantes must have doubted himself, questioned whether his message to challenge the status quo would undo him. Velázquez passed this way too, traveling to become a royal painter, possibly full of doubts about whether he could impress the king.

She’d dialed Mom and Dad once Antonio drove onto the main highway and her phone had a connection. With the time difference they’d just gotten into bed on Christmas night.

“We’ve been waiting for your call.”

“Merry Christmas! My phone connection didn’t work. I’m still in Spain.” It felt good to tell the truth, why not, she was working wherever she was. “I learned something in Seville. I need to finish the research in Madrid.”

“Seville? We thought you were back in New York. We should know where you are.” That exasperation, that desire to control and protect those they loved was something she once shared with Mom. Matty’s death slapped her with the futility of it, but Mom hung on to the idea it was possible.

She shared some about the dinner at Olivares, but not much about Antonio, and promised she’d check in more often. They said goodbye with dejection in their voices. As Christmas calls went, this fell on the low end of the pathetic scale. She made a note to fix it, always trying to fix something, her failure at this, a reminder of why she fled to New York, the complicated muddle had not changed.

Time for her and the painting was running out, and rushing forward was the up-tempo music playing in her head. The stakes got bigger: the Prado, my God, the Prado, the cathedral of the Spanish Baroque. She reviewed the list of supportive documentation and it was short, missing too much. La Gloria was not ready.

“How about a detour to Toledo to have some lunch? There’s a great parador in the same spot El Greco used to paint the city.”

“Not really hungry.”

“You’re nervous.”

“Nervous, yes nervous. I am rehearsing what I’ll say. Is it enough? These art titans are about winning, about who is right, not what is true.”

“Then win with what is true. You have compelling support. You brought the photo we printed of the frame, right?”

“Yes. Other puzzle parts are missing, especially provenance before the work came to Olivares. I don’t have their experience. What if I’m wrong?” A girl from a blue-collar family knocking on the door of the Prado.

“Convince them you have enough cause for more study, right? We, both of us, must stand on top of our fears, fight those Quixote windmills.”

“Ahhh what about … that theft thing. How do I explain it?” Even without the theft problem, she was way beyond her experience.

“In a few hours we will know something and immediately after that, you’ll make it right with the university.

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