The Secret Heiress by Judith Gould Page A

have to fret about being alone when there was an important event on campus. She could always tell the girls in the dorm that, yes, she had a date for whatever special occasion was coming up. Kurt was there, physically, if not necessarily emotionally.
    She sighed and watched her breath dissipate in the freezing air, and stamped her feet to keep them warm. There was still no sign of the bus, and she had just decided to go back and watch for it in the warmth of the museum when she heard the honk of a car’s horn.
    “Ariadne? Ariadne?”
    An old, battered-looking black Jeep stopped at the walkway, and a man was leaning out the driver’s window. Who on earth? She didn’t know anybody with a Jeep like that, did she?
    “It’s Matt,” the voice called. “Remember me?”
    Matt? He was smiling, and she could see his perfect white teeth from where she stood. She walked toward him. “How are you?” she asked.
    “Fine, but you look like you’re freezing.”
    “That’s because I am,” she replied with a laugh. “I’ve been waiting for the bus to take me back to the dorm.”
    “Want a lift? I’ll be glad to take you.”
    “Well . . .” She hesitated a moment, then thought, Why not? “Sure, if it’s not too much trouble.”
    “Hop in,” he said. He leaned across and pushed open the door on the passenger side.
    Ariadne slipped gladly into the Jeep’s warmth. “Oh, this feels so good,” she said, pulling the door closed. “It’s really freezing out.”
    “It looks like more snow, too,” he said cheerfully, disengaging the hand brake and putting the Jeep in gear. “Say, do you mind if I stop at my studio to pick something up? It won’t take a minute.”
    “Of course not,” Ariadne replied, suddenly curious to see what his studio looked like.
    “It’s just over there,” Matt said, pointing with a finger.
    He stepped on the gas and drove into the parking lot, pulling into a space near the long brick building. “Why don’t you run in with me?” Matt asked. “I think you’d find it interesting.”
    “I’d love to,” she said.
    Matt shut off the engine, hopped out of the Jeep, and went around to her side and opened the door.
    “Thank you,” Ariadne said, surprised by his manners. Nobody bothered nowadays with such old-fashioned courtesies.
    The sidewalks had been salted, and their boots crunched on the crystals and melting snow. Inside, he led her down a long hallway. Ariadne wrinkled her nose at the intense smell. Although she could hear the hum of extractor fans, the air was filled with the odor of linseed oil and turpentine, mixed with other smells she couldn’t identify.
    “Most of this area is studio space where paintings get cleaned, sometimes relined,” he said. “Depends on what’s needed. They’ll also get touch-ups or even repainting in some cases.”
    Where doors had been left open, Ariadne peered into large rooms with skylights. She saw people bent over paintings, intent on their work. In most cases, they wore gloves in which they held small cotton balls, dampened with some kind of solution. They lightly brushed the cotton back and forth across small sections of canvas. The natural light was supplemented by high-intensity lamps with magnifiers built in, and the restorers peered through the magnifiers as they worked, closely evaluating the effects the cleaning solution was having on the canvas.
    Down the hall, Matt took out a key and unlocked a door. “Here we are.” Ariadne followed him into the studio space, glancing around with fascination. It looked much like the others, except for the shelves that contained statuary composed of a variety of materials. She recognized marble, granite, bronze, and terra-cotta. On a long worktable, an army of tools was laid out with military precision. Stacks of various woods and wood veneers, cardboard, fiberboard, and paper of various colors and weights were placed neatly in rows along one side.
    Matt crossed to a corner and picked up a small box.