The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [51]
Pavel was entranced. His hands ran over each figure, touching the folds in the velvet.
“Maybe I am lunatic, Max,” Pavel finally said. “But I believe this piece has character. I feel the depth charge!”
“With what you’re paying, mister,” Max said in a deadpan tone, “you better feel the depth charge!”
She could hear the men laughing as she finally meandered up front. When Pavel reached out and took her hand, she trembled. He looked at her before letting go. “You are shaking, Charlotte. I feel it.”
“It’s the cold,” she answered. “I’m thin-skinned.”
“I’m being too forward, perhaps? I’m sorry.”
Charlotte noticed Max eyeing their exchange.
“No!” she replied, quietly grabbing his hand. It wasn’t the fact that he’d taken her hand, but the warmth of his touch that had made her tremble. Holding hands was such a simple, human gesture. She saw people do it all the time. But she had no memory of anyone ever holding hers. Not even her nanny. The intimacy of the gesture took her breath away. As they walked toward the door, Max picked up the phone. She was certain he was calling Anna. It was almost tribal, the way news traveled in the trade.
“Would you like a ride, Charlotte?” Pavel offered, hopefully, as they closed the door behind them.
“Sure,” said Charlotte. “I have a lot of work but maybe you could drop me off somewhere in midtown.”
“Of course, it would be my pleasure,” Pavel said, inviting her to slide into the limo. “I owe you. Not just for the piece, but the chance to meet such an extraordinary man.”
“What were you two talking about, anyway?” Charlotte asked, leaning back against the luxuriously soft leather seat.
“Max’s grandfather was a tailor up in the Bronx,” Pavel said, now keeping a polite distance between them. “He said that his mother covered all the furniture in plastic. That’s why he ended up loving a nice patiner.”
“Patina,” Charlotte gently corrected him.
“This is the same thing as what Max calls character?” Pavel asked, genuinely interested.
“Almost the same,” Charlotte said. “Patina is something that evolves over time, Pavel. It’s all the nicks and scrapes, the scars that show that a piece has lived.”
“Is this why you are attracted to this furniture, Charlotte?” Pavel asked, moving across the seat. “Because of its patina?”
“Yes, that’s part of it.” Charlotte, replied, lost, for a minute, in her own passion. “Most people see these signs of life as damage, as something that diminishes the beauty of a piece.”
“And you don’t?” Pavel asked, lowering his window.
“No. These pieces have been around for centuries. The damage is part of their identity. It’s why I hate pieces that are too restored.”
“Can you give me an example, I mean, of too much restored?”
“Well, it’s like people who inject this stuff into their wrinkles, you know, so they look younger?”
Pavel nodded. “In Moscow, they are injecting their own stem cells into their bodies at $20,000 a shot.”
“Right. And this is the problem. Because when a piece is stripped down and comes back all pretty and polished, it loses the thing that defines its beauty, which is experience. This is what makes it so unique.”
“Charlotte, forgive me. But I believe you are quite unique, too. And I wonder, sometimes, if life has damaged you at all. You seem so flawless.”
“Unique, maybe,” she said, running her fingers through her hair and trying to defuse the tension that had sprung up between them. “But definitely not flawless. Now, are we going to eat tomorrow night?”
“Yes, I will spend tonight in Jersey with my family. But I’ve made reservations at Per Se for 8 o’clock. Does this sound good?”
“This sounds marvelous, Pavel,” Charlotte said, giving him a small smile. “Now please ask your driver to stop so I can get out and find something to wear.”
When the limo stopped on 58th Street and Fifth, Charlotte jogged toward 6th Avenue where a new Internet café had been tucked into the ground floor of a high rise office building. I’ll just do some surfing, she