chin as far away from Bree as possible. “Just a few streets up from the Barter.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bree lift a finger. “Oh,” she said innocently. “The one by Plumb Alley?”
He hesitated. Darted one polite but swift glance her way. “Yes. I believe somewhere near there.”
“Just off, say, North Court Street?”
Chip paused to think while his face tightened. “I think so,” he said, tugging lightly around the collar. “I’d have to say, Mr. Richardson, restoring an old property to its original glory is the highlight of my days.”
Bree opened her mouth.
“Here”—Chip rushed to stop her from speaking again—“I think I have a business card somewhere if you’re interested.” Before Mr. Richardson could reply, Chip reached into his breast pocket and whipped out a card. There was one in each pocket of his trousers and in about ten locations in his bag, just in case he forgot where he’d placed it for this critical moment. “Are you doing some remodeling, sir?”
“I am, actually,” Mr. Richardson said, peering at the card in his hands.
Maybe it had been too much to put pictures on the back of both The Last Supper and the new Emory buildings side by side.
“Thank you for this.” Mr. Richardson tucked the card in his pocket and looked up to the easel. “And what do we have here?”
“Oh,” Chip began, trying not to clam up. “I was just working on my”—he mentally scanned the words scribbled beneath his watch—“crosshatching.”
That word worked here. Brushstrokes crisscrossed one another to create a web of mixed colors. He laughed politely. “But you know how it goes.”
“Seems like a lot of brown here, not a lot of colors,” Mr. Richardson mused, resting a finger on his chin.
“Well,” Chip began. What was that artist’s name again? He moved his hand behind the easel, pulled back his sleeve, and scrolled through the few words. “As an avid fan of Albrecht Dürer’s style,” he said, tugging an invisible stray thread from the canvas, “I like to follow in his footsteps for landscape scenes like this.”
Mr. Richardson frowned. “Dürer. I’ve never been too fond of his work. All so eerie and disapproving.”
“Did I say Dürer? I must’ve just had his name on my mind after my nightly reading. I meant Johns. Jasper Johns.”
Mr. Richardson pressed his lips together in a thin line. “Johns. I’ve never liked any of his works either. Like any young, untrained man could just—just—”
“Stand out here pretending he’s a twenty-first-century Da Vinci with a few zigzag brushstrokes?” said Bree.
The group turned to look at her, holding her hands clasped at her waist, smiling with all the innocence of a wolf hidden in Grandma’s clothing.
“Exactly,” Mr. Richardson replied, shaking his finger at her as if noticing her for the first time. “You’re one of ours, aren’t you? A fairy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”
She bowed her head. “Mustardseed at your service, sir.”
His eyes softened. “I’m so sorry about the trouble at the Barter lately. I must say, in all my years we’ve never had a mix-up like this.” He patted her arm. “At any rate, my dear, I certainly hope the cast cut won’t affect you.”
Theo took a protective step toward her. “I’m sure it won’t, sir. Not with a talented fairy like herself.”
Mr. Richardson smiled up at him, a twinkle in his eye. “Yes. Well, as we all know, Theo only spends his time with the best. Professionally and otherwise.” He winked her way. “You’re fortunate you keep such fine company, Ms.—”
“Leake,” she replied, but Chip noted the falling smile.
So. Tesla man was going to work behind the scenes to keep his fairy girlfriend in the next show. It wasn’t surprising. And certainly not something to be embarrassed about. Still, the look on her face told him this was news to her. She blinked his direction, the color in her cheeks deepening.
Mr. Richardson adjusted his hat and turned back to Chip. “Mr. McBride, if you’re available, I’d like to come by your office sometime tomorrow to discuss some plans we have for a renovation project we’re about to get going at the Barter.” He’d brought the business card up to his eyes, peering for some address. “Although, I may have to avert my eyes if you have any Dürers around.” His lips twitched at his own joke.
Chip stumbled to respond. “Oh—I’m sure I couldn’t give you my best thoughts without walking through the site in question firsthand.”
Mr. Richardson was nodding before Chip finished his sentence. “True. True. How