‘Would he have asked them for a letter or something?’ Angelo asked. ‘Given that he was a collector and he would’ve known the importance of provenance?’
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But if he was so thrilled about finding the painting and so shocked that it had almost been thrown out and lost for ever, he might not have been thinking clearly enough to ask at the time.’
‘And if there’s no paper evidence...’
‘Then we have to build the case,’ she said. ‘I’m guessing there would be an invoice and a note from the restorer stating exactly what he’d done.’ She flicked into her computer file. ‘What your grandfather says in the diary tallies exactly with what he told us.’
‘Hopefully he’ll have a receipt from his stay at the village pub. And he said he took photographs. We need to find them, and whether the pub is still there, and if anyone remembers my grandfather,’ Angelo said.
‘There might be a local history society who can suggest leads if we get stuck,’ Mariana said.
‘You’re right. I’ll go online and see what I can find out,’ Angelo said.
‘I’ll make a start on the boxes while you check out the pub,’ she said. ‘I’ll put any artwork to one side, and just sort the rest into one pile a year for now.’
‘Good idea.’
Half an hour later, he came down to join her. ‘There’s a local history group. According to their website, the pub closed in the nineteen-eighties and was turned into a private house. There’s no phone number so I’ve emailed to ask what they can tell us.’ He frowned. ‘All we can do now is wait.’
She had a feeling that waiting wasn’t something that came easily to him. ‘Then let’s concentrate on this. I’ve made a start on the piles.’
He worked methodically—as she’d expected—and on a couple of occasions their hands brushed together when they reached across the table at the same time. She was so aware of him. Of his strength—he’d lifted her so easily in the kitchen—and of his gentleness. The way he was letting her run the project her way rather than micromanaging it himself.
But most of all she thought about how it had felt when he’d held her. He’d been sensitive. How would it feel if he held her with passion?
She glanced at him—only to find he was giving her the same kind of sidelong glance. Did he feel the same pull of attraction that she did? Did he, too, wonder what would happen if they took a risk? Her mouth went dry as the possibilities slid through her mind.
But when he made no move, she made herself concentrate on the task in hand.
The afternoon netted them absolutely nothing from May 1963.
‘This is starting to feel like looking for a needle in a haystack,’ Angelo said.
‘That’s because we’re in the early stages. It’ll come together,’ she said, slightly more confidently than she felt.
‘I guess. I’d really like to find some photos, though.’
‘We’ll get there,’ she said. ‘Let’s do another hour.’
He looked at his watch. ‘I can’t expect you to work the same stupid hours as I would.’
‘You’re going to carry on if I leave, aren’t you?’ she asked.
‘Well—yes,’ he admitted.
‘Then I’ll stay,’ she said. ‘I want to be here when we find the evidence.’
And it was a sense of diligence in her work that drove her, she told herself. Nothing to do with spending more time with Angelo.
He looked at the unopened boxes. ‘We’re not going to get it all done today.’
‘No, but we’ll get quite a bit done in an hour,’ she said.
‘OK. On condition I buy you dinner.’
Dinner. Just the two of them. Much more intimate than lunch at his kitchen table. She almost suggested that they go out—but he was her client. She couldn’t afford complications. Instead, she said, ‘A takeaway. Delivered here. And we go halves.’
‘Deal.’
Another hour of searching, and it still felt as if they’d barely scratched the surface. Although they’d found some photos, the pictures weren’t from 1963 and they weren’t taken in England.