g was off-the-beaten-path journeys meant to be both entertaining and educational. Bayli could draw upon some of the Holdsworths’ reactions to excursions-gone-awry as color commentary.
Not that she should be thinking so far ahead. She knew it wasn’t wise to put all her eggs in one basket. And without the cooking-show basket, she’d be right back to square one. Only she would have lost significant time chasing her tail with that prospect when she could have been looking for another job—since even Christian had confirmed they wouldn’t be offering her the hostess position at Davila’s NYC. Had likely already filled it.
Her optimism didn’t dim, however. Because after this morning she really did believe in Christian’s confidence about the project and his interest in her being his and Rory’s shooting star. Plus, she was with Phillip and that man was nothing but pure sunshine.
He ardently said, “Colin located a much better rendition of the vase than you and I have previously been working with.” Colin was also Dr. Holdsworth. Both PhDs. Phillip explained, “He lost the trail around the early twentieth century, though.” Philip handed over the drawing. It was quite similar to the one he’d provided when Bayli had first joined the staff and he’d singled her out for this special procurement. But the new image was colored in with oil paints. Vibrant splashes of red, orange, gold, green, and purple. A little overwhelming visually, but once she got past that, the vase was quite stunning.
Bayli carefully set her pile of books on the table and snatched the one on top, placing it before Phillip where he was still hunched over his designated space. “I’ve finally found more than a mere mention of the vase. For the past two months, I’ve been digging a deep hole to China with no concrete leads to follow. Then, suddenly, I hit upon this.” She flipped the hardback open to the section she’d flagged with a torn piece of paper and said, “I’m pretty sure this is the same piece.”
She held his rendering to the one in the book. The pattern was identical upon first inspection.
“Unfortunately,” she continued, “with my version being in sepia tones and yours being so vivid…” She frowned. “Does Colin know for sure this is an accurate depiction? I mean, we’ve all only come across a couple of images and they’ve never been in color. So how do we confirm these jewel tones are true to life?”
“We can’t, of course. Not until we find a solid description in a narrative or caption.”
Bayli nodded. “I remember taking the Amtrak from San Francisco to Albuquerque for a college research trip”—before she’d had to drop out because she could no longer afford tuition—“and we stopped in Flagstaff, Arizona, along the way. The freight depot was built in 1886 and the main Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe railroad depot in 1926. Then they morphed it into a Tudor Revival style that’s really beautiful in mostly brick, but there’s some bright-turquoise trim that’s kind of out of character with the rustic elegance of the mountain town—lumberjack land, as they consider it. Rumor has it, when it came time to spruce the place up in the 1990s someone convinced the City Council that was the original color of the depot.”
“That does sound a bit off,” Phillip said.
“It’s no sore thumb or anything. I just found it amusing that apparently someone of influence sold these people on turquoise paint when the original freight depot was red sandstone, and I just can’t imagine paint coming in bright turquoise in the early 1900s. Or, more appropriately, I don’t know how they would have pegged the color from black-and-white photos.”
“Good point.” Phillip gazed at the colorful picture of the vase and said, “I’m a wee leery of the purple. But the pattern is a fabulous match.”
Bayli gave him the highlights of what she’d discovered from the text, then said, “My friend Scarlet is an independent insurance fraud investigator. We can ask her to try to authenticate your more modern depiction. With the information I have here, she can also check with her global connections to see if there’s a trail to pick up regarding the vase’s whereabouts.”
“Clever girl.”
“You have no idea. Her business is booming and really, I think she’s beyond brilliant and—”
“Bayli,” he said with a dry look. “I was talking about you.”
“Oh.” She grinned. “Right. Well, then. Here’s plenty for you and Colin to pore over during cocktail hour.” She indicated the book. “And I’ll just be on my way.”
“Why don’t you join us?” Phillip offered. “Colin’s two roommates from Oxford are in town and he’s cooking an enormous feast at the apartment. Come over for really bad food, bottomless bottles of wine, and lots of laughs.”
“Phillip! Colin is an excel—”
“Oh, bloody hell, Bay. If you dare say Colin’s an excellent cook, I’ll be forced to lie and say you’re an excellent karaoke singer. And really, I do hate to shine on people I adore.”
She snorted. “That was oh, so delicate, friend of mine. But I get your point. So I’m not bringing my personally crafted, bejeweled mic over this evening. Your loss.”
He gaped for a moment, then said, “You don’t really have—”
“Of course not!” She laughed. “So gullible. Geez, Oxford will give anyone a PhD, won’t they?”
“Keep applying and we’ll find out,” he joked.
“Sure, like I want to hang out with a bunch of snobby Brits who would dare challenge my knowledge of Shakespeare.”
“So predictable,” he said with a tsk. “Talk to me about a creative genius other than Shakespeare this evening, please.”
“That sounded downright boorish,” she playfully chided.
“Well, you did insult my alma mater.”
“You insulted my singing.”
“I had to put a stop to your madness over Colin’s cooking, didn’t I?”