Homeport

said her name once, stroking a hand down her back, up again. “Christ, I’m going to miss you.”
    She kept her eyes closed, said nothing at all. But she let herself sink in, let herself go, because a part of her didn’t believe he’d come back.
     
    He was gone when she awoke in the morning, leaving only a note on the pillow beside her.
Good morning, Dr. Jones. I made coffee. It’ll be fresh enough unless you oversleep. You’re out of eggs. I’ll be in touch.
    Though it made her feel foolish as a lovesick teenager, she read it half a dozen times, then got up to tuck it like a declaration of undying devotion in her jewelry case.
    The ring he’d pushed onto her finger, the ring she’d kept foolishly in a velvet-lined square box in the case, was gone.
     
    His plane landed at nine-thirty and Ryan was uptown at his gallery by eleven. It was a fraction of the size of the Institute, more like a sumptuous private home than a gallery.
    The ceilings soared, the archways were wide, and the stairs curved, giving the space an airy and fluid feel. The carpets he’d chosen to scatter over the marble and hardwood floors were as much works of art as the paintings and sculptures.
    His office there was on the fourth level. He’d kept it small in order to devote every available space to public areas. But it was well and carefully appointed and lacked no comfort.
    He spent three hours at his desk catching up on work with his assistant, in meetings with his gallery director approving sales and acquisitions, and arranging for the necessary security and transportation for the pieces to be shipped to Maine.
    He took time to schedule interviews with the press regarding the upcoming exhibit and fund-raiser, decided to shuffle in a fitting for a new tux, and called his mother to tell her to buy a new dress.

    He was sending the whole family to Maine for the gala.
    Next on the schedule was a call to his travel agent cousin.
    “Joey, it’s Ry.”
    “Hey, my favorite traveling man. How’s it going?”
    “Well enough. I need a flight to San Francisco, day after tomorrow, open-end return.”
    “No problemo. What name you want to use?”
    “Mine.”
    “There’s a change. Okay, I’ll get you booked and fax you the itinerary. Where you at?”
    “Home. You can book flights for my family, going to Maine.” He gave his cousin the dates.
    “Got it. All first-class, right?”
    “Naturally.”
    “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Ry.”
    “Well, that’s nice to hear because I have a favor to ask.”
    “Shoot.”
    “I’m going to give you a list of names. I need to find out what kind of traveling these people have been doing. For the last three and a half years.”
    “Three and a half years! Jesus Christ, Ry.”
    “Concentrate on international flights, to and from Italy in particular. Ready for the names?”
    “Look, Ry, I love you like a brother. This kind of thing’ll take days, maybe weeks, and it’s dicey. You don’t just punch a few buttons and get that kind of info. Airlines aren’t supposed to give it out.”
    It was a song and dance he’d heard before. “I’ve got season tickets to the Yankees. VIP lounge with locker room passes.”
    There was a short silence. “Give me the names.”
    “I knew I could count on you, Joey.”
    When he was done, he kicked back in his chair. He took the ring he’d given Miranda out of his pocket, watched it shine in the light coming through the filtered glass at his back.
    He thought he would have his friend the jeweler pop the stones and make them into earrings for her. Earrings were safer than a ring. Women, even bright, practical women, could get the wrong idea about a ring.
    She’d appreciate the gesture, he thought. And he was going to owe her something, after all. He’d have the earrings made, then have them shipped to her when he—and the bronzes—were a comfortable distance away.
    He imagined, once she had a chance to think it through, she’d conclude that he’d acted in the only logical fashion. No one could expect him to come out of his last job empty-handed.
    He put the ring back in his pocket so he’d stop imagining what it had looked like on her hand.
    She was going to get what she needed, he reminded himself, and when he rose his fingers were still toying with the ring. They would prove her bronze had been genuine, they’d uncover a forger, a murderer, and she’d be haloed in the spotlight with her reputation glinting like gold.
    He had several