Homeport

window.
    It was about time he got to work himself. He started the car, pulled away from the curve, and drove off to dress for the next part of his day.
     
    The New England Institute of Art History had been built by Miranda’s great-grandfather. But it was her grandfather, Andrew Jones, who had expanded it to its full potential. He’d always had a keen interest in the arts, and had even fancied himself a painter. He’d been at least good enough to convince a number of healthy young models to take off their clothes and pose for him.
    He’d enjoyed socializing with artists, entertaining them, acting as patron when one—particularly an attractive female one—caught his eye. A ladies’ man and enthusiastic drinker he might have been, but he’d also been generous, imaginative, and had never been afraid to put his money where his heart lay.
    The building was a strong gray granite, spreading over a full block, with its towering columns, its wings and squared-off archways. The original structure had been a museum with carefully tended grounds, huge old shade trees, and a quiet, rather stern-faced dignity.
    Andrew had wanted more. He’d seen the Institute as a showcase for art and for artists, as an arena where art was displayed, restored, taught, and analyzed. So he had cut down the trees, slabbed over the grounds, and erected the graceful and somewhat fanciful additions to the original structure.
    There were classrooms with high light-filled windows, carefully designed laboratories, lofty storerooms, and a beehive of offices. Gallery space had been more than tripled.
    Students who wished to study there were taken on merit. Those who could afford to pay paid dearly for the privilege. Those who couldn’t, and were deemed worthy, were subsidized.
    Art was holy at the Institute, and science was its deity.

    Carved in a stone lintel above the main entrance were the words of Longfellow.
     
    ART IS LONG, AND TIME IS FLEETING
     
    Studying, preserving, and displaying that art was how the Institute spent its time.
    It remained basically true to Andrew’s conception fifty years later with his grandchildren at the helm.
    The museum galleries it held were arguably the finest in Maine, and the work represented there had been carefully chosen and acquired over the years, beginning with Charles’s and then Andrew’s own collections.
    The public areas swept the main floor, gallery spilling into gallery through wide archways. Classrooms and studios jammed the second level, with the restoration area separated from them by a small lobby where visitors with the correct passes could tour the work spaces.
    The labs occupied the lower level and shot off into all wings. They were, despite the grand galleries and educational facilities, the foundation.
    The labs, Miranda often thought, were her foundation as well.
    Setting her briefcase aside, she moved to the Federal library table under her window to brew coffee. As she switched the pot on, her fax line rang. After opening her blinds, she moved to the machine and took out the page.
    Welcome home, Miranda. Did you enjoy Florence? Too bad your trip was cut so rudely short. Where do you think you made your mistake? Have you thought about it? Or are you so sure you’re right?
    Prepare for the fall. It’s going to be a hard jolt.
    I’ve waited so long. I’ve watched so patiently.
    I’m watching still, and the wait’s almost over.
    Miranda caught herself rubbing a hand up and down her arm to warm it as she read the message. Though she made herself stop, the chill remained.
    There was no name, no return number.

    It read like a sly chuckle, she thought. The tone taunting and eerily threatening. But why, and who?
    Her mother? It shamed her that Elizabeth’s name was the first to form in her mind. But surely a woman of Elizabeth’s power, personality, and position wouldn’t stoop to cryptic and anonymous messages.
    She’d already hurt Miranda in the most direct way possible.
    It was more likely a disgruntled employee at either Standjo or the Institute, someone who felt she’d been unfair in her policy or work assignments.
    Of course, that was it, she decided and tried to breathe clearly again. A technician she’d reprimanded or a student who was unhappy with a grade. This was only meant to unsettle her, and she wouldn’t allow it to work.
    But rather than discarding it, she slipped it into her bottom drawer and turned the key in the lock.
    Putting it out of her mind, she sat to