Homeport

outline her day on paper. By the time she’d completed the first tasks on her list—reading her mail and memos, organizing her phone messages—the sun was up and streaming in bands through the slats of her blinds.
    “Miranda?” A quick rap on the door jolted her.
    “Yes, come in.” She glanced at the clock, noting her assistant was punctual, as always.
    “I saw your car in the lot. Didn’t know you were coming back today.”
    “No, it was . . . unscheduled.”
    “So how was Florence?” Lori moved briskly around the room, checking for messages, adjusting the slant of the blinds.
    “Warm, sunny.”
    “Sounds wonderful.” Satisfied all was in its proper place, Lori sat and perched her notebook on her knee. She was a pretty blonde with a Kewpie doll mouth, a voice like Betty Boop, and an edge of efficiency sharp as a honed razor. “It’s nice to have you back,” she said with a smile.
    “Thanks.” Because the welcome was sincere, Miranda smiled in return. “It’s nice to be back. I’ve got a lot to catch up on. Right now I need updates on the Carbello Nude and the Bronzino restoration.”
    The routine was soothing, so much so that Miranda forgot everything but the matters at hand for the next two hours. Leaving Lori to set up appointments and meetings, she headed out to check in with the lab.
    Because she was thinking of Andrew, Miranda decided to detour by his office before heading down. His domain was in the opposite wing, closer to the public areas. The galleries, acquisitions, and displays were his province, while Miranda preferred working mainly behind the scenes.
    She strode down the corridors, her practical boots treading over marble. Here and there the wide square windows allowed streams of pale light to streak over the floor, offered the muffled sound of street traffic, glimpses of buildings and bare trees.
    Office doors were discreetly closed. The occasional sound of phones or the whine of faxes echoed dully. A secretary carried a ream of paper out of the supply room and shot Miranda a startled-rabbit look, before murmuring a “Good morning, Dr. Jones,” then scurrying on.
    Was she that intimidating? Miranda thought. That unfriendly? Because it made her think of the fax, she narrowed her eyes at the woman’s back as she scooted through a door and closed it behind her.
    Maybe she wasn’t outgoing, maybe the staff didn’t have the same easy affection for her that they seemed to have for Andrew, but she wasn’t . . . hard. Was she?
    It disturbed her to think so, to wonder if her innate reserve was perceived as coldness.
    Like her mother.
    No, she didn’t want to believe that. Those who knew her wouldn’t think so. She had a solid relationship with Lori, an easy camaraderie with John Carter. She didn’t run the lab here like a boot camp where no one could speak their mind or tell a joke.
    Though no one joked with her, she thought.
    She was in charge, she reminded herself. What else could she expect?

    Deliberately she relaxed her shoulders again. She couldn’t let one timid secretary set her off on a tangent of self-analysis.
    Because, happily, she had no appointments or public meetings scheduled, she wore the same sweater and trousers she’d slipped into that morning to watch the dawn. Her hair was bundled back in an excuse for a braid and curls were already escaping from the messy plait.
    She was thinking that it was past midday in Italy, and the bronze would be in intense testing. It made her shoulders knot up again.
    She stepped through the door of her brother’s outer office. Inside was a sturdy Victorian desk, two viciously straight-backed chairs, filing cabinets in no-nonsense gray, and the woman who guarded it all.
    “Good morning, Ms. Purdue.”
    Andrew’s assistant was somewhere on the downside of fifty, tidy as a nun and just as strict. She wore her streaky salt-and-pepper hair in an identical knot every day, year in, year out, and was never without a starched blouse and dark blazer and skirt.
    She was always Ms. Purdue.
    She nodded, removed her busy fingers from her keyboard and folded them neatly. “Good morning, Dr. Jones. I didn’t know you were back from Italy.”
    “I got back yesterday.” She tried a smile, thinking it was as good a time as any to be more personable with the staff. “It’s a bit of a shock coming back to this cold.” When Ms. Purdue responded only with a brisk nod, Miranda gave up on the idea—gratefully—of a chat. “Is my