Homeport by Nora Roberts Page B

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 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.
    â€œMiranda?” A quick rap on the door jolted her.
    â€œYes, come in.” She glanced at the clock, noting her assistant was punctual, as always.
    â€œI saw your car in the lot. Didn’t know you were coming back today.”
    â€œNo, it was . . . unscheduled.”
    â€œSo how was Florence?” Lori moved briskly around the room, checking for messages, adjusting the slant of the blinds.
    â€œWarm, sunny.”
    â€œSounds 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.
    â€œThanks.” Because the welcome was sincere, Miranda smiled in return. “It’s nice to be back. I’ve got a lot tocatch 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