Homeport by Nora Roberts

could use her. Either way, he would get the job done. But using her would be so much more. . . entertaining. Since this would be his last job, it seemed only fair it include some entertainment in addition to the thrill and the profit.
    He thought it would be worth his while to get to know Miranda Jones, to indulge himself with her. Before he stole from her.
    He saw the light flick on in a window on the third floor of the sprawling granite building. Straight to work, he mused, smiling again as he caught the shadow of movement behind the 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