She tore her gaze away from the panels. “I’m going to be making a bit of a mess,” she said doubtfully.

“You can work on the terrace if you like.” Josh opened the doors at the back of the room. “Or there’s the winter garden over there.” He pointed to a windowed enclosure that would be ideal on a cooler day but most likely roasting in summer.

“I’ll take the terrace,” D’Arcy said, exiting through the doors. She dropped her equipment onto a table that she could use as a workbench. “I’ll build a crate for each photograph that isn’t already packed,” she said, “but they’ll need to be double-crated. You must have some insulated crates somewhere?”

He nodded and disappeared, and D’Arcy began to saw and hammer. She did build crates occasionally; certain clients were fussy and D’Arcy had a reputation for being able to take care of an artwork from start to finish. She knew how to pack and how to transport and how to negotiate with customs brokers and sometimes couldn’t believe that a fine arts degree had led to her becoming a kind of glorified babysitter for priceless artworks. But she also knew she loved it, even the carpentry that was her job right now.

Once the first crate was ready, she started on the condition report for the accompanying photograph. Josh arrived back with the insulated crates just as she’d finished.

“I need your autograph,” she said, passing him the paperwork.

He read it over, frowning, glancing at the photograph referred to and eventually seemed to concede to her description as being accurate.

“I’ll work in the salon this morning so I can read each report and sign as you go,” he said.

“It’ll be noisy. Sawing and hammering are hard to do quietly.”

“I don’t mind noise. I used to work in the bullpen of a law firm in Manhattan; twenty associates are probably a lot noisier than a saw.”

“Wow, this must be a huge change of pace,” she said.

He shrugged, not elaborating any further.

The morning went on with D’Arcy fashioning crates, completing condition reports, having Josh sign them, which he did wordlessly, but at least never disagreeing or asking her to change what she’d written. In between the whirr of her saw or her drill, she could hear Josh speaking on the phone in impeccable French. It felt as if hardly any time had passed before Célie appeared with food and D’Arcy realized it was after two o’clock. More baguettes. Cheese. Tomatoes. Charcuterie. Her stomach growled loudly.

“I’m starving,” she said to Célie in French, who smiled.

“Wait until you try the tarte tatin I have for dessert,” Célie said.

D’Arcy groaned. “I’ll be sure to leave room for it.”

Josh came out onto the terrace as D’Arcy sat down. “You speak French much too well for an Australian,” he said.

D’Arcy finished chewing her mouthful of bread. “Are Australians not known for their linguistic skills?” she asked innocently.

“Not generally, no. You’re an island in the middle of nowhere. There’s no pressing need to speak anything other than English.”