My smile widened even farther, cutting painfully into my cheeks. I extended my hand the way I’d seen Caroline do, with cool civility and a touch of condescension. “I am. Dad actually bought the painting for my twelfth birthday.”
“Awe,” she gushed. “That is incredibly sweet. I can’t imagine my dad buying me anything more than a pair of socks for my birthday.”
I laughed with her then shrugged. “Some of us are just born lucky, I guess. Is there any way you could help me? He passed away five years ago and we just celebrated the anniversary. I suppose with Christmas and everything, I’m feeling a little melancholy and nostalgic. It would mean a lot to me…and my family.”
The dark-haired woman stepped closer as she made a soft clucking noise with her tongue. “Let’s see what we can do, shall we? Mr. Klemm is our floor manager today, why don’t we find him?”
I beamed at her. “That would be perfect.”
“A Constantine, you say?” Mr. Klemm asked me with a severe frown on his heavily wrinkled features. “May I see a form of identification, please?”
My heart wedged itself at the base of my throat, thudding so strongly I felt I might throw up all over Mr. Klemm’s sensible loafers. Somehow, I managed to hand over my driver’s licence.
“I use a different last name,” I attempted to explain even though I knew I’d be hauled out of their on my ass for attempting to impersonate one of the most famous families in the city. “But my father is Lane Constantine.”
Mr. Klemm’s small eyes were nearly lost in the folds of skin hanging under his bushy brows, but he managed to pin me with them after glancing at my ID. Without saying a word, he started to tap on the keyboard of his computer. We were in a cramped office on the main floor we’d reached through a maze of corridors and the little room smelled of dust and pickled vegetables.
My knee juddered under the desk with nerves I couldn’t begin to squash. I felt so close to something, to knowing what Lane had clearly always intended me to know.
“I see,” Mr. Klemm said after a long moment, his jowls quavering as he picked up an old landline phone and punched in a number. When he raised it to his lips, he covered the speaker with a hand so I couldn’t hear his low murmur into the receiver.
With my luck, he was probably calling the police. I’d have to use my one phone call to contact Tiernan and he’d be livid as hell I’d gone off searching for answers without him.
“Ms. Bianca Belcante,” Mr. Klemm snapped in a way that made me wonder if I’d missed his first few attempts at garnering my attention. “Child with a Dove is currently in our restoration section with the head of department. I informed her that you wished to see the painting and she has offered to allow you access. If you’d like to follow me, I can hand you over into her supervision.”
Sweat broke out on my brow as my heart set to racing. “Yes, please, Mr. Klemm. That would be amazing.”
He peered at me again with flat-lined lips but nodded and proceeded to usher me from the office.
I followed him deeper into the hive of the museum, giddiness eating at the edges of my excitement and anxiety. I’d always been fascinated by one of the most famous museums in the world and dreamed that one day I might work The Sherman Fairchild Paintings Conservation Center so to see it now was an incredible experience.
Mr. Klemm stopped at door, glanced over his shoulder at me, then entered something into a keypad before opening it.
It took me a moment to follow, because I could glimpse the light pouring in through the glass walls and massive oil paintings propped on easels at the center of the room.
“Wow,” I breathed despite myself as I stepped into the room. “This is a dream.”
“I always thought so too,” a female voice agreed from my right.
I looked over to see a beautiful older woman with a softly creased face smiling at me as she walked over in a lab coat. She was wearing gloves to protection whatever she had been working on, but she plucked those off in order to shake my hand.
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Bianca,” she surprised me by saying. “I’ve heard so much about you from your father. My name is Emelie Fairchild.”
My eyebrows cut hard into my forehead. “You knew my father?”
She laughed, grey eyes twinkling. “I knew him very well, he was my brother’s best friend all their lives.”
I blinked into her green eyes, hit by the realization that this woman was Elias’s mother and Beckett’s sister. Before I could curb the impulse, I took a step away and let her hand drop from mine.
Her expression flickered. “Mr. Klemm, thank you for delivering Ms. Belcante. I’ll take over now and make sure she is seen out securely.”
“But––”
Suddenly the warm, unassuming woman seemed every inch the Constantine wife she was. “That’s enough, Mr. Klemm. I thank you.”
The older gentleman grumbled but saw himself out without protesting further.
“I just came to see the painting.” If Emelie was a Constantine, even just by marriage, there was a huge chance she would tell Caroline what I’d been doing at The Met. “I have a passion for Picasso.”
Emelie’s eyes sparkled in the descending white light of the winter evening. “Yes, I’ve heard. There’s no need to be concerned, Bianca. Between Lane and, now, Elias, I know you’re a good woman and I’m happy to finally have the opportunity to meet you.”
“Caroline doesn’t know I’m here,” I tested.
She nodded easily, waving her hand. “Not to worry. Where do you think Elias gets his rebellious nature from? Our part of the family has long born the black mark of Caroline’s displeasure. I won’t find it in my heart to capitulate to her dictatorship now.”
“Thank you.” I wasn’t sure I could trust her, but the damage had already been done. She knew I was there to see Child with a Dove and, it seemed, she knew I was Lane’s love child.
“Come,” she encouraged, holding out her hand to me. “Let me show you the painting. It was damaged badly, but of course, the cameras malfunctioned the evening of the party so we don’t know exactly what happened.” She paused, casting a glance at me as she led us to the corner of the large room. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
I shrugged, but her small smile told me she suspected I had something to do with the damaged painting.
“I was with him when he bought it,” she told me as we stopped in front of the portrait. “It was an unlisted item at the auction, but he’d had feelers out for years about Picasso’s dove paintings. He told me they reminded him of someone special.”
I nodded, my heart in my throat as I took in Picasso’s blue period masterpiece. I’d never been so close and the details were exquisite.
“He bought Le Reve that day too,” she continued, oblivious to the way my entire body reacted to her words.
“Is it here?” I asked breathlessly. “I’d love to see it.”
“It’s in storage. Lane and Caroline had donated countless items over the years to The Met. What’s not on display is housed in the vaults below the museum.”
“Do you have access?” I asked, as if I didn’t care, as if I was just bored and it was the only thing I could think of to ask.