There are no signs it’s been forged. The brushstrokes are correct. So is the layering of the paint itself. No bristles have been left behind. It’s a perfect example of Lehmann’s characteristic attention to light. There isn’t much of it in a scene like this one, where the sun has only begun to rise, but he uses it to maximum effect.
This is the painting Daphne hates.
I take a step back and nod at Michael.
“I agree,” he says. He’d have said so already if he didn’t, but he’s not one to rush the process. Michael comes to stand beside me.
I take out my phone. “Same account as usual?”
“Yes.” Michael takes out his own phone and glances down at the screen while I tap in the amount and the authorization. I choose his account number from a list. A transfer of this size means I have to click several more checkmarks on the screen, but the process will be instant once I get to the last one.
Michael’s phone vibrates in his hand. He double-checks the confirmation, then drops it into his pocket and puts out his hand to shake. Two million dollars, my account to his.
“I’ll have it delivered.” He’s already reaching for the wrapping on the table.
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll carry it.”
“Carry it?” His eyebrows go up. “It’s no trouble, Emerson.”
“Like this.” I take off the gloves and drop them to the table, then pick up the piece in my hands. All the weight comes from the frame. The canvas itself is very light. Not a large painting to begin with. “If you could get the door.” Michael can get the door, and he does, discarding his own gloves on the way. They’ll be washed to within an inch of their lives before he uses them again. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
He stays by my side all the way to the foyer. He’s not often uneasy, but I can feel him wondering why in the hell I would carry a painting worth two million dollars in my bare hands this way. Michael will think it’s the act of a man who’s not thinking clearly.
There’s weather outside. Snow. Freezing rain. Wind. Any number of people are out there. Too much space. It’s gratuitous, really, how many unpredictabilities exist in the city. People lie to themselves all the time about it. They imagine that society keeps things in check, that our systems of roads and stoplights and policemen mean safety, but they don’t. Of course they don’t. I follow a pattern in the frosted glass next to the door. Watch the glare from the street lamp try to fight its way through to the wood frame. Clean and polished. My heart has begun to fight against the idea of stepping out into the afternoon. Sweat under my collar. Let Michael make his own assumptions.
He brings me my coat, and I prop the painting on a mahogany table near the entry. Do up the buttons.
“The other piece,” he says.
“Later. Next week, if there’s no hurry.” If there’s no one else he wants to sell it to.
“None at all,” Michael answers. “I’ll hear from you?”
“We’ll schedule tomorrow.” I pick up the Lehmann again. Something in my chest lifts. But it’s not about the art itself. It could never be about this painting, now that I know Daphne hates it. I’m anticipating something else entirely. Michael’s assistant comes in from a side room and stands at the door.
“Oh—one more thing.” Michael looks relieved. He thinks I’ll decide to have the piece delivered or let his assistant carry it. “Do you have a can of spray paint?”
Chapter Ten
Daphne
I wish I didn’t have to be at this family dinner.
Seven o’clock sharp. In the dining room. At my parents’ house. It sounds like a game of Clue, but there’s no mystery to be solved here. Not in this room, anyway. There are plenty of questions to be answered and I feel hot and vaguely sick with not knowing.
Angry, too.
The rest of us have been here since ten to seven. Sophia leaned over and told me about a club she went to until our mother sat down a minute later. Lucian and Tiernan sit nearest my father’s empty chair, neither of them saying anything until Sophia mentions the office. “The office, Lucian,” she says, and he raises his eyebrows and pretends to be shocked that she cares.
“You wouldn’t believe the meetings,” he says. “There’s room, you know. If you wanted to do something worthwhile with your time.”
Sophia makes a face at him. “Like what?”
“The mailroom would be a good fit.”
She dismisses this with a wave. She’s the ultimate socialite. A different tabloid every weekend. “I’m not interested in the family business.”
“What are you interested in, sister mine? Let’s see.” He pretends to tick things off on his fingers. “Smoke-filled clubs. D-list actors. Starting fires. Have I covered all the bases?”
I send an apologetic glance her way.
She rolls her eyes. “Why don’t you tell us what you’ve been doing lately, Lucian? You’ve missed lots of dinners this year. Aren’t you supposed to be in charge of everything?”
“I’m here now. That’s what counts.”
My father comes in at seven sharp, stepping around the staff who are serving the soup course. It’s what the chef calls rustic tomato, which means there are crushed tomatoes in it. My bowl comes down in front of me, china meeting hardwood with a dull click. I stare down at five fat croutons and a sprinkle of green oregano on the red surface. Leo hates this soup. I’ve watched him eat it a million times. You’d never know he hates it. He never gives it away.
One look around the table and my father’s face darkens. “Where is my son?”
“Lurking around London, I’d imagine.” Sometimes it’s hard to tell if Lucian is being deadpan or an asshole. I like it best when he turns it on our father. I don’t like much of anything tonight. Obviously, our brother Carter is not here. He’s the smartest one, both in terms of grades in school and getting away from Bishop’s Landing. He only comes home for special occasions, and sometimes he skips those, too. I wonder how he learned not to care. Or maybe he doesn’t feel the same pressure. Most times, it’s an obligation to be here, but easier than the consequences. My father’s anger. My mother’s disappointment. Path of least resistance.
Silver clinks against china. One of the servers refills Sophia’s water glass. I could tip my bowl over onto the white linen tablecloth in a big, dramatic spill. Tomato and crouton everywhere. It would break the tension. Explode it, probably. I don’t do it. I put the spoon into the crushed tomato and take a bite.
“Leo.” My father’s eyes tick down the table and meet mine. “Did he have somewhere better to be?”
I make my eyes big and slightly blank. He’s watching me, but he’s not necessarily asking me. The question could be for the room at large. I hope I look like I don’t know. I hope he doesn’t keep asking. Lucian looks across the table at Tiernan, who eats his own soup in silence.
This wouldn’t be happening at all, if it weren’t for everything else. That’s how life is, right? Everything depends on the past. And in the recent past, my brother got shot by a Constantine bulldog in his own house. He spent a week in the hospital afterward. I saw him the other day, and he pretended to be fine. I know he was pretending because when I hugged him, the breath went out of him. I didn’t hug him hard enough to make that happen.