Chapter 24
By two a.m., J.T. had already checked the Art Loss register, the well-known international database for stolen art, as well as various websites from dedicated Rembrandt lovers. Of course, Caroline was by his side, and at one point, she took over the computer when he wasn’t typing fast enough.
There was no record of the painting, but that wasn’t a surprise. It was supposedly lost.
“We’ll need to dig deeper,” Caroline said, cracking her knuckles. “And I know just where to look.”
Together they combed through articles from the world’s most recognized Rembrandt scholar.
“This is going to take a while,” J.T. said, trying not to get depressed.
Caroline thrust out her cup. “Get some more tea.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and as soon as he prepared the two steaming cups, he hunkered back down.
It took another hour for them to come across a short note saying there was some confusion about whether or not the great master had, in fact, painted Mary the Mother of God nude. The master hadn’t claimed to have done so, but one of his rivals insisted he had. The scholar went on to note that regardless, the painting in question seemed to have disappeared from history.
J.T. whooped into the air, and Caroline gripped his hand. “I’m feeling those weird tingles again,” she said.
“Yeah, I was starting to worry we wouldn’t find anything. God knows, Trev would think we’re being foolish.”
His brother wasn’t an art fan to begin with, and even if he made it through an explanation of the situation without falling asleep, he’d have guffawed at J.T.’s description of the painting. Yeah, a lost Rembrandt. Of Mary. Naked.
Was it lost because it was a fake? Or a practical joke on the master? Who knew? It certainly wasn’t the solution to his problem with Cynthia if any of those were true.
The mystery thing was almost as compelling as the possible benefits of finding a lost Rembrandt. And if it was real…
For his future—and Caroline’s—he would beg his aunt on bended knee if it came down to it.
After stopping their research for the night, he and Caroline made love, filled with the shared excitement of the painting as well as the evolution of their partnership. He stared into her eyes as he rocked into her, and she held his gaze until they both found their release. Wrapping their arms around each other, they fell asleep—the first peaceful sleep they’d had since that first night together.
They had hope, and hope changed everything.
After a short catnap, he ordered up the family jet to meet them in Denver at eight o’clock that morning, figuring it should give him enough time to put things in motion. He called Trev, who was glad to sit out on this trip with the horrible Aunt Clara, and then Uncle Arthur and Tanner, who listened with the rapt interest of a reporter with a lead on a good story. Uncle Arthur had followed up with a cryptic piece of advice. “She might consider it if you show up at her doorstep. Don’t take no for an answer.”
Right.
Next he called his forensic art consultant, Bartholomew Farnsworth, and asked him to meet him in New York City, where his aunt lived, and be on call. Assuming his aunt surprised him with her generosity, he could have it tested by one of the world’s leading experts the same day.
By early afternoon, he and Caroline arrived outside his aunt’s townhouse in the Upper East Side.
“Are you as nervous as I am?” she asked him.
Likely more so since he wasn’t sure they’d get through the front door. This wasn’t the time to mention that his aunt had slammed the door in his mother’s face when she’d visited her in the hopes of getting the art back for the family. His mom hadn’t been too happy about that. “It’s going to be fine.”
He rang the dignified bell and winced when a wizened butler more apt for the retirement home than service opened the door. Composing his face took effort. Seeing this butler made Aunt Clara seem even more eccentric. Maybe she’d gone mad. Perish the thought.
“May I help you, sir?”
Sure enough, the man had a British accent. “Hello, my name is J.T. Merriam, and I’m here to see my aunt. Kindly inform her I’m here.”
He hated to be so declarative, but he’d learned in London how important it was to clearly state your intentions. Otherwise, you’d never gain entry anywhere.
“And the lady?” the butler asked.
“Caroline Hale,” she responded before he could. “Arthur Hale’s niece.”
The butler’s expression stayed as flat as though he were one of the guards at Buckingham Palace. “I’ll see if she’s available.”
He motioned for them to step into the foyer and made sure to close the door. J.T. was glad the man considered it rude to leave them wait on the doorstep on a cold New York day.
“Arthur Hale’s niece, eh?” J.T. whispered, taking in the grand staircase and the oodles of art on the walls. It was so silent. Like museum-quality silence.
“I thought it might help,” she said, shrugging, “although I hate having to name drop. I figure people should just meet with you of their own accord.” She paused, surveying the walls with a hungry expression. “She likes the Impressionists, I see.”
“Yeah, she got most of those paintings from the collection,” he said. “I couldn’t bear to tell you. Someone thought they were a better fit for the beach house. Although the house in the Hamptons isn’t really what I’d call a beach house.” In reality, it was a large estate on the ocean.
“I’m rather mad at your uncle,” a stern female voice said.
They turned to see a short woman wearing all black and dripping in diamonds. Clara Allerton had gone gray and wore it long. Somehow, it looked regal on her. She was seventy-six, he knew, but those cheekbones made her look years younger. Standing there at the edge of the foyer, her presence made a statement.
“My uncle?” he asked, confused.
She pointed an elegant finger at Caroline. “No, hers. That rapscallion called me a short time ago after not speaking to me for decades. Much like your father, Julian.”
God, he hated when people called him Julian. It reminded him of Cynthia, who’d made a point of calling him something other people didn’t. He might have corrected her, except he was reeling from surprise. “Arthur Hale called you?”
Caroline turned toward him, her mouth parted. “He didn’t mention it.”
“He wouldn’t have,” Clara said, walking toward them, her gait still finishing-school perfect. “He told me to give you all my paintings because it was the right thing to do. The gall of that man is unmatched.”
Goodness, Uncle Arthur, J.T. thought. Nice of you to make this a walk in the park.
Caroline coughed. “Uncle Arthur does have a way with words. Thank you for meeting with us, Mrs. Allerton.”
“I haven’t agreed to meet with you, Ms. Hale,” she said, drawing nearer.
For some reason it surprised J.T. to see how much she resembled his father. Those blue eyes were the same shade, the bottom lip fuller than the top. “Well, Uncle Arthur wasn’t wrong,” he said, “even if he was rather indelicate. I’d love to take the whole collection off your hands.”
She smacked her fist into her hand. “You’re impertinent. Like your father. Perhaps you should be more humble since you’re having problems at the university Emmits himself founded. That doesn’t bode well for the family legacy, does it?”
Her eyes gleamed like an eagle sighting prey.
“No, frankly, it doesn’t. I’m having some trouble with—”
“That Newhouse spawn you married,” she said. “Yes, I know. Arthur told me all about it. Why in the world did you marry a woman like that?”
He rocked back on his heels, feeling every bit of awkwardness loaded into that question. Caroline shifted beside him, the movement reminding him he had to say something. “I fell in love with her. My mistake.”
“Then you’re as blind as all men,” she said, “including my Reinhold. He was fooled by mistress after mistress until he fell over dead from a heart attack in the sauna with one of them.”
Caroline uttered some inarticulate response, and he couldn’t blame her. That was something his dad hadn’t told him.
“I hadn’t heard the particulars,” he said, wondering what the appropriate response was. I’m sorry?
“He wasn’t the person I thought he was either, when I married him, so I have some sympathy for you,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to give you all my art.”
He cocked his head to the side. She was studying him and Caroline, and while she hadn’t agreed to sit down and chat—or even offer them a drink, which was rude—she also hadn’t kicked them out. Had Uncle Arthur gotten under her skin? Or was something else going on here?
“How about a proposition then? I understand you may have a lost Rembrandt. I’d like to authenticate it.”
She raised her pointer finger and slowly shook it back and forth. “I’ve purposely left that painting undocumented just to piss your father off. He always liked the Dutch masters, although I think their work is too dark and depressing.”
His dad liked the Dutch masters? “I’m sure you’re mistaken. My dad isn’t much of an art fan.”
She swatted his arm. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. He’s a huge art fan. Why do you think I took all the Hamptons paintings? I knew it would break his heart.”
But his father didn’t have anything to do with the collection. In fact, he never talked about it. Whenever J.T. mentioned the paintings, his face glazed over. “You’re mistaken.”
“Do you think your father would have paid to insure and protect all those paintings if he didn’t love them? Or have your mother show up here and beg me to give them back? Goodness, it’s easy to pull the wool over your eyes, isn’t it?”
“Aunt Clara—”
“Oh, please don’t call me that, boy,” she said with a hearty sigh. “I haven’t seen you since you were a snotty five-year-old, crying beside a grave you didn’t understand. Seems my brother pretended to lose his interest in art after I took my revenge.”
“And does that make you feel good, Mrs. Allerton?” Caroline asked.
Her tone was polite, but the woman’s face scrunched as though she’d tasted a lemon. “You’re as impertinent as your uncle. Well, if you’re going to insult me, you might as well stay for tea.”
She executed a spin a ballet dancer would have envied and sailed through a door opposite the one she’d used to enter the foyer.
“That was interesting,” J.T. said quietly, still reeling. “I suppose we should follow her.”
Caroline took his arm in a hard grip. “You don’t think she’d poison us, do you? Goodness, she’s tough. I can’t imagine what Uncle Arthur must have said to stir her up.”
He agreed, but his mind was still reeling from Clara’s revelation about his father. Why hadn’t either of his parents ever said anything? Perhaps he should have realized the truth. After all, his dad had kept part of the collection at their home in Napa.
The butler was hovering over a table set with a gold-painted teapot and table service for three. A four-tiered sterling silver tray held an array of sandwiches and small cakes. So, she’d planned to let them stay before she met them at the door.
After pulling out first his aunt’s chair and then Caroline’s, he settled into the third chair at the round table decked out in a fine white tablecloth. “Thank you for this lovely spread. Everything looks wonderful. And is that Earl Grey tea I smell?”
“Oh, don’t butter my bread, Julian,” she said, motioning for the butler to pour out the tea. “I’m way too old for your charms, but I do know a lost Rembrandt would help you defeat that Newhouse woman.”
He was glad they weren’t beating around the bush.
“Are you familiar with the Newhouse family, Mrs. Allerton?” Caroline asked, nodding her thanks to the butler when he finished pouring her tea.
“Anyone who’s anyone is familiar with them, of course,” she said. “Don’t be impertinent.”
Apparently that was his aunt’s favorite word. “She didn’t mean to be. She’s only—”
“Trying to get a sense of how much I loathe them,” his aunt said and then launched into a cackle. “By all means, let us be straightforward with one another. I don’t like them much. Constance, your former mother-in-law, has ice in her veins so cold it would rival arctic ice. She slighted me once at the Met, and I’ve never forgotten it.”
J.T. wanted to dance for joy. “Constance wasn’t my favorite.”
“And yet you married her daughter,” she said, turning her teacup toward her. “Did you not meet that horrible woman’s parents beforehand?”
He shifted again in his seat, looking at Caroline. Was it weird talking about your old life with your ex-wife in front of the new love of your life? Hell, yes, it was. But he still needed to do it. “They were…pleasant. I mean, I wasn’t expecting to meet Ward and June Cleaver from Leave It to Beaver.”
“No, I expect not,” she said, drawing a cucumber and cream cheese sandwich onto her plate.
When was the last time he’d had one of those? He grabbed a few to be polite.
“Arthur Hale wants me to help you fight this Newhouse woman by giving you the whole collection,” she said. “Like I said, he has gall to call asking for a favor after not talking to me since my wedding day.”
He wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Honestly, we’re at an impasse. More paintings might not turn the tide. She’s talking about giving the university three hundred million dollars for cancer research.”
Her brows shot to her hairline. “She’s a smart bitch, isn’t she? Art or cancer? There’s no question what normal people would choose.”
He almost laughed at the way she said ‘normal’ people. Art aficionados like them were definitely not ‘normal’ if you asked him.
“Hence your interest in the Rembrandt,” she continued. “Well, I don’t see that I have a choice, do I?”
Caroline’s teacup clattered to its plate. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me,” his aunt said, thumping the table. “Without the Rembrandt, you’re…what do you young people say so baldly? Screwed? Is that right?”
“Yes,” he said, trying to hold back his smile. “Are you serious? You’re not pulling my leg?”
“I couldn’t pull that hard at my age,” she said, dramatically sighing.
He shot out of his chair and kissed her on the cheek.
“Oh, do pull yourself together, Julian,” she said, swatting at him. “For heaven’s sake. We barely know each other.”
Unable to contain his glee, he circled the table and kissed Caroline square on the mouth before he returned to his own chair. “You’re incredible!”
“I suspected you two were canoodling,” his aunt said, rearranging her napkin in her lap. “Grandpa Emmits must be smiling in heaven. A Merriam and a Hale in love. God, it makes me believe in poetry.”
“Does it really, Mrs. Allerton?” Caroline asked, taking J.T.’s hand under the table.
“God, no,” she scoffed. “Do I strike you as a romantic?”
J.T. sat back in his chair and relaxed for the first time in weeks. They weren’t in the clear yet—for all he knew, the painting was a fake—but it was a victory, and victories should be celebrated.
“Maybe you’ve just gotten used to hiding it.”
“And you might be as impertinent as my grandfather himself,” Clara said, taking a sip of tea.
“If that’s true, I take it as a compliment,” he said. “So Aunt Clara…”
He waited to how she’d react to the name and caught Caroline putting her napkin over her mouth, likely to cover a smile. Since his aunt didn’t remark, limiting her response to a stately glare, he felt like they were making progress.
“This is a personal question,” he said, “and you don’t have to answer it.”
“Now, let’s not get carried away. I’ll have my butler toss you out if you become too familiar, Julian.” She turned her head to the side like the debutante she’d been.
Like that old man could physically throw him out. “Noted. What have you been doing all these years? I mean, you alluded to a difficult marriage—something I sympathize with—but it’s been a year since he passed. Correct?”
“Yes, although I wish he’d croaked years ago, if you want to know the truth,” she said, pouring herself another cup of tea without waiting for the butler. “I married young, and I made a bad choice. Women from my generation didn’t leave their husbands. We made the best of things, so when your father… Oh, never mind.”
Now they were getting to the heart of it. He found he wasn’t willing to let it slide. Too many things were left unsaid in his family, he realized, and he wanted to put a stop to that now. “What about my father?”
She went completely still, and he watched her throat ripple for a moment before she sat up straighter in her chair. Pride. She had it in spades. Like all the Merriams.
“Your father didn’t like my choice of husband, and he told me so. I wish I had listened.”
J.T. thought of his recent fight with Trevor. “I know how that feels, Aunt Clara.”
“Then Reinhold got greedy and entitled like he was prone to do, and my mother and brother stood against him. Rightfully so, perhaps, but still, it left me…on the outs. Back in those days, there was no easy way for a wife to go against her husband’s wishes, and Reinhold forbade me to speak to them. I was young and angry, and I lashed out in ways I now regret.”
Like taking those paintings. “How did you keep Reinhold from selling the paintings, Aunt Clara?”
She rubbed the tip of her nose. “I threatened to tell all his mistresses he had syphilis.”
Caroline muffled her laugh. “That’s—”
“Effective, let me tell you,” she said with a regal nod. “We had plenty of money. He’d been raised with art on the walls. Frankly, he gave the paintings about as much attention as he did me after a few years of marriage.”
J.T. felt something shift in his heart. Most of his life he’d been told how horrible this woman was, and now he was seeing the truth. She’d been trapped in a marriage she hadn’t thought she could leave. Her family had stood against her husband, and she’d felt included in their disdain. Yeah, he could understand that.
“I don’t tell you this so you’ll pity me,” she said, pointing at him. “I made my own choices, but the older I get, the more it weighs on me. It was a grace I couldn’t have children with that man, but the silence in this house is growing. I don’t like it.”
Hadn’t he noticed it?
Caroline reached for the woman’s hand, and wonder of wonders, the regal woman took it. He watched them share a moment before Aunt Clara released her hand.
“I’ve been waiting for you to show up, J.T.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “After Arthur called…”
He’d have to thank the old man—after he swatted him for not saying a word about the call.
“I may be late, but I’m no less earnest for it,” he said, putting his hand over his heart.
“Oh, you’re full of it, aren’t you?” Her blue eyes softened. “You’re more charming than your father.”
His lips twitched. “I suppose so. Dad still believes in knocking heads together when its called for. My twin brother favors him more.”
“Yes, Trevor,” she said. “He handles the oil and gas negotiations and any sticky items that arise. Of course, I would have thought Connor and Flynn were cut from the same cloth too, given their positions in the company.”
“For someone who’s stayed out of family dealings for decades, you’re well informed,” he said, taking a bite of one of the triangle sandwiches to cover his surprise.
“Not much left to do but read these days,” she said. “I loathe television.”
“It’s the agent of the devil, haven’t you heard?” J.T. said.
She laughed. She actually laughed. Then she coughed, as if the sound was foreign to her throat. “And how is Arthur Hale really these days? Other than being an interfering bastard?”
He gestured for Caroline to take that volley. “He’s up to his old tricks,” she said. “Working non-stop. Fighting for justice. You know…”
The touch of a smile appeared on Clara’s face. “I had a crush on him once, you know. Of course, he pretended not to see it, moron that he is.”
“No…” J.T. leaned forward. Hadn’t she said Arthur had stopped talking to her after her wedding? What was the story there?
“Yes,” she said in the same dramatic tone. “I wasn’t always seventy-six, boy, but he thought I was a brat, and then he got married in Dare Valley…and I got married too, of course. Arthur tried to mediate a truce between your father and Reinhold, you know, but neither man was interested. I was always grateful for that even though nothing came of it. His heart is in the right place.” Clara leaned forward, smiling conspiratorially. “Don’t tell him that last part. His head is big enough as it is, I imagine.”
“Of course,” Caroline said.
“Mum’s the word,” J.T. said. “So can we circle back to the Rembrandt?”
She adjusted her napkin in her lap. “As you like.”
Oh, she was playing hard to get, but he knew she was on board. “I have a Rembrandt expert and a forensic consultant on call to start the authentication process.”
This time she scratched her lip, and oh, if that secret smile didn’t appear. “The painting has already been authenticated, Julian.”
He jumped to his feet, and so did Caroline.
“What?” they said in tandem.
“I never touched the painting while Reinhold was alive. Even a man not interested in art would have had his heart race over a lost Rembrandt.”
J.T. felt his own heart beating hard in his chest. “And?”
“I brought it out of storage the day after he died, and had it authenticated confidentially,” she said, fiddling with her diamond bracelet, pleased with herself, no doubt.
The world slowed down. “Is it real?”
She stroked those sparkling diamonds encircling her wrist. “Yes, it most certainly is.”