Chapter 5
Going back to work at Leggett Gallery was depressing, especially now that Caroline’s dream job seemed to be just that: a dream.
Working with J.T. to create the Merriam Art Museum in her hometown was supposed to be her next great adventure. Moira had teased her about having senioritis when it came to her current job, and there was some truth to it. She came into work every day with an internal countdown in her head about leaving. Sure, there’d never been a fixed date, but she’d thought it would come and soon.
Now she wasn’t so sure. Heck, she wasn’t even sure of her relationship with J.T. His ex-wife still seemed to be looming large. They’d gone together to the family gathering at her sister’s house, but he’d immediately peeled away to speak with Trevor, who’d turned downright ferocious. J.T. had offered to drive her back to Denver at the end of the night, but she’d declined, thinking some space might help them get over the shock of things. Besides, the last thing she’d wanted was another platonic hug goodnight or chaste kiss. The fact that he’d kissed her goodbye Italian-style, like usual, told her she’d been right to turn him down.
She decided to make herself a strong cup of coffee and focus. Four new paintings were arriving at the gallery today, and there was a lot to do. This was her job now, and maybe for a while; she was going to make the best of things.
Her stomach was rumbling hours later as she finished unpacking the last painting. The front door chimed, and she grabbed her keys to lock up the workroom per their security policy.
When she entered the gallery, she spied an elegant blonde in a white fur coat standing in front of a painting by one of Colorado’s finest.
“Layla Martigue is incredible, isn’t she?”
The woman turned and took off her designer sunglasses. Caroline didn’t remember seeing her before, but the woman clearly had money and taste. The bag slung casually over her arm was a Hermès Kelly Rose Gold purse worth two million dollars.
“Welcome to Leggett. I’m Caroline Hale, the gallery’s manager. Let me know if I can be of any help. Would you like some coffee?”
“I’d love some,” the woman said. “But first, tell me more about this painting.”
Her skin tingled like it did whenever she felt a big sale coming on. “Layla doesn’t simply paint landscapes. She creates them. This painting is of a meander of the Colorado River called Horseshoe Bend located outside Page, Arizona. Her impressionistic style is meant to convey—”
“An actual metal horseshoe,” the woman finished, opening her purse and pulling out a sunglasses case. “Interesting.”
Caroline didn’t know what to make of the edge in her voice. “Please look around. I’ll get you that cup of coffee.”
The woman wasn’t going to be an easy sell, but Caroline had dealt with difficult rich clients before. She’d watch the woman for a while and see what paintings drew her in. When she returned with the coffee, she couldn’t help feeling like the blond woman was studying her as much as the paintings lining the walls. Again, not unusual. She’d had other clients try and size her up. Usually it meant they were the kind who negotiated hard on a price. She fought off a wave of irritation. When you had a two-million-dollar purse, why dicker over a few thousand?
“You seem young to be the manager of a gallery with this reputation,” the woman commented.
Caroline gave her best fake smile. “What can I say? I’ve worked hard and do a wonderful job because I love what I do.”
“So Kendra told me,” she said, opening her fur coat finally like she’d grown warm.
“You know Kendra?” she asked. “Then you know how serious she is about this gallery and the art we show.”
“Yes, which is to your credit,” the woman said, finally sipping her coffee. “Oh, European beans, thank God. I don’t care if it makes me a snob, but coffee from anywhere else isn’t in the same class.”
Caroline knew it wouldn’t be wise to point out that the actual beans were always from somewhere other than Europe. They might roast beans, but they didn’t grow them.
“What is your favorite painting right now?” the woman asked.
“That’s a tough one since I select most of the paintings in our collection,” she replied honestly. “Right now, I’d say it’s the one by Marlo Hap. It’s the—”
“Oil painting of the deconstructed male body captured as metal spikes,” she finished for Caroline.
“Yes, you certainly know your art,” she said. “How is it you’ve never visited us before? Are you new to Denver or only visiting?”
“Visiting,” she said, extending her empty cup to Caroline. “Do you have anything in the back? I love seeing the paintings no one else has laid eyes on yet.”
Of course she did. Many rich clients felt the same. “Let me lock the front first, and then I’ll show you them one at a time.”
This woman was obviously not a burglar, but Caroline made a point of upholding their security protocols. She could afford closing the gallery for a possible sale. It was a Monday, after all.
“If you’re nervous, you can call Kendra,” the woman said.
“No, of course not. I’m only following our policies. I’ll be right back.”
When she brought out the first one, the woman barely gave it a glance. “Next.”
Okay, that was dismissive, Caroline thought. She brought out the rest, one by one, but the woman didn’t like any of them.
“If you could buy any painting in here for your personal collection, which would it be?” she asked. “Because I don’t think it’s the Marlo Hap. You admire the sentiment, but you wouldn’t hang it on your walls.”
While the woman wasn’t wrong, Caroline didn’t like her personal speculation. “As I said, I select all of the paintings here, so that’s a hard choice.”
“Indulge me,” the woman said with a pointed look, one that conveyed she was used to getting her way. “I’m always curious about the kind of painting someone like you would buy if you had the money.”
Now that was downright insulting. Caroline thought about being contrary and selecting a painting she’d never hang on her walls, but better sense bore out. This woman didn’t give a crap about her. She was another rich person trying to prove she was bigger than someone else. Caroline took a breath and pointed at the one she’d choose.
“Henry Farve has a wonderful Impressionistic style. His use of light and brushstrokes is second to none, if you ask me. I love the way he represented the Colorado prairie. Most people think it’s all mountains out here, but we have a diverse geography.”
The woman studied the painting. “Indeed. How much is it?”
Okay, here we go, Caroline thought. “It’s twenty thousand.”
“No wonder you like it,” the woman said. “It’s probably on the low end of your stock, isn’t it?”
She ground her teeth and smiled. Bitch.
“I’ll give you eighteen for it,” the blond woman said, taking out her wallet and pulling out a gold credit card.
Caroline thought about haggling with the woman, but honestly, she only wanted her gone. They’d still make a good profit for the artist, and if the woman knew Kendra like she said, Caroline would be wise to play nice.
She took the card. “I’ll run this for you and then pack up the painting.”
“You can send it to my hotel,” the woman said. “I can’t be weighed down with it today. I have a lot to do.”
“Of course,” she said. “There’s an extra charge for the courier service.”
“Fine,” the woman said, giving Caroline her back as she looked back at the paintings.
She ran the card—and then nearly dropped it when she noticed the name. Cynthia Newhouse.
Holy shit!
“So you know who I am,” she heard the woman say.
Looking up, she noted Cynthia looking back at her over one shoulder, a sly smile on her face.
“You didn’t come here to buy a painting,” she said simply.
“No, I didn’t,” the woman said, turning and sauntering toward her, her fur swaying with each step. “Kendra was bragging to some people I know about J.T. Merriam buying a painting from her gallery last month. I keep tabs on the poor man, you see. Even though we’re technically divorced, I can’t seem to stop myself from being concerned about his life choices and the people he surrounds himself with. It’s a wife thing, and I’m afraid he’s fallen prey to some really poor advice these past years.”
Since he’d decided to leave her, no doubt. God, this woman was even worse than she’d imagined yesterday.
“You were in Rome with him for a short time, I hear.”
That stopped her short. “How did you—”
“Like I said, darling…tabs. You’d be wise to remember that. Oh, and thank you for sharing your personal choice with me. Every time I look at the painting you love, I’ll enjoy knowing I took it out of your reach.”
Cynthia extended her hand for the bill of sale and card but didn’t take the pen Caroline handed her.
“I never use other people’s pens, darling. You never know where the ink has been.”
Caroline thought about poking her in the eye with said pen.
Cynthia scrawled her bold signature at the bottom of the receipt and handed it back. “You can deliver the painting to The Grand Mountain Hotel in Dare Valley. I’ll be staying there for a while.”
“What?” Caroline blurted out. Her imagination had run wild, but this wasn’t a possibility she’d considered.
The woman pulled out her shades. “You know it, of course, having been born in that quaint town.”
If this woman hadn’t known Kendra, Caroline would have shown her “quaint.”
Cynthia slid on the glasses, her sly smile firmly in place. “Be sure to tell J.T. I’ll see him soon.”
Hadn’t she told him as much yesterday? “Wait! Why are you doing this? I mean, J.T. said you’re divorced now. What’s the point of all this?”
The smile disappeared, and the woman lowered her glasses a touch before ramming them back in place. Caroline could have sworn she’d seen a flash of vulnerability in her eyes, but the glasses had handily hidden it.
“Have you ever been in love? The kind of love that makes you believe everything is possible, the kind that changes your life?”
She’d been in serious “like” before, sure, and while she’d had glimpses of such a feeling with J.T., his withdrawal had made her doubt herself.
“Not really,” she answered honestly.
“Then don’t judge me,” Cynthia said in a hard tone. “I opened my heart up to J.T. Joined myself in marriage to the man. Hell, I even bought an ugly set of china he liked. And what did he do? He walked out on me. Me! Cynthia Newhouse!”
The force of her words shook Caroline, almost like thunder rattling a window pane.
“No one does that and gets away with it.”
Cynthia gave her one last look and spun around, stalking out of the gallery.
Caroline had the urge to sag against the wall again. Goodness, the negative emotions emanating from J.T.’s ex were powerful. No wonder he’d been so shaken after his call with her. She’d heard about bad breakups, but Cynthia seemed to be taking a line from the whole “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” cliché.
Caroline looked at her phone with dread. His ex was coming to Dare Valley, clearly on the war path like he’d suspected.
She had to tell him about this awful encounter—even if it made him withdraw further from her.