Chapter 28
Caroline knew it was petty not to call J.T. back right away, but she couldn’t help it.
She was mad.
He hadn’t respected her professional opinion. Why keep her around as his art consultant if he wasn’t going to seriously consider what she had to say? Let him stew. For a few hours, she was going to set all of this serious stuff aside and have a little fun at a late impromptu dinner at Brasserie Dare with some of her girls. Moira and Lucy had both been available, and besides her honest desire to see them, she thought the latter might be able to help her with the Rembrandt situation.
They couldn’t talk about the painting in public, of course, but they could at least talk about Clara.
“So Clara told you she was staying at Uncle Arthur’s house?” Moira asked, practically leaning across their table. “Just like that?”
“I’d love to have been a fly on the wall,” Lucy said, popping a French fry in her mouth after dipping it in the pepper sauce that came with her steak. “Few people tell Arthur what to do. I wonder if she convinced him.”
“We could call The Grand Mountain Hotel and ask to be connected to her room,” Moira said, grabbing one of Lucy’s French fries.
“Hey! Get your own.” Lucy put her hands over her plate.
“I didn’t want the steak,” Moira said.
“Clara said they hadn’t seen each other since her wedding in 1962,” Caroline told them, snagging one of the fries while Lucy’s attention was on Moira. “After a tense build-up, turns out she’s a pretty fun lady who can drink like a fish. Unlike me.”
She still couldn’t believe how many gin and tonics that woman had polished off, all without a single slurred word or stumble.
“Maybe we should go by Uncle Arthur’s house,” Moira said, “and see if her limo is parked there.”
“No way,” Lucy said. “I’m not getting caught spying on Arthur’s property. I work for the man from time to time.”
“Yes,” Caroline said, “and that’s a nice segue to a little business I wanted to ask you about. I would really love for you to shoot some of the you-know-what.”
There was no way she was going to say lost Rembrandt out loud. For all she knew, Cynthia had spies everywhere. She’d briefed them in the car on the way over.
Lucy’s mouth parted. “I’d love to. Goodness. What a subject. I might have to pinch myself.”
“Time is of the essence,” Caroline said, thinking about J.T.’s urgency.
“I can make some time in the morning before my class starts.”
“Thank you,” she said. Take that, J.T. We’re doing this the right way. With photos for the press and everything. She would tell him after dinner when she called him back.
“I’ll call Clara and set it all up,” Caroline said. “Where do you want to do the shoot?”
“I think my studio space at the university would be best,” Lucy said, her face lighting up now that she’d agreed. No doubt she was already planning how best to do the shoot. Although Caroline favored paintings to photographs, she loved the artistry of her future sister-in-law’s work.
“That’s settled, so let’s circle back to your personal front, Caro. I say you should let J.T. stew a bit. He probably would never have gotten in touch with his aunt if not for you.”
She smiled. “I really love you, Mo.” Her sister made a gesture for her to continue and she heaved out a sigh. “When we’re alone and block out the world, we do great. I can’t tell you how exciting this last day was for us, until he blocked me out. I hate that he brought me into this whole thing because of my experience, and now he won’t listen to me.”
“Word,” Moira said. “I hate it when Chase does that. It’s like the dog house for you tonight unless you get your head out of your ass and listen to me. Not just nod like you did.”
“Speaking of ‘outside circumstances,’” Lucy whispered, leaning forward. “His ex just walked in.”
Caroline immediately turned in her chair. Sure enough, Sin City had just walked in, decked out in all her glory, from her glossy blond hair to her cream floor-length winter coat. An older well-dressed man with patrician features was with her. Caroline didn’t recognize him. Was he a trustee for the university?
“Shit,” she said, immediately facing forward. “I haven’t seen her since she walked into the gallery.”
All she wanted to do was hide, but that seemed cowardly. Buck up! This was her home town, and that woman wasn’t going to make her feel afraid or weird.
Or so she told herself.
“There’s no reason for you two to interact,” Lucy said. “You’re here having dinner, and so is she.”
“Exactly,” she said, feeling all the muscles in her body tighten with nerves despite the personal lecture she’d given herself.
“I’d like to pop her in that perfect face of hers,” Moira said, her face flushing with anger.
“Simmer down,” Lucy said. “Eat another one of my fries.”
Moira stuck her tongue out.
“I want to pop her even more,” Caroline added, “but I know it will only make things worse.”
In that moment, though, she wondered. Would it really? Why not take one of the whipped cream desserts Brian served and squash it in her face? How composed would she look then? Okay, she needed to get a grip.
“Caroline.”
She’d never forget the way that woman said her name. It was like she was saying the word “herpes” or something equally vile.
The cream coat was suddenly at her side—cashmere, she thought—and when she looked up Cynthia Newhouse was fake-smiling the crap out of her.
“Cynthia,” she responded, choosing not to introduce anyone else.
“This is Ferdinand Rollins,” she said, “our family lawyer. He just arrived to handle some business for me when I heard the incredible news about the lost Rembrandt. You and J.T. must have sold a kidney for Clara Allerton to bring forth that painting and the rest of her collection. Well, I suppose Ferdinand and I will simply have to readjust our plan.”
She knew? Suddenly Caroline felt lightheaded. “I beg your pardon.”
The woman pulled off her leather gloves slowly, like she was preparing to torture an uncooperative lover. “I mean, there will be questions, of course.”
“What?”
Slapping her gloves against that two-million-dollar purse of hers, Cynthia said, “About why Clara would have kept such an important work of art in secret for so long. I mean, it’s almost criminal. Art lovers everywhere are going to be up in arms. You and J.T. are going to have your hands full explaining things.”
She felt Moira grab her forearm under the table like she was trying to help ground her spinning brain. “But how—”
“Ferdinand and I will leave you to your dinner,” she said in that same dismissive, upper-crust tone.
Caroline watched as she and her lawyer were shown to a table a few feet away. Moira and Lucy were watching her with wide eyes.
“Are you okay?” her sister asked.
All she could do was wave a hand. She needed to talk to J.T. right away.
“I need—”
“To go,” Moira said immediately, signaling the server. “In all my days…”
“Not now,” she whispered, acutely aware of the proximity of her nemesis.
Grabbing her purse, she pulled out her phone. Her phone had blown up. She had dozens of text messages and phone calls from people she knew in the art community. She scrolled through the texts first, and there was one common theme that had her blood boiling.
Saw the press release. Heard about the lost Rembrandt. OMG!
J.T. had texted her again over an hour ago, she saw at the end of her messages, likely right as they’d sat down at their table. There was a voicemail from him as well. She read the transcript of the call. Nothing about him sending out the press release tonight. He’d only said it was urgent she call him. That bastard.
He’d told the world about the lost Rembrandt without her.