Chapter 13 #2
The truth was, she didn’t want him to hear her be a piece of shit to her family again. After sorting their meal’s remnants into the correct trash, compost and recycling bins, she stopped at the kiosk and bought two tarjetas prepagadas.
The first call would be the hard one.
Torrey picked up on the second ring.
“Let me guess,” her younger sister said. “Due to your fucked-up priorities, you won’t make it to Mom’s retirement party next weekend? Alaina’ll be pissed.”
Vivian leaned against the divider between the phones. “How’d you know it was me?”
“Caller ID told me Spain was calling. While I intend to be courted by a minor Spanish noble in my life, the safer bet was you. Don’t dodge the question about Mom’s party.”
Vivian fiddled with the phone’s metal cord. “I hope I can make it.”
“You’re lucky you can claim you’re saving the world,” she said. “Otherwise you’d be here with me crafting the macramé centerpieces Mom wants.”
Her family knowing where she worked was a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it gave her a pass from family events when she was on mission, and a curse because her brothers harassed her for intel on aliens, Bigfoot, and the JFK assassination.
“Macramé?” she asked.
“Mac. Ra. Mé. It’s very seventies-chic. If she knew how much I could charge her based on my current artist’s rate, she’d shit a brick. But I’ll churn out artisanal table number holders for free like the devoted daughter I am.”
“Speaking of artist’s rates… Did you read about the Rocksy auction in London? And do we think the artist has any other stunts up their sleeve?”
“Not today,” Torrey said. “Hey, how’s John?”
Currently he was perched on the picnic table’s bench, elbows resting against the tabletop, head bent back and soaking up the warm Spanish sun.
God, she wanted to lick his neck.
She twiddled the engagement ring. “He’s with me, actually.”
“In Spain? I am chin-hands. Spill.”
“It’s complicated.” Her stomach sizzled. “We got engaged, and—”
Vivian held the phone away from her ear as Torrey screeched.
“Vivian Bernardita Flint, come home and introduce him to the family.”
Vivian’s heart clenched. “I’ll try. The big reveal upset him, so we’re…unengaged.”
“Wait, wait, wait. Do I hear doubt in your voice? Hang on, I need to put down my scissors.” A clunk sounded in the background. “Viv, he must be amazing because you picked him. But do not—do not—sell yourself short. Who was the valedictorian of her high school?”
“Me,” Vivian said.
“And who graduated summa cum laude from Georgetown Fucking University?”
“Also me.” Her lips twitched with a grin.
“Who was recruited to work for the sneakiest shadow organization in the US before she could legally rent a car?”
The wobble left her voice. “Me.”
“And who, because she was working two jobs, was able to pay her outrageously talented but cash-strapped younger sister’s Maryland Institute College of Art tuition, and will therefore always have a ride-or-die hype man in her back pocket?”
“Me,” Vivian laughed.
“If you’re all those things, can kick ass, crack a joke, and look hot as hell while doing it? I’d leave your doubts behind. If he’s half as smart as you say he is, he’ll come around. And if he doesn’t, good fucking riddance.”
She swiped a tear from her eye. “Thanks, Torrey. I needed that.”
“Anytime. Call me as soon as you’re home from saving the world, okay? Love you.”
“Love you too.” Vivian hung up, released a deep breath, then dipped in the second phone card. She dialed the number she’d dialed a thousand times over the years.
“Speak,” MacColl barked.
She choked back a sob. After the office attack, she’d feared the worst.
“It’s Canvas, Boss. I picked up some palette knives.”
“About fucking time.” His voice was raspy. “I can’t share details while you’re on this line. Are you in the vicinity we discussed?”
She hesitated. But this was MacColl. He was a prickly grump, yes, but he kept everyone in her division alive for the ten years she’d been working with him. She trusted him. “Yes, with Brawn.”
“Good,” he grunted.
From an average person, good was faint praise. From MacColl? Angels flourished trumpets.
“Get your asses to Lump by 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. My contacts will expect you. Don’t call me on this number until you’re in a SCIF and we can VTC.”
The line went dead.
Lump was the agency nickname for the US Consulate in Marseille. Video teleconferencing—VTC—in a sensitive compartmented information facility—SCIF—meant MacColl had intel to share.
Which was either good or terrifying.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. MacColl had said asses. She needed to bring John to the consulate with her. Which meant the MacColl wanted to question him, use him or both. She marched back to the picnic table.
“I got in touch with my boss. He wants us to go to Marseille tonight.”
He lifted his sunglasses. “Any other news? Is everyone okay? And what’s in Marseille?”
“A secure line. That’s all I know. He’ll tell me more once we’re there.” She covered a surprise yawn. “Sorry.”
He rose from the table. “Don’t be sorry. You’re tired. I’ll drive the next leg.”
“I’m fine to drive.” Another yawn overwhelmed her.
“Agree to disagree. I’d rather not fly off a cliff, and I lived in Marseille, remember? It’ll be a sort of homecoming.”
When Bossy John showed up, it was best not to argue. After another yawn, she handed him the keys. “Okay, you drive. I have work to do, anyway.”
John unlocked their tin can of a car. “Or you could sleep.”
“We’ll see.” She settled into the passenger seat and fired up her tablet. She needed to check her assets’ coffee cards. Among the half-dozen accounts, no one besides Amina had bought coffee recently. No news didn’t necessarily mean good news.
She rubbed her L-Pill necklace.
What was Jean-Michel thinking?
Bioweapons intelligence was a level of crime for which he was unprepared.
Especially since his goons were not top-tier talent.
She searched for more information on Lola, but there wasn’t much.
In the Vogue France charity soirée photo currently enlarged on Vivian’s tablet, Lola stared at Jean-Michel with cool adoration.
Was he grooming Lola to take over his “business” like he once tried to do with her?
John lowered the radio’s volume. “Did you love him?”
No point in dodging the question.
“Not at first. Then I thought I did, which shouldn’t have happened. The relationship got messy, so I broke it off as unmessily as I could. Then you and I met, and I realized I hadn’t known what actual love was.”
His hands tightened on the wheel.
Oof. That was too much truth. If she could have disappeared, she would.
“Forget I said anything. Wipe it from your brain.”
“I’m glad you told me,” he said. “Maybe he’s using Lola, too?”
“In all likelihood, yes. But last night’s research…wait.”
Her synapses flared. Lola’s discreet business card had a Monaco number. A pattern was emerging from the messy information swirling around her brain. She added search terms and an intricate combination of quotes and plus signs to narrow the results.
Scan the resulting links, and… Bin-fucking-go.
“Find something?” John asked. “You’re jiggling your knees like you won trivia night.”
“The Casino d’Or’s annual donor report from last year announced a new assistant curator for their gallery. Lola Vorlicek, from Croatia. She’s his way into the Monte Carlo market.”
“He’d use her for access?”
“He’d use his grandmother for access. Did, actually. He hocked a few of her lesser impressionist paintings when he flunked out of college. Rather than press charges and be a scandal in the gossip columns, she quietly cut him from the will. People still place stock in his family name, though.”
“If that’s why Jean-Michel’s with her, why would she go after your clients?” John scratched at his jaw.
When he’d had a beard, that gesture made a raspy sound she adored.
Vivian lifted a shoulder. “Because my ex is petty. I can see a universe where he’s using her to hit me in the proverbial pocket. Me breaking up with him wounded his pride. My peripheral involvement with the Rocksy prank might’ve pushed him over the edge.”
“Sounds like a prize,” John said.
“Which is why I broke up with him. Lola must’ve had a hand in the Monte Carlo charity auction at Casino d’Or tomorrow night, but she might not know what he’s up to with the drives. He’s greedy and doesn’t like to share.”
She searched for the provenance for Jean-Michel’s other recent sales.
Nothing shady. Nothing obviously shady, anyway.
“Is today only Monday?” John ran his hand through his hair. “It feels like it’s been a month since we left the States.”
And since they got engaged. Which she would not mention.
“It’s the new experience phenomenon.” She rubbed her eyes.
The midafternoon sun was making her sleepy.
“Time seems to slow while our brains log details. Like the sandwich you had this morning. You probably paid more attention to it than you would your thousandth bacon, egg and cheddar from Wisemiller’s.
First times are exciting because our brains are busy with new information. ”
“Maybe. I mean, the tosta mista was outstanding, but I still love a bacon, egg and cheddar.” Light rain speckled the windshield.
He flicked on the wipers. “There’s beauty in the familiar, too.
That’s what contentedness is. Finding the beauty, newness and joy in the familiar.
If you can’t do that, you might just be chasing a high. ”
Vivian whipped her gaze toward him. “Are we still talking about sandwiches?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “The sandwiches are symbolic.”
“I need that on a T-shirt,” she said.
As they drove around another bend, sapphire water winked at them in the distance.
“Is that the Mediterranean?” John asked.
She glanced at the map on the GPS display. “No, it’s the Iberian Sea.”
She startled as John groaned and thumped the steering wheel.
“Do you have beef with the Iberian Sea?” she asked.
“No, my parents. I could’ve been traveling and seeing things like that—” he gestured toward the sparkling sea “—for years.”
She’d never put her finger on the problem John had with his parents.
They seemed like lovely people. Friendly, funny, warm. But “Jane” hadn’t asked John about his distance with them because that might have encouraged him to ask about her supposedly deceased parents. It had been best to avoid those conversations as much as possible.
But now that he knew everything, she could be nosy.
“Why don’t you visit them?” she asked.
“Because I resented the sacrifices their career required of me when I was a kid, so I didn’t want to enjoy the perks as an adult. I sort of thought of it as a betrayal of my younger self. Which I now regret.” He gestured to the view. “I mean, look at this.”
Ah, this she understood. She and regret were good friends.
“Can I offer you advice?” She dug her knuckles into her itchy eyes. “Regret doesn’t change the past. It is, however, a kick in the ass to handle things differently in the future. Once you figure that out, the regret has served its purpose, and you can move on. Don’t wallow.”
“And I need that on a T-shirt.”
She lifted a shoulder. “Might be too many words.”
“T-shirts have two sides.” He rested his hand on her upper thigh like he normally did during their road trips. She placed her hand on top of his.
The location was new, but the gesture was familiar, beautiful.
And for now, in the quiet bubble of this car with John, she was content.