Chapter 33
Sunlight streams in through the gallery’s large windows, illuminating the white space. White walls, white floors, white ceilings. The heat wave that kept London in a chokehold for a week slowly dissipated, and now we’re back to beautiful June weather.
Aadhya is giddy. I feel it, the emotion radiating from her, even though she’s standing calmly beside me. Eitan is talking with two buyers just a few feet away. The paperwork has already been drawn. The pen is out.
I feel the same giddiness Aadhya does. I nudge her, a teeny bit, and she nudges me back.
We just sold a trio of paintings for a number so large, so staggering, that even our tiny cut of the commission will be epic. Epic. Kinda like Eitan’s approval.
The couple is in their fifties, glamorous, worldly, eccentric. Two married women who appear to be complete opposites but finish each other sentences. They walked in, and Aadhya and I snapped into our roles.
I feel giddy a lot these days. Last night, in the bathtub…
And this morning, when he drove me to work. Completely unnecessary. But he did, and before I got out of the car, he kissed me.
On the street by the Duke of Kent Square, right across from the Sterling Gallery. Where everyone might see. Aadhya. My other coworkers.
And it didn’t bother me as much as it should.
The couple leaves with assurances that the art will be delivered to them later in the week, and Eitan turns to us. He has an uncharacteristically large smile on his face.
“Excellent work, ladies,” he says. “Right artwork paired with the right clients.”
“We live to please,” Aadhya says grandly with a smile.
“And you do,” he says. “I looked over the latest plans you two finalized for next week’s party. I must say, I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s not looking too bad.”
That’s high praise coming from him.
“Harper, I saw your note about having a guide at hand for those who want to take a more extensive tour of the facilities,” he says. “It’s… unusual, but it’s good.”
I’d stolen the idea from the art event Nate and I went to at the London Modern. Our gallery is much smaller, but the work we do and our collection are diverse enough that we can offer whoever is interested a behind-the-scenes tour, and discuss preservation and authentication.
We’re still discussing the party, out in the main gallery, when the doorbell rings. The gallery is open to the public, but the door is always locked for safety reasons. Anyone can press the button to unlock it from the inside.
And in walks Willard.
The man I’d spoken to at Nate’s party, the nephew of one of Nate’s business associates. Outwardly charming. Very easy on the eyes. And definitely someone with ulterior motives.
When I think about it, Nate’s jealousy that night had been entirely misguided. This isn’t the kind of man I’d ever fall for.
This is the second time he showed up at the gallery.
He smiles when he sees me. “Harper! How lovely you’re here. I was hoping you would be.”
Willard’s voice is soft, accented in such faint traces of European English that it’s hard to place where he’s from originally.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Aadhya and step out into the lobby. Then, I turn to our unexpected guest. “It’s nice to see you again. Came for the tour of the place?”
He nods, and gestures. “Lead the way.”
It only takes half the tour for him to open up about why he’s really here. There had been hints of it that first time, too, but this is less subtle. He’s here with a purpose.
“I’ve just showed Nate Connovan a Covey,” he says.
My eyebrows rise. “You have? When?”
“Just earlier today. I accompanied my uncle to a meeting at Contron,” he says. “Then Nate and I took a little trip to where I keep the works I deal with.”
“Incredible. And what did he say?”
“That he liked it very much, but that he would have to discuss it with you.” Willard’s smile widens. “His art adviser.”
He clearly suspects we’re more than that.
Surprisingly… I’m perfectly fine with the assumption. What I’m not fine with, is the suspicion that Nate buying this art piece is less about the painting and more about solidifying a business relationship.
“I see. Well, I’m happy to view it, too,” I say. “I’d also love to see its provenance.”
Willard’s face doesn’t change. Only his voice, which grows a little sly. “Well, that’s a funny story. This piece’s provenance is rather convoluted.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. You see…”
He tells a story that is outlandish enough to be just barely believable. A tale of a rich Swiss man who inherited art from his grandfather. A grandfather who had a passion for American impressionists. Who scooped up the works when the painters were still young, when their art was cheap. But the Swiss man is so rich that he has no need for more money. And, he happens to be the father of one of Willard’s old school friends, and so, letting Willard take these works of art to the market.
It’s vague.
Vague often suits the world of art, but it doesn’t suit me. Not this time. When Willard leaves, Eitan approaches me.
He stares at the door closing behind him. “What was he doing here?” Eitan asks.
“He is trying to sell my client a newly discovered Covey,” I say. “But something about his story…”
“Doesn’t add up. Yeah. I’ve heard of him,” my boss says with a sigh. “Not that anyone ever listens to me when the possibility of a previously undiscovered painting pops up. People get far too excited.”
“Can I do some research on this?”
“Please do,” he says. “And let me know what you find.”
I head into the back office, where we have access to an extensive online database, and shoot a text to Nate.
Harper: Don’t buy the Covey from Willard until we’ve spoken.
Nate: Has he contacted you?
Harper: Yes, he stopped by the gallery.
There’s only a short moment before my phone rings. I look around, but I’m alone in the office. “Hey.”
“He stopped by your gallery, again?”
“Yes, to convince me to tell you to buy his painting.”
Nate curses. “He’s persistent.”
“He isn’t interested in me,” I say. “He’s interested in your money.”
“Good. Because that means infinitely less to me.”
I smile into the phone, despite myself. “Just promise me you won’t buy it without me there, without us speaking about it.”
“I’ll wait. I was going to make the call this afternoon, but?—”
“Don’t!” I say. “Wait until I come home. Promise me.”
There’s amusement in his voice now. “I promise.”
“Good. Okay… good.”
“Want me to pick you up from work?”
“Do you have time for that?”
“Absolutely not,” he says. “But I can make it happen.”
I smile at my keyboard and run my thumb along the large Enter key. It’s nice to hear his voice during a normal workday. “I don’t want to inconvenience you. And it’s lovely out. I’ll walk.”
“I’ll meet you at home, then.”
“Sure you don’t need to work late? You mentioned?—”
“I’m sure,” he says.
I think of what Richard mentioned. That since I moved in, Nate is working less. That he’s around the house more. Warmth floods me.
“I’ll see you at home.”
“Can’t wait, baby.”
We hang up, and I stare at the screen, unseeing. Wearing a smile on my face, like an absolute moron. It takes me a few seconds to remember why I came in here and what for. Research. Right.
Later, when I arrive home, it’s with a conviction born out of what I discovered, and the sinking suspicion that it might not matter to Nate. He isn’t doing this because he loves art. He’s doing this because he wants to sign a business deal.
I’m waiting in the backyard—curled up on the bench under the sun, with a large glass of lemonade and a book—when he gets home. Mom had sent over a copy of The Professor by Charlotte Bront?, and I love her thoughtfulness.
Nate doesn’t like what I have to say.
I see it immediately when I say the words, the way his mouth turns into a scowl and he crosses his arms over his chest.
“You’re sure it’s a fake?” he asks.
I give a shrug. “Sure? No, I can’t be sure. But the evidence strongly points in that direction. Another gallery sent one of his paintings to an authentication expert a few months back, and the results came back inconclusive.”
Nate’s eyebrows furrow. “Inconclusive. So?”
“Inconclusive means fake in the art world. But, somehow, he’s kept going, and I… it wouldn’t surprise me if it’s all going to come crashing down sooner or later. The police might already be onto him.”
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s suspicious. The provenance story he told me sounds perfectly crafted to get gullible buyers to accept the lack of a legitimate record, and the painting is from a time when Covey did mostly orange abstracts and, very rarely, blues. It just… all of it sounds dubious.”
Nate nods and looks out toward the tight boxwood hedge that keeps his backyard fenced. “Right. But you know I’m not really buying this piece because of its artistic properties.”
“Nate, you can’t ignore it. You can’t.”
He looks at me for a long moment, and there’s frustration in his eyes. “If I don’t, and if I intimate to Knudsen that it’s because I suspect his nephew is a fraud, Contron won’t get the contract. He’s made it very clear that helping his nephew is the last step.”
“Then he’s a bully, and that’s a bribe.”
Nate laughs. It’s not a happy sound. “That’s my line of work, baby. Contron gets what it wants, either through compliments or careful coercion. Buying a painting from someone’s nepotistic nephew is probably the least dirty thing we’ve done to secure access.”
“He is a scammer. You buying it from him, with your stellar record of art purchases, will legitimizehim.” My voice is shaking from how strong I feel about this. Art fraud might not be serious in the grand scheme of things, at least amid all of the world’s horrors. But it’s one I personally hate. It’s leeching off real artists’ names, using that to feed personal greed.
It’s nothing more than a pretty lie.
“Harper,” he says with a groan. Runs a hand through his hair. “It’s not that I don’t agree with you. It’s that what you’re asking… it would undo almost a year of work.”
“It’s also the right thing to do.” I push off the bench and close the distance between us. Grab his hands and hold them between mine. “I know you’re not the kind of man who would turn a blind eye when someone’s breaking a law just for profit.”
“You know,” he repeats with a curl of his lips. “I’ve done a lot of things over the past twenty years to make Contron successful. A lot of things to make…”
He doesn’t finish, but I hear what he doesn’t say. To please others. His father. Maybe his brother, too?
“Fucking hell. You’re gonna make me lose a deal that could make my company millions,” he mutters.
A pang of guilt flashes through me. “I won’t. Your own morals will.”
“My morals,” he says. His eyes search mine, and there’s a cool resignation there. “I have been very immoral, Harper.”
I swallow. “I don’t believe it.”
“Lusting after my friend’s fiancée wasn’t immoral?” His hand leaves mine to cup the side of my face, and he brushes his thumb against my lower lip. “Because it felt immoral, to have those thoughts about you, when you weren’t mine.”
I can’t speak. Can’t find the words.
His smile turns rueful. “I won’t rush you. Don’t worry. But if you tell me I’m not a bad man, well… wanting you has always been proof that I am.”
“You’re not,” I breathe.
“I won’t buy the Covey,” he says. “Do you want me to give the police a call? Is it at that stage?”
“It might be. If there’s already an ongoing investigation, you could add your statements to it.”
“Then I will,” he says.
“What about the deal? Don’t you think that there’s a way to… I don’t know. To convince that Danish businessman that you still value his company?”
Nate’s smile widens. “I love your optimism sometimes. No, Knudsen doesn’t give a fuck about art. He wants to help his wife’s nephew establish a career, and I’ll undermine that. No, I think the deal will be pretty shot.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re right. It wouldn’t be an ethical move.” He wraps his arms tightly around my waist and sighs. I feel the movement through his chest, resting under my ear, and breathe in deep. He smells good. “Coming home to you is becoming my favorite part of every day. Even when you tell me things I don’t want to hear.”
I make a small humming sound against his chest. Him coming home is rapidly becoming my favorite part, too.
It’s a scary realization…
And a wonderful one.