Chapter 23 Conrad
Conrad
“Conrad’s races begin tomorrow,” I heard my mom say from down the hallway.
I got back home this morning. An hour after my midterm, I left campus and made my way to Manhattan. I was excused from my Friday classes for the start of the regatta, so I swapped out the motorcycle for my Aston Martin and drove here before I made the journey to Boston tomorrow.
I hadn’t wanted to sit around campus feeling whatever I was feeling. So, I decided to ignore it—as was the Hastings way.
“Oh, I remember those days,” Beatrice Amari, the paragon of Upper East Side mothers, said back as I stepped around the corner, passing painting after painting that lined the walls.
Inside the sun-filled salon, both women looked up from their glasses of what was probably a pre-dinner drink. I smiled; my mom was going out. And then winced when I looked around the room and saw that I’d left a few of my art books open.
They reflected the last-ditch effort I decided to put in this afternoon to find anything I might’ve missed in the books I’d checked out from the library. Because Malena might have been done with what was going on, but I wasn’t.
Unsurprisingly, I came up short.
The intrusion in my social life was over now, so I should’ve been using my time for other matters—like focusing on the race tomorrow. But ever since Malena ended our arrangement, I was finding that rather difficult.
“Sorry about the mess.”
I’d come to see my mom, since I gathered that she was still shutting my dad out. I also knew my brothers, Barrett and Tripp, were too busy plotting against each other to concern themselves with visiting.
“Don’t bother yourself, dear.” Beatrice waved her hands in front of the books and pointed to the Bergère chair across from them. “Come here, let me look at you.”
Having these friends was crucial for my mom; I’d sit still and behave for her.
Beatrice folded her hands neatly on her lap when I sat down. “Tell me, are you ready for this race?”
My mom’s eyes dropped to her glass, her neatly styled brown hair falling forward. “I’m sorry I can’t be there, Conrad.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mom.” I reached over and squeezed her hand. She had enough going on, and that race would be bursting with society mothers who thrived on this gossip. “It’s just a race,” I assured her. She hated letting me down, so I never let her believe she was.
She tended to lose track of herself around this time of year. Summers were her reprieve, and every year she retreated to that house in Newport, even after Dad ruined it.
“Well.” She took a deep breath and stood, running her hands over her skirt. “I need to get something from the study. Why don’t you show Beatrice what you were looking at before you forgot your manners and left your things strewn around the living room.”
Beatrice glanced down at the art books that were opened to the known Van Holden works.
“Sorry, Mom,” I called, but she was already down the hallway.
Confused at the abrupt change in subject, I eyed Beatrice, who didn’t look surprised at all. In fact, she was already paging through the textbook on early impressionists I had left open.
“Are these from the Van Holden collection?” Beatrice asked.
My interest spiked.
“Are you a collector?” I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees.
“Sit up straight!” she commanded, which I did immediately, because Beatrice Amari was a little scary.
“And no, I’m not a collector, but my daughter-in-law has a discerning eye.
Photography mostly, but she dabbles in early twentieth century paintings,” she stated proudly.
“I’ve been to more art auctions than I can count, but this series caused quite the stir. ”
We’d done everything to try to identify them. He’d come up alongside a few matches, but there were only a couple of pieces to compare, and while the styles matched, none were exact.
What was the point of making forgeries of paintings that didn’t exist?
“Why did it cause a stir?” I asked, knowing that caused a stir meant it was some degree of gossip she’d willingly share.
“It’s all very messy, dear.” She took a tiny sip from her martini glass then placed it on the end table with all the grace of the queen.
“Van Holden was a painter during World War I. During World War II, his paintings were largely seized by the axis. It’s rumored they were destroyed during an allied attack.
But a piece will resurface every decade or so. Now, two in the course of a year…”
She raised her brows and shuffled her shoulders.
“Suspicious?”
“Well.” She lowered her voice like she was making a show of what she happened to know.
“Rumor has it that some oligarch out of Moscow came upon them during the post-war chaos and has been hoarding them for decades. He passed, and his pernicious children have been selling off his art. Allegedly, of course.” She winked at me.
“Two previously never-before-shown pieces have sold at the Modiste Gallery this year.”
“Really?”
“All a colorful story to drive up the price, I’m sure.
” She nodded. “Every gallery in the city was hoping to get the sale of the next ones, but it looks like the Modiste has the ultimate connection. Who knows how many they have left, but it was rumored he painted at least twenty in the Blue collection alone.”
“Lucky, I guess.” My heart raced. “But wouldn’t there be some record of these pieces having been painted?”
“The family kept a record, I’m sure. It’s probably with the gallery now. Paintings that were previously lost to the world, suddenly found. It certainly makes for a good story.” She tilted her head. “I had no idea you were so interested in the arts, Conrad.”
If there was a list of his pieces rumored to have been lost, then we’d have a map—a way to connect what we found to what was being sold.
“Neither did I.” My mom walked back into the room and handed Beatrice a piece of paper.
The two exchanged a look. One that I took to mean Not in front of the boy, but I had an idea.
A smile crested against my cheeks. Maybe she was doing something for herself. And if that something was a divorce, having all of high society take my mom’s side would mean having a chance at facing off against my father.
“Something going on?” I asked. For as long as I could remember, she’d been resigned to the reality in front of her. Maybe now she’d finally decided to change it…
“Nothing to concern yourself with.” My mom placed a hand on my cheek and moved her thumb back and forth. “Now…” She sat back down next to Beatrice. “Is this a newfound interest in the arts or a young lady who’s interested in the arts?”
I chuckled and stood.
“Just curious.” I put my hands up. “That’s all.”
Beatrice’s eyes narrowed on me. “Yes, well, Modiste Gallery has quite a few Winchester alumni working in the curation department… Could be something a date might be interested in. Who am I to say?”
“You should take her there, Conrad,” my mom added, perking up.
“I was only curious,” I repeated.
The pieces were being sold. There was a list of them, a way to uncover what was actually going on. And Malena would definitely want to know more now… right?
It was worth a shot.