Chapter 18
CHAPTER 18
VIVIAN
“ S hut up! What happened next?” asked Barb as she pulled the bottle of vodka down from the cabinet.
Before I could respond, she called over her shoulder, “Millie, where’s the cocktail shaker?”
“In the dishwasher,” came Millie’s response from the second bedroom.
Barb opened the dishwasher and pulled out the crystal and stainless-steel shaker. She waved her hand at me. “Okay, keep going.”
“No, wait! I want to hear this,” called out Millie.
Barb trapped a fistful of ice and dumped it into the shaker, before unscrewing the vodka cap and tipping the bottle over the cubes. “Then hurry!”
Millie came rushing into the room, breathless as she adjusted one large silver hoop earring, then straightened her bright fuchsia turban. “All right! All right! I’m here. Don’t forget the vermouth.”
Barb threw her arm up. “Do you hear this one? Don’t forget the vermouth. In forty years have I ever forgotten the vermouth?”
Millie sat on the kitchen counter stool beside me and patted my hand as she gave me a soft, kind smile. “So I hear you got some decent cock finally.”
My cheeks burned as I lowered my head to the counter to bury my face in my folded arms. “God, Millie, please don’t say things like that.”
She shrugged. “What did I say? Are the kids not calling it cock anymore these days?”
I rolled my head from side to side as I groaned. “And please don’t use the word kids and cock in the same sentence.” My voice was muffled by the huge sleeves of my oversized sweater.
Unable to trust myself with my chaotic thoughts, the moment I’d arrived home I’d showered and headed over to Barb and Millie’s apartment. They were two sisters in their seventies who shared an apartment after retiring from a lifelong career in the theatre as costume designers. They were absolutely precious, and I loved them like family.
Although they could be a bit blunt.
Barb poured olive juice into the shaker. “Millie, will you shut up and let the girl talk?”
“Fine. Talk, Vivian. Tell us everything.”
I would sooner walk naked down Michigan Avenue than tell them everything , but I did give them the abridged, PG version.
After shaking the cocktail, she poured three dirty martinis into glasses, dropped two olives into each and pushed one toward me. “So you just left?”
I pulled the martini glass toward me and tilted my chin up as I tilted the glass down, too upset to even pick my head up properly. After a large gulp, I said, “Did you not hear the part where I said I slapped him?”
“I heard it.”
I blinked. “As in slapped the super scary dude who claims he is the embodiment of the Russian Mafia in Chicago.”
Her massive costume jewelry cocktail rings, one for each finger, glinted as she raised her martini to her glossy pink lips. After she took a sip, there was a thick crescent of gloss left on the glass. “Yes, I heard that part, too.”
Millie popped her olive in her mouth and spoke as she chewed. “What Barb means to say is how could you just leave?”
I choked on my sip. “How could I not? I just slapped the man.”
Barb leaned her forearms on the counter. “What did he say?”
My gaze lowered as a blush creeped up my neck. “He didn’t say much.”
Millie cackled as she swatted my upper arm. “A man of action, was he? I love a man of few words.”
Barb raised her martini glass and clinked it against Millie’s. “I’ll drink to that.”
Kill me now.
I let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Ladies, I am seriously fucked.”
Barb winked. “Yeah, you are, sweetie.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m actually being serious here. If I don’t get those paintings back, I’m screwed.”
Millie chimed in, “Yeah, you?—”
I pointed a finger at her. “Don’t you dare say it.”
She ran her pinched fingers over her closed lips, twisted them, then threw away the pretend key.
Snatching my glass, I fished out the olives and tossed them aside before draining it.
Barb laid a hand over her chest. “Darling, respect the olive.”
I slid the martini glass across the granite countertop toward her. “Another.”
Millie captured one of my olives before it rolled off the counter and popped it into her mouth. “All you have to do is show up tomorrow and play the part of doting secretary. Then search his office and find the paintings.”
Barb raised her glass. “An elegant solution. And if you play a little do-si-do around the desk while you’re at it, then all the better.”
“Barb!”
She shrugged. “What, darling? It’s been years. I mean, Millie and I have seen more action than you since that cheating bastard you dumped.”
Both of my eyebrows rose as I looked from one elderly sister to the other. I mean, true, they were both fabulously stylish with that fun moxie that I hoped to embody when I was their age…. But more action? Truly? “Are you being serious now?”
Millie counted off her fingers. “For me, there’s been Bob from the pickleball courts. Morty from the Seniors Club and… oh, what was his name? Jacob, also from the Seniors Club.”
“Don’t forget about David.”
Millie frowned. “David?”
“From the produce section of the supermarket.”
“Oh, yeah, Zucchini Pie David! Oh, he was a sweetie. And so eager to please in bed.”
Barb tapped one perfectly manicured nail against her lips. “Let’s see. What’s my body count?”
Body count!
This must be what hell was like. Listening to your sweet, like-a-grandmother, elderly neighbors chat about their sexual exploits… while realizing they had a higher body count than you.
My brow furrowed. “It’s not my fault. I’m selective when it comes to men.”
Barb rolled her eyes. “Darling, a diamond dealer is selective. You’re a freaking nun. The pope himself would say, ‘all right already, just go fuck someone!’”
“I’m pretty sure the pope wouldn’t say that.”
Millie shrugged. “How do you know? Have you met him?”
Barb smiled as she gestured between her and Millie. “We have.”
“What a cutie. The current one. Not that one with the name like a rat who looked like a cartoon villain.”
I wasn’t surprised. The two of them were still celebrated throughout both the theatre and movie industry for their amazing costumes. They’d even received both a Tony and an Academy Award for their work.
“Var looks like a Bond villain,” I offered.
They both leaned forward. “Really? And his name is Var? How intriguing.”
“It’s short for Varlaam.”
Millie wagged her finger at me. “I like that. It’s a strong, sexy name with just a hint of arrogance. You want that in a man. David is a good name. And he was great in bed.” She swished her flat hand back and forth. “Morty, eh. That’s the name of an accountant or the guy who cleans your gutters, but he wasn’t so great at cleaning out the pipes, if you know what I mean.”
So help me God, I did.
“Ladies, we need to focus. Even if I found the paintings, how am I supposed to sneak them out of the Four Monks? I can’t just roll them up, they’re not canvas. They’re painted on poplar wood planks.”
Barb frowned. “Why would you do that? Sounds very inconvenient.”
“And expensive to frame,” added Millie.
“It wasn’t exactly by choice. That’s what da Vinci painted on.”
Barb and Millie were aware of what we called my “lucrative hobby.” They thought it was great fun to be living next door to a secret art forger. It made them feel very, as they put it, bohemian.
Barb scoffed as the ice in the cocktail shaker rattled in her hand. “Leave it to a man, even one who’s been dead for hundreds of years, to make things inconvenient for a woman.”
I groaned and buried my head in my arms again. “What am I going to do?”
Millie patted my shoulder. “Like I told Barb when we were brought in for that 1992 production of Bertolt Brecht’s The Caucasian Chalk Circle .”
Barb grimaced as she took a sip of her second martini. “Oh, hate that play. Over twenty actors to deal with, all wearing shades of beige. It was an absolute Moose Murder .”
I’d since learned that was theatre talk for a terrible play based on a notorious Broadway flop.
“Anyway,” continued Millie. “I told Barb we can only deal with one train wreck at a time. Find the paintings first. Then we’ll figure out how to get them out of the club.”
I raised my head. “That’s actually good advice.”
“Of course it’s good advice. Don’t act so surprised.”
Okay, this was a solid plan.
I would simply return to Var’s office and play the part until I found the paintings. It would probably only take me an hour or two, and then I’d ghost.
And I’d never have to see Var again.
He would go back to doing his mafia thing, and I’d go back to doing my thing.
Problem solved.
We’d both just be a kinky little memory to one another.
Yup. This was a good plan.