Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
R ose and Sean spent all afternoon preparing for the fundraiser that Friday. Sean hadn’t had a tuxedo—not even somewhere tucked away in Nantucket—which had required a shopping trip and a last-minute purchase, one that had made Sean’s eyes bug out of his head. Rose understood. Sean’s yearly wage wasn’t much to write home about. But Rose hadn’t come from wealth, and she had an incredible amount of respect for people like Sean. People who’d given their all to their communities. People who didn’t save their cash just to prove they had a lot of it.
Rose bought a gown because she wanted to look pristine—just in case Oren was a guest. She had a hunch he would be. But she wasn’t sure how much she could trust her gut.
Her gut had been wrong before, after all.
Sean and Rose waited in the hotel foyer. Sean looked captivated by her. He held her hand and said, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Rose snorted. “That’s rich. ”
But Sean held her gaze. “It’s the truth.”
Rose’s smile melted. She squeezed his hand and marveled, Is this the fairy-tale ending I always dreamed of?
But already, the car pulled up to take them to Mrs. Walden’s fundraiser. Rose had wanted to come in style.
Sean opened the door for her, and Rose slid in and assembled the end of her gown around her ankles.
“It’s showtime,” Sean said, wagging his eyebrows.
Rose burst into nervous laughter.
The car reached the glorious art deco building thirty-five minutes after the fundraiser was set to begin. Already, wealthy and well-dressed men and women paraded from taxis and limousines and entered the gold-laced doors. Rose watched, hunting for some sign of Oren and the arrogant sway of his shoulders. But he wasn’t among those entering. Maybe he wouldn’t be here at all.
Sean had already told her as soon as she confirmed that the sculpture was hers, he’d make the call. A few cops were on standby in the area. The fact that she’d crafted this scheme was far beyond his scope as a police officer.
But she had to know if Oren was involved. She couldn’t let him slip away. Not if he’d done something wrong. Not this time.
Rose slipped her arm through Sean’s. He led her gently toward the doorman, who bowed as he opened the door. It had been a long time since a doorman had held the door open for Rose. Had the last time been when she’d been married to Oren?
Rose remembered so many doormen. So many of them had seen Oren verbally or physically abuse her. So many of them had witnessed an unhappy marriage. But they’d smiled and said, “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Grayson.” They’d looked the other way.
Would Rose have looked the other way, too? Would she have said, That’s just the way things go?
Rose handed over her invitation upon entering. The woman who took it looked it over, then smiled and said, “You must be the portraitist. You’ve really done something sensational. Let me ask you. Can I hire you to paint my portrait, too? Or is this something the MOMA must hire you for first?”
The woman’s eyes glinted. Rose felt speechless.
“Really, honey. I’ll throw as much money at this as I can,” the woman said.
“Let’s talk about it after the fundraiser,” Rose sang, smiling.
“Of course,” the woman said, fixing her face. “Tonight is all about the children.”
“Yes. All about the children,” Rose repeated.
After that, Sean and Rose entered a glorious ballroom. It was a bit like walking back in time. Chandeliers hung low from a bowed sky, glinting and throwing their light across the walls, and a full-string orchestra sat in the shadows. Music swelled. There was a ball in Rose’s throat. She struggled to breathe.
That was when she spotted Mrs. Walden’s portrait.
It hung far above their heads so that it seemed like Mrs. Walden gazed down upon them, formidable and wealthy.
Sean muttered under his breath, “You are so talented.”
“I made her look the way she wanted to look,” Rose corrected.
“That’s still a huge talent,” Sean told her. “You swindled our way in here.”
Rose giggled, then fixed her face as Mrs. Walden approached. She wore an elaborate ball gown, and her hair was piled into an architecturally bizarre set of curls and rolls on her head. But she really did look wonderful. Her eyes glistened strangely, though. It was proof she was already drunk.
She’d never been able to kick that habit, Rose realized.
For a moment, Rose allowed herself to feel tremendously sad for Mrs. Walden. It was clear something was very wrong with her. With her life. With the way she thought about herself.
“Darling, you made it,” Mrs. Walden said, kissing both cheeks. “Everyone is giddy about the portrait. They can’t get over it. Everyone wants to know your name. Barbara Sparrow. Barbara Sparrow. It’s the name on everyone’s lips!”
Rose blushed and glanced at Sean. Sean looked pale. It was clear he wanted to call his backup immediately.
Rose introduced him as her boyfriend, then realized it was the first time she’d ever said that aloud. Sean grinned and took Mrs. Walden’s hand. But he didn’t know what the wealthy did with other wealthy people’s hands because he wasn't wealthy. So he shook hers. Mrs. Walden made a face and took her hand back.
Looking around, Rose spotted Hogarth Walden. He wore a tuxedo and drank something dark brown—a whiskey or a scotch, not unlike something Oren might have drunk. He’d grown up in this world, which meant he was a product of these people.
“I really would like to see the art pieces,” Rose said.
“Of course. They’re just that way,” Mrs. Walden said, already growing bored. She moved on to someone else, and her voice echoed through the ballroom.
Sean and Rose cut through the throng of wealth, sensational perfumes, and laughter that didn’t sound terribly happy. Rose was careful to keep her eyes straight ahead. She wanted to confirm the sculpture was hers. She’d begun to grow frightened and wanted to get out of there. It felt as though her dress was too tight; she was struggling to breathe.
Sean and Rose entered the room where the artwork was held. Three guards stood on either side of the room, watching them with dull expressions. The auction was to be held later that night after everyone had gotten drunk enough to throw their money around, but the auctioneer was seated with a full glass of wine, clicking his jaw around.
That was when Rose spotted her sculpture. It was directly in the middle of the other artworks—sculptures, paintings, miniatures, busts, wooden carvings. Her heart leaped into her throat. She squeezed Sean’s hand and walked up to it. It was out of her reach and oh, so heavy. Tears sprang to her eyes. She couldn’t believe it was here. It was a piece of her heart and soul.
If Oren’s not here, how did the sculpture get here? She couldn’t get her head around it.
“We should call soon,” Sean warned. Sweat billowed on the back of his neck. It was going to ruin his tuxedo. “I can’t take this party for more than a few minutes.”
Rose squeezed his hand. It was going to be difficult to leave her sculpture behind now that she knew it was really hers. But she knew it was necessary to have professionals deal with this.
“The bidding doesn’t start till later,” one of the guards warned them.
Rose set her jaw. “Thanks.” She then twisted out of the room. Her breathing felt too rapid. She felt on the verge of a panic attack. She felt Sean hot on her heels and could see the phone in his hand he wanted to use to call in someone to help.
But that was when she spotted him.
That was when she saw Oren.
There he was. He stood in the middle of everything in an iconic tuxedo, his hair just as full and curly as ever, his shoulders just as broad. His smile was arrogant, sure, and he bowed forward to whisper a joke into the ear of the man he spoke to. Oren always liked to do that. He always wanted to make you feel “in on it.”
Rose’s knees quivered and threatened to give out.
This was the first time she’d seen him in years.
This was the man who’d ridiculed her, made her feel as though it were her fault that they couldn’t get pregnant—he’d made her feel stupid and small and ugly.
This was also the man who’d given her everything. Who’d changed her life when she’d had nothing.
Tears filled Rose’s eyes. She felt frozen.
Sean gave her a curious look, then followed Rose’s eyes through the crowd. “Oh,” he muttered because he recognized Oren.
It was no surprise that Mrs. Walden hadn’t recognized Rose. She hadn’t spent much time with her since Rose was twenty-one.
But the minute Oren looked in Rose’s direction, Oren knew who she was. She wasn’t Barbara Sparrow. She was his second wife.
Rose had come here to look in his eyes and see if he was guilty—for Natalie’s death, for the theft of her sculpture.
She saw guilt there.
She saw rage.
And more than anything, she saw his singular belief that he could do whatever he wanted and get away with it. He thought he was above the law.
Rose’s gut swirled with nausea. She thought she might throw up.
Sean was saying her name, but Rose couldn’t look away from Oren’s gaze. He downed his drink and set his jaw.
Suddenly, Sean was on the phone, muttering something. Rose couldn’t remember who he was calling. She couldn’t feel her feet.
Oren took a step toward her. He licked his lips. Beside him was a beautiful blond—much younger than he was. Was she his wife? Rose struggled to remember.
She still remembered marrying him. She still remembered giving her entire heart to him. How could she not have?
He manipulated me. He took me for all I had and left me to rot. I had nothing.
Suddenly, three cops tore into the ballroom, flashing their badges. The people at the front entrance had their hands up. They looked stricken.
“We’re looking for Phil and Audra Walden,” one of the cops bellowed.
The crowd parted to reveal Mrs. Walden. She looked just as powerful as she did in the painting, her eyes glinting. “What could this possibly concern, Officers?” She said it as though she planned to ensure every single one of them lost their jobs.
She probably could do that, Rose reasoned. She probably still would be able to, even if she was in the wrong. That was just how money worked.
The cop barreled toward her. Another followed him, while the third traced the crowd to find Sean.
“You are under arrest for suspicion of art theft,” the first officer said to Mrs. Walden.
Mr. Walden appeared behind her with his hands up. He looked dopey. “I don’t understand.”
Rose turned to watch as Oren cut through the crowd, hurrying for the exit. Her heart slammed to a stop.
“It was him!” Rose screamed. “Don’t let him get away!”
Suddenly, a fourth officer appeared in the doorway and slammed the massive golden door shut. Oren ricocheted and took off for another exit. But three cops were hot on his heels, surging toward him. Oren’s escape strategy was akin to a child trying to get away with something. And it also proved his hands red.
Already, a cop had Oren’s massive wrists in handcuffs. Oren cackled as though the whole thing were a game. His eyes found Rose’s through the crowd.
“You think you can get away with framing me like this, Rosie?” he called.
Mrs. Walden gaped and followed his eyes. “Rose?” she whispered. “What on earth?” She then flailed her hand toward her and said, “She’s an impostor, Officer. She pretended to be someone she’s not!”
“Look at me, Rosie,” Oren blared. “I did this for you, Rosie. For us!”
Rose’s voice was meek. “You wanted me to be distracted. You didn’t want me to find out your crimes.”
“What crimes, Rosie?” Oren said as the cops dragged him out of the room. “Tell me one thing I’ve done wrong. Haven’t I cared for you? Haven’t I loved you till the very end? Wasn’t it you who stopped loving me first, Rosie?”
He went on like that until they pulled him into the cop car. Rose could hear him screaming in the street.
Suddenly, Rose collapsed against Sean and burst into tears. He held her as she shook and cried, then led her out of the ballroom and into a taxi and back to the hotel room they now shared. He drew her a bath and held her hand as she trembled.
But already, the news was hot with Oren’s arrest.
“Breaking! Millionaire Oren Grayson was arrested this evening under suspicion of art theft,” a newscaster said, his face glossy and tan. “The New York City Police Department, in cooperation with the Nantucket Island Police Department, traced artist Rose Carlson’s recently stolen sculpture all the way to the Walden fundraiser in Midtown this evening. What’s particularly riveting about this story? Rose Carlson is Oren Grayson’s second wife. We’ll have more news at eleven.”
There was speculation already that Oren had done what he’d done to “mess” with his ex-wife. To “teach her a lesson.”
It was a surprise to Rose. She’d never thought anyone would be on her side. Not when Oren had money.
Maybe the tides really were turning for women.
Rose was wrapped in a robe and huddled against Sean in bed. She felt protected, soft. Already, she’d received word from her client, who’d texted:
WOW. This is crazy. This art piece is going to be SO FAMOUS. And it’s still mine!
But Rose wasn’t so sure about that. She had a feeling she was going to give the client all her money back so she could keep the piece. She’d grown too attached.
“What now?” Rose breathed when the news went to commercial.
Sean laughed and kissed her forehead. “We can relax a little bit, maybe.”
Suddenly, Rose’s phone buzzed with another text. She assumed it was her client.
But instead, it was the private investigator.
She’d only written: I found her. Here’s her number. She wants you to call.