Chapter 3 #4
He laughs back almost meanly. “Art is a commodity. It’s what my great-grandfather Henrik Swanson figured out a long time ago. He was one of the first to see it. This is simply taking that concept to the next level.”
“What about art for art’s sake, for the sheer enjoyment of it?”
“That’s what museums are for.”
I try to shift the subject to something else because his answers are annoying me. “But what about Stella? What does she have to do with the company now?”
Matthew is telling me way too much, but I recognize in him the same sadness I found in Stella. He’s lonely.
“That’s a bit of a sticky wicket. She thought my grandfather would name her as his successor, but according to his will my father has been given complete control.
In fact, as of right now, Stella may inherit nothing from my grandfather’s estate.
That apartment used to be filled with paintings the two of them collected over the years, ones that meant so much to her.
They’ve been stripped from the walls. She doesn’t even own the floor beneath her feet. ”
“How is that possible?”
“Everything is owned by the family corporation for tax reasons. The lawyers have been battling over all of it since my grandfather died.”
I think back again to Stella saying it was terrible to be rich. I assumed she was saying that she hated being rich, but maybe she meant that being rich makes you terrible.
“It doesn’t seem fair to your grandmother.
That after all those years with your grandfather, after supporting him and being his right-hand person as you said, that she should own nothing.
” I think of my own mother supporting my father through graduate school and how when he ran off with his much younger student, he left the two of us with nothing, how it destroyed her, and nearly me.
“None of it is fair,” he agrees.
“You said you’ve been working hard to prove yourself. Who else could your father tap to succeed him besides you?” My curiosity now knows no bounds.
Matthew rolls his eyes. “Caroline wants it. Obviously. And she’s his little pet, but I still think I have a better shot than she does because of my Hollywood connections.
And then there are the twins from my father’s second marriage.
They’re a couple of years younger than us, but they’re ruthless.
That’s what you get when you marry and divorce a Russian model half your age.
Father really shit the bed with that marriage.
She got a fortune in the divorce. Dad’s got the twins handling most of his deals in the Middle East right now, even though I keep telling him I could kill it for him in the desert. ”
“Sounds like you’re not very close with your brothers.”
“Half brothers,” he retorts. “And they’re not close with anyone except each other. They’re identical and have been speaking their own creepy language since the day they were born. They even dress alike, at age thirty. They’d eat my face off if it would please Father or make them a million dollars.”
“Family gatherings must be a riot at your house.”
“We don’t have many. Just one big holiday party each year. It’s coming up soon, actually. It is completely legendary. Perhaps you could join me.”
He reaches over and winds a lock of my hair around his pointer finger. I lean easily into his touch.
We’re interrupted by the waiter dropping three desserts on the table.
There’s a mille-feuille of crisp, light-as-air puff pastry layered with rich cream; an ?le flottante with its cloud of poached meringue floating in crème anglaise and drizzled with salted caramel; and finally a tender crêpe suzette bathed in a buttery sauce of orange juice, sugar, and Grand Marnier.
“This is too much! Are we expecting someone else?”
“It’s something Stella always taught me. If you can’t decide between two desserts, always order the third. You’ll never regret it.”
“From what I can tell, your grandmother is a woman who knows how to enjoy life.”
“She is. Or she was. And I think she taught my grandfather a thing or two about it. They had many wonderful years together. I only hope that I’m so lucky one day.”
“May we all be so lucky.” I raise the last of my wine in a toast.
“My grandmother is a special woman. Please keep an eye on her for me, and let me know if she says anything to you out of the ordinary. I have no one else I can talk to about her. She hardly lets anyone come to see her these days, and I know she puts on her best face for me. Will you help me?”
“I can try.”
He places his palm on the top of my thigh, the fingers splayed out so they squeeze my entire leg.
“I appreciate you,” he whispers.
His last words send a shiver down my spine. All the talk of money and apartments, art auctions, succession, and family drama had seemed like society-page gossip, but as Matthew clutches my leg firmly beneath the table it feels all too real.
He squeezes harder, which is not altogether unpleasant, but then I look directly into his eyes and his gaze has hardened.
“You must help me keep her safe.”