Chapter 28
JULES
All weekend, while I work on taking ultra-high-resolution photos of every inch of the Echo & Answer piece using the tech courtesy of Suzie’s crush, I try to ignore the voice in my head that keeps repeating what Linc said on my birthday. I think I’m going to keep you, Buttercup.
Keep me like what? Like a trophy? An object? A piece of art in his collection? Like how Westley went into danger and to the ends of the earth for true love?
Then I remember the way Linc looked at me when he said it.
I was so focused on his winking eye that I didn’t pay attention to the other one.
The raw vulnerability there, like he’s never let himself truly want something unless he knows for sure he can have it.
Despite the cocky comment and the wink, his other eye revealed a possibility that terrifies me.
He knows I’m not a sure thing.
But does that mean he wants me?
People always talk about yearning to be seen, to be wanted.
It’s a strange sensation when it finally happens.
Part of me wants to resist it, doesn’t trust it.
For so long, keeping my distance has been my protection.
If I don’t let people in, they can’t hurt me.
If I don’t want things too badly, I can’t be disappointed when they don’t work out.
But what happens if I let him in? What happens if I stop protecting myself and start living instead?
Maybe I could let myself want him.
Or maybe I’m reading this entire situation wrong and this is how he is with all women—his interactions with Ms. Drecken don’t count.
Sure, he’s been charming toward her during our meeting—and at the doughnut shop, he gave a fifty percent tip.
However, I can’t help but think the way he treats me is different.
Or maybe I’ve just been inhaling too many paint fumes and turpentine.
My stomach is queasy, but I think it’s from guilt because forging paintings and this kind of behavior was my father’s specialty, not mine. I swore I’d never follow in his footsteps.
Yet here I am with a fake diploma, a stolen painting, and a growing pile of lies between my boss and me—someone I’m afraid I’m starting to care about.
Everything is built on deception.
Before I can travel too far down that dead end, I examine the lower corner of the painting and make a discovery that makes me stop and stare … and stare.
Underneath the surface layer of paint, barely visible but unmistakably present, is what looks like another signature.
Sunday evening, we meet at Linc’s place to return the painting.
I’m practically vibrating with excitement as I ride the elevator to the top floor—because of course, he couldn’t sink so low as to live closer to ground level like a normal human.
At least I don’t have to walk up four flights of stairs with this painting.
I note that the building has a concierge service, a gym, and probably a driver on call.
After knocking, I wait outside a dark wooden door in a plush carpeted hallway with gold sconces that make me feel woefully underdressed and out of place.
I notice too late that I have paint on my denim shorts—a small smear of brown that could be used as evidence against me in the court of law.
Surely, someone like Lincoln Andresen has access to good lawyers.
“Well, that’s not incriminating at all,” I mutter, trying to rub it off as Linc opens the door.
“What isn’t?” Linc’s gaze corkscrews down my body and lands on my legs before murmuring, “I’m so grateful for summer. Should buy stock in Daisy Dukes.”
“Huh?” I ask, not sure what he means, as I push my way inside. “I have paint on my clothes. This looks bad, but it’s too late to change now.”
Then I look around, having only set foot in a place like this vicariously through movies—classics with Mom and modern flicks with Oly.
Linc’s condo is a luxury high-rise along Lake Shore Drive with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lake Michigan.
The view alone would solve most of my financial woes, if not give me a solid dose of tranquility every day.
Everything is shiny and clean. Nary a dust bunny in sight.
Either his favorite hobby is sweeping floors and polishing surfaces or he has a cleaning service.
Linc must read my expression because he says, “Leave it to my father to pull out all the stops to show me the life I could inherit.”
I take that to mean, like the car, this condo is thanks to Frank. I set the painting on the marble countertop where I glimpse a distorted version of my reflection.
“Hungry?” he asks, pulling out his phone. “I was thinking pizza.”
“Pizza works.” At least some things remain normal.
“Preferences on toppings?”
“Anything but anchovies.”
“What’s wrong with anchovies? They’re salty little gems from the sea.”
I stick out my tongue. “They’re fish. On pizza. It’s unnatural.”
“So is pineapple, but I don’t see you vetoing that.”
“Because pineapple is delicious. Sweet and tangy. Summer-y.”
The corner of his lips teases a grin. “This is important information. I’m learning so much about the real Jules Lindley right now.”
“The real Jules has very strong opinions about pizza toppings.”
“Among other things.”
We settle on half and half—his weird anchovy preference on one side, my civilized combination on the other. While we wait for delivery, I open my laptop and spread out the photos I took and the research materials across his granite kitchen island.
“Okay, prepare to have your mind blown.” I arrange the images. “Look at this.”
I point to the background. “See this arrangement of trees? And that church with its spire?”
He nods and follows my finger as I lower it toward plumes of smoke from the aforementioned muskets.
“Notice anything unusual?”
Linc leans closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne along with that clean minty scent that makes me want to breathe deeper.
His lean muscle tells me he could totally lift a car off someone in a dire situation.
The crinkle in the corners of his eyes suggests he’s plotting something diabolical.
The way his full lips hovered over mine that one time in an almost-kiss that definitely left me wanting, highlighted exactly how much he hates me.
At least this is the story I tell myself so I can sleep at night. Otherwise, I might lie awake all night pining.
Linc turns slowly to me as if detecting my sudden sensory overload. “It looks familiar.”
“It looks like many small towns during this era of history. I cross-referenced it with historical maps. This depicts a real location. A small Illinois town where Lincoln supposedly stayed overnight during his circuit lawyer days.”
His head snaps up. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious. But here’s the really interesting part—it’s floating. There’s no foundation.”
Much like my head right now, being here in Linc’s abode, sitting so close to him might be grounds for me requiring a personal day. Thankfully, I get paid time off.
“Suggesting it’s not permanent. Not real?”
I tip my head from side to side. “Now, check this out.”
Linc’s eyes bulge as he studies the images of the lower left-hand corner, where I discovered another name under the original.
“Most buildings have a base and this artist was no stranger to that, especially considering there are some normally constructed buildings over here.” I point behind the image of the former president.
“Good point. So, do you think it could be a map like my mother suggested?”
I enhance the image on my computer. “There’s more. The signature I uncovered doesn’t match the attributed artist, Douglas Kennard. This was painted by someone else entirely, someone whose work from this period is extremely rare.”
Linc reads the original signature, Clement Marchand, that I found under the current signature, D. Kinnard.
“Unusual, right? This makes me think more than ever that this is part one of a diptych and whoever made the alterations didn’t want anyone to make the association that there was a second painting.”
He says, “So they changed the artist’s name, meaning we just need to find all artworks by Clement Marchand?”
I tap the air with my pointer finger. “It could be that the two panels will tell a complete story. The composition here suggests there should be a matching piece. See how Lincoln’s hand is extended?”
“Almost like he’s pointing to something.”
“Or reaching out. Also, the way the light falls suggests it’s either early morning or late evening—specific transitional moments.
Shadows from the other painting form a link between puzzle pieces.
I tried to find a connection between the various objects, but I’m thinking the ‘map,’ as you said, is found more between painting A and painting B. ”
He swipes through the photos and studies the painting as if willing a connection to be made, to determine if he’s seen the match before or any other work by the artist.
Hoping to jog his memory, I say, “It could be a before and after scene. Like maybe Lincoln preparing for a speech versus giving it. Or paired portraits—one of Lincoln, another of Mary Todd, with hidden elements that align when placed side by side. The possibilities are endless, but the point is, this painting isn’t a solo piece of art. It came as a pair.”
“This is incredible work, Jules. This could be groundbreaking.” Admiration and appreciation fill his voice.
It lights a little candle inside that makes me whiskey-warm.
I incline my head for emphasis. “But they were done by an altogether different artist.”
His jaw lowers. “Oh. Wow.” He repeats the word several more times as realization dawns.
After some quick research into Clement Marchand, we learn that he only painted in pairs, confirming my diptych theory.
Linc says, “That suggests someone wanted these paintings treated as separate works.”
“But why?”
We pore over the images until the pizza arrives, and even then, we eat with one hand while pointing at details with the other. The conversation drifts between historical speculation and gentle teasing about toppings, food, and other favorites.
Sometime between analyzing brushstrokes and debating Lincoln’s travel routes, we’ve moved to the couch and have been shifting closer and closer together. Our knees are touching. Every time he reaches for a photo or document, his arm brushes against mine.
My entire body fills with pins and needles, but in a good way.
Facing me, he says, “Thank you. For all of this. I know you’re taking huge risks to help me, and I don’t take that lightly.”
“You’re welcome.”
At this late hour and in the soft lighting, Linc yawns. It’s contagious and we both, heavy-eyed, smile at each other in a way that makes me forget that I ever hated him.
Full from pizza and the buzz of excitement from our discoveries wearing off, exhaustion rolls over me like a wave softly lapping the shores of the lake below. I let my eyes drift closed, just for a moment. The last thing I remember is my head dropping to the warmth of Linc’s shoulder.