Chapter 31 Jules
JULES
During the flight, Linc and I review everything we know so far.
“Let’s walk through this again,” I say, tapping my chin. “Something is weird with the insurance valuations for the Fairfax Collection.”
He runs a hand through his hair. Compared to when we first met, it’s less, I hate it here and you and more, I’m thinking. “My mother was mildly obsessed with finding the Civil War piece.”
“Which I believe turned out to be Echo & Answer.”
“She said it held the key.”
“Leading you to the historical society archives,” I prompt, grinning because I love when a thread pulls tight.
“Right. And we found the painting.”
“Or someone at Meridian did, altered the signature, and then hid it. The Fairfax Collection’s insurance valuations have been adjusted four times in the past year.
And every time, it’s just below the threshold that would trigger an external audit.
But it was never a complete collection because of that one missing painting. Until now.”
“Maxine, the acting COO, has been managing those.”
“She has exclusive access codes to certain files. So do you, as the CEO’s son. But …” I meet his eyes. “When I cross-referenced the access logs with the dates of the adjustments, someone used your credentials twice when you weren’t even in the building.”
“Are you keeping track of me, Miss Lindley?”
“Don’t you wish.”
“Maxine, as witchy as she is, wouldn’t set me up. The job as VP is all but hers. I don’t want it. She knows that.”
I let out a breath. “If you say so, but I did overhear a conversation in her office.”
He arches an eyebrow as if skeptical, so I give him the verbatim replay. A frown drops his lips. “Interesting. But Maxine is just bitter. I can’t fathom her destroying Meridian over it. That would be like cutting off her nose to spite her face.”
“Terrible visual, but fair point.” Getting us back on track, I add, “This does raise questions about provenance.”
Linc’s forehead rumples. “If it leads to the letters, I still can’t figure out why my father didn’t want them found. Unless he’s involved.”
This is a new piece of info. “Your father doesn’t want you finding the letters?”
“He deterred me.”
“Maybe so you focus on your exec duties.” Or perhaps because he’s our fraudster.
“Yeah. Could be.” The furrow across his brow deepens.
“I did some digging—probably more than I should have without telling you first, sorry—and I found some really old correspondence. Your grandfather bought the Fairfax Collection at auction, totally legal, but there are hints that Mary Todd Lincoln had specific intentions for some of those pieces. Intentions that maybe weren’t … fully honored.”
For a long moment, he’s quiet. “My mother spent years trying to find the letters, to prove that romance between—” Linc sighs. “She wanted to believe that even in the hardest moments, even in a war, love could survive.”
I know a thing or two about theft and what this could mean for Meridian, but let Linc speak freely.
“If finding these letters means exposing something ugly about how we got the collections or my father’s involvement, then that’s what we do.”
“Or it could be Maxine … or someone else.”
He nods. “I’m not going to let anyone interfere with what my mother spent her last years searching for.”
I beam a smile. “Whatever you say, boss.”
We turn our attention to the auction gala and Linc gives me a rundown on who’s who. Turns out his father won’t be in attendance, but Maxine Drecken will.
My stomach grumbles shortly before we’re supposed to touch down.
“Hungry?” Linc asks.
“You’re not supposed to know I’m human under all this polish and gloss,” I joke.
He chuckles. “Jules, this is just our guest pass into the party. I happen to prefer the way you look at about seven thirty a.m.”
My cheeks warm and the place between my bones and skin tingles.
“There is food available onboard, but much better than your typical airplane meals. Or, if you can wait about thirty minutes, I’ll bring you somewhere that will put our deep-dish pizza to shame.
” He places his finger in front of his lips.
“Shh. Don’t tell anyone I said that, though. I’ll lose my Chicago residency card.”
My laughter turns nervous because, although I work in a professional environment and I’m as fascinated by the lives of the rich and famous as the next person, I’m more comfortable in my natural habitat.
Also, my father taught me some things that saved us a bundle on his health care—even though his other debts eventually caught up to me.
However, I never got a lesson on which fork to use first, if it’s customary to put your napkin next to your plate when you’re finished with a meal or leave it in your lap in case there’s a dessert course.
The little things feel really big right now.
Yet another sleek black town car brings us through New York City. I gaze into the fading golden light, caught up in awe as skyscrapers stretch tall and famous landmarks all but wave at me.
“Have you been here before?” Linc asks.
“I’ve never gone further east than Dallas and that was back when I was seven.”
For dinner, he changes the script because instead of going to a five-star restaurant that required a reservation that was made last year, we sit at a table with a checkered cloth in a tiny pizza parlor.
I’ve gathered that we’re in Little Italy and this place has been family-owned for four generations.
The owner greets us warmly, likely wondering why we’re so dressed up.
“This isn’t exactly what I expected,” I admit, biting into the best slice of pizza I’ve ever tasted.
“And what was that?”
“Something with far more dollar signs on the menu.”
He winks. “That comes next.”
Next turns out to be Impresso, a chocolate boutique that looks like it was designed by someone who thought regular desserts were insufficient. Everything is plated like art, and the menu reads like poetry written in sugar and cream.
“The noisette cake,” Linc tells the server without consulting the menu. “And two forks.”
“And there I was hoping we’d order one of each.”
“If you wish.”
“I’m kidding.”
But was he? A line from one of my favorite movies comes to mind. What Linc said is a variation of Westley’s words to Buttercup—the ones loaded with meaning.
But I’m probably reading into things.
The noisette is three layers of hazelnut and chocolate perfection, topped with lacy vanilla drizzle, edible gold leaf, and a delicate sprig of mint.
Linc taps his fork against mine. “I noticed your chocolate stash and that the hazelnut chocolates disappear the fastest. I thought you might enjoy this.”
My heart springs from my chest at the notion. “I’m addicted just looking at it.”
Linc’s eyes hover over mine and I can’t quite read the smile on his face. Or maybe I’m afraid to.
“Bon appétit.”
I take a careful bite, savoring both the incredible flavor and trying not to be reminded of exactly how different our worlds are.
“Good?” Linc asks.
I close my eyes, wanting my thriftiness to take its OSHA-mandated fifteen-minute break, for goodness’ sake. “This is life-changing. But I could buy groceries for a week with what this costs.”
He frowns. “Jules—”
“I’m not complaining. I just … to be honest, this is all ever so slightly overwhelming. Not in a bad way, but in a how I make my chocolate stash last all week kind of way.”
He reaches across the table and folds my hand into his. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I know this can be a lot.”
“It’s …” I struggle to find the words. “You make it seem effortless. Like you fit everywhere.”
“Do I?”
“Size, status, skill—you have the luxury of always feeling like you belong.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing circles in the little soft pocket of skin between my thumb and index finger. “I want you to feel like you belong too.”
“In your world?”
“With me, Buttercup.”
The words send me spinning. He didn’t sound possessive or demanding. Just … him. Like he’s offering me a place I didn’t know I was looking for … one I shouldn’t let myself want.
I snap a quick photo of us with the dessert before it disappears, remembering Oly’s instructions. I make sure I don’t have a double chin before I click send. In the picture, Linc is looking at me instead of the camera. The context of this particular image makes me feel like I’ll never stop smiling.
The car ride to the Whitmore estate is quiet. I watch the city give way to manicured suburbs, then rolling hills dotted with mansions that could house all the residents of a small village. Linc seems lost in thought, and I find myself studying his profile in the dim light.
The man is a puzzle. Arrogant enough to steal paintings and humble enough to bring me out for pizza while dressed in a gown.
Confident in boardrooms but gentle when talking about his mother.
Like he operates from an innate, internal knowledge that the world doesn’t owe him anything—rather, that the world is lucky to count him among its population.
The thing is, he’s not wrong. That terrifies me because maybe I want him in my life beyond being his assistant, beyond this summer. But what would that mean?
“What are you really looking for?” My question interrupts the quiet shushing of the tires on the road.
He glances at me, confused. “The painting. The letters.”
“But why, really?”
He’s silent for so long, I assume he won’t answer. Taking a deep inhale, he says, “Because my mother didn’t finish looking. Never gave up hope. Because I want to be sure I’m not bound by blood to turn out like my father.” He shrugs, suddenly looking younger, vulnerable. “Sorry. That sounds silly.”
My heart hiccups. Upon formally meeting Frank Andresen, he’s not a horrible man. I don’t totally hate him. However, given what Linc said about his mother’s journal, he turned away from what’s most important in favor of money and power. He hardly sees what remains, his amazing son.
“It doesn’t sound silly at all.” I twine my fingers between Linc’s.
The Whitmore estate makes every other display of wealth I’ve seen today seem aspirational, a kindergartner playing dress up with her mom’s showgirl clothes.
It’s a Greek Revival mansion with soaring columns, a fountain in the circular driveway bordered by manicured gardens, landscape lighting, and lots of topiary.
Valets in white gloves somehow welcome us like royalty and blend in like wallpaper when we arrive.
This is Linc’s world and watching him navigate it with the easy smiles, casual greetings, and the way people gravitate toward him, I realize how carefully he’s been managing himself around me.
How much effort it must take to make me feel comfortable when this level of opulence is his baseline normal.
Before my phone is put in a locker since there is no photography allowed, I send Oly a quick text, telling her to send help if I’m not at our next brunch date … or if I fall in love.