Chapter 32 Linc
LINC
The Whitmore estate is suitably opulent, but it’s modest compared to my father’s property outside Chicago—he built what he referred to as my mother’s dream house, though she was happiest when we spent summer weekends at the lake cabin. Haven’t been there in years.
As we walk through the hallway lined with antiques, I catch Jules taking it all in.
This is my world. Has always been my world. But watching her makes me see it through fresh eyes—how overwhelming it must be, how measured and scripted every interaction is, how much effort people put into appearing effortless.
After schmoozing—as my father says, though he isn’t here—we locate our target painting. It’s displayed prominently in the preview gallery. Even from across the room, I can tell it’s the companion piece we’ve been searching for.
The brushwork matches the stippling we saw in Echo & Answer. The color palette consists of soft pastels against dark undertones. The piece dovetails with the other—where Lincoln was reaching forward in the first painting, a small figure inside a glass structure reaches back toward him in this one.
“Linc,” Jules breathes, gripping my arm. “Do you see it?”
In the background—no, not the background, the focal point—is an elaborate glass conservatory.
The structure is unlike anything from the battle scene in the first painting.
It’s geometric with octagonal panels made of intricate iron framework that creates a distinctive star-burst pattern and yet, there’s fluidity to it, like flowing water, like a pleasant breeze, even though it appears to be constructed of glass.
It somehow conveys a softly flowing gentleness.
“I’ve seen architectural drawings of this exact design,” Jules says quietly.
“Where?”
“I can’t remember …”
“But you’ve seen the building in real life?”
“One like it …” She shakes her head as if probing her memory.
I study the painting more carefully. Inside the glass structure, a small figure sits at a writing desk—unmistakably feminine, unmistakably Mary Todd Lincoln.
“If you were to ask me to interpret, I’d say the glass construction was a place where they could be away from political pressure and the ravages of battle.”
“A place where he might hide personal correspondence he didn’t want in his official papers?” Jules asks, practically vibrating with excitement.
I nod slowly, thoughtfully. “The first painting shows Lincoln at war—his public life. This painting shows Mary in a glass sanctuary—their private life. Together, maybe this is what my mother suggested about the artist showing us where to look for the letters.”
“The paintings complement each other … and most notably, it’s signed by C. Marchand.” Jules points out. “Two pieces of a whole.”
A shrill voice cuts through the muted, genial chatter in the viewing room. “Linc-y baby!”
I freeze. Only one person has ever called me that ridiculous nickname, and I’ve been hoping never to hear it again, yet somehow Iva keeps appearing like yesterday’s bad news.
“None other than Iva and Aiken.” I keep my tone neutral as they approach.
Iva has toned down her usual dramatic style for the elegant setting, but she’s still cloying eyes, angular figure, and attention-demanding allure. Aiken lurks behind her like a stick figure scribble made by a child.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Iva purrs, her gaze sliding over Jules dismissively before returning to me and batting her eyelashes suggestively. “Are you planning to add some special pieces to your collection?”
Every interaction with her is like navigating a minefield. Literally. The woman blew up my life last year.
I glance at Jules. “I have everything I need. We just happened to be in the area.”
Aiken grins and pulls Iva closer. “I never leave home without my plus-one.”
Iva’s smile turns razor sharp as she looks Jules up and down like she’s appraising a piece of chain hotel art. “So you’re dating again, Linc-y?” She directs the question entirely to me, as if Jules isn’t standing right here.
She stiffens beside me, a dainty flush creeping across her cheeks. Before I can respond, a familiar voice joins our conversation.
“Oh no, she’s his assistant.” Maxine chortles with dry certainty, appearing at Jules’s elbow like she materializes from thin air. “Smart to bring someone to handle all the administrative details, Abraham.”
My jaw clenches so hard I’m surprised I don’t break bones.
The casual yet harsh reduction of Jules to nothing more than office furniture while they preen on center stage strikes a match inside.
I grip her hand tightly, anchoring her to me and refusing to let her flounder in this pool of fake smiles and manufactured charm.
Jules steadies her voice and lifts her chin. “I’m Linc’s art authentication consultant.”
Iva’s laugh is like crystal breaking. “How interesting, Linc-y baby. You always did like your projects.”
Projects. The word carries a suggestion that I throw away relationships when they no longer suit me.
I can practically feel Jules withdrawing beside me.
The idea that anyone would see her as something disposable, something I picked up to tinker with and discard, makes me want to set the record straight in terms that would definitely violate tonight’s expectations for propriety.
Instead, I step closer to Jules. Close enough that she can feel the warmth of my body. Close enough that everyone watching knows exactly where I stand. “She’s the tick to my tock,” I say with a smile.
Their faces, including hers, cycle through several expressions I can’t quite read—surprise, confusion, and maybe a hint of jealousy from Iva.
“The frosting on my chocolate cake.” Jules stands taller as she catches on.
I chuckle despite the tension. “The cheese to my pizza.”
The auctioneer’s voice booms across the room before anyone can respond to our playful banter. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll take your seats, we’ll begin this evening’s auction.”
As we move toward the auction room, Jules glances at our target painting again. “That’s not good.” She gently elbows me.
“What?”
“Seems you and Aiken have a shared interest.”
My muscles tense. “Interested in Iva? We most certainly do not.”
Her smile fades and I realize how that sounded—too forceful, too defensive.
I lean closer to her, lowering my voice. “Jules, you’re the showstopper in this room tonight.”
She opens and closes her mouth like she’s not sure how to respond. But I follow her gaze back to Aiken, who examines the second half of the Echo & Answer painting with an intensity that makes me suspicious. “The Demo King,” I mutter under my breath.
Jules nods grimly. “If he gets that painting …”
“He won’t. Whatever it takes.” The words come out with determination because the thought of watching that piece of history—and our only lead—be destroyed for internet views makes my vision go red around the edges.
We take our seats as the auctioneer begins the evening’s program.
Lot after lot of beautiful things pass by, but I barely register them.
All my attention is focused on the painting we need and on Aiken’s predatory smile as he raises his paddle again and again, like he’s warming up for the main event.
Finally, our lot comes up. The auctioneer’s description matches what we suspected—a Civil War era piece, recently acquired from a private estate. The bidding starts at fifty thousand.
I raise my paddle immediately. Aiken counters without hesitation. Back and forth we go, the price climbing steadily. Seventy-five thousand. One hundred. One-fifty.
Jules leans closer. “How high can we go?”
“As high as necessary.” And I mean it. This isn’t just about money, it’s about preserving something irreplaceable, about honoring my mother’s memory, about proving that some things matter more than fame and fortune.
But the calculation burns in Aiken’s eyes as Iva whispers encouragement in his ear. They’re not bidding because they want the painting. They’re bidding because they know we do, because turning this into a spectacle serves their self-promoting purposes.
The auctioneer calls for two hundred thousand, and both our paddles go up.
Two-fifty.
Three hundred.
I watch our investigation—and possibly our only chance at the truth—slip away one bid at a time. At four hundred thousand, Aiken raises his paddle with a grin that makes me want to cross-check him into next week.
Meanwhile, Maxine glares at me disapprovingly, shaking her head as if to say she’s going to report me to my father for spending his money frivolously. She has a point.
When the gavel falls, he’s won. Iva looks smugly satisfied, like she orchestrated an elaborate act of revenge. I never told her about Lincoln’s lost love letters, but they mean something to me. Jules too.
It must be plain to see and I’m not sorry about that.
As we leave the auction room, I try to memorize every detail of the painting I can recall. The way the light hit the building in the background. The figure seated inside. The positioning of the elements that could be part of a “map,” as my mother mentioned in her journal.
“We could steal it,” I say quietly as we walk toward the car.
Jules frowns. “We’re likely already wanted in at least one state.”
“Speaking of which, while you were getting pampered today, I returned the painting.”
“You what?” She freezes on the cobblestone path. “How? You can’t just walk into a gallery and rearrange the wall art.”
“Remember, I told you I have fans. They created a distraction.” I wink.
She gapes, dumbstruck.
“True story. But the real question is, how did you create such a great facsimile? I was seriously planning to run a background check on you, but I figured I should ask directly first. That was impressive work,” I say with a laugh.
She joins me in the waiting car, but her expression turns guarded. “The secret isn’t that I have exceptional art skills. I printed a high-quality version of the original and then painted over it.”
“Paint by numbers style?”
“Exactly. It’s an old trick …” She trails off.
“That you learned where exactly?”
“From someone who is no longer with us but wouldn’t like me spilling his secrets.”
I think about her father, the medical bills, and the way she sometimes gets a distant look in her eyes when family comes up. I can’t help but wonder what else she’s capable of fabricating. Her interest in me, maybe? Because mine is very real.
“So what next? We didn’t get the painting,” Jules says as we return the way we came.
Our one lead slipped through my fingers like sand. “I’m sure that was it. I’ll have you back to Chicago before the clock strikes twelve.”
“Or else the airplane will turn back into a pumpkin?”
My grin is irrepressible. “You were dazzling in there, Cinderella, and look, you didn’t lose a single glass slipper.”
“I thought it was Buttercup.”
“If you wish.”
Cheeks rosy, she turns toward me sharply. “Glass. The glass building in the second panel was made of glass, depicting a future where even buildings made of glass would remain standing. It was a post-war ideal.”
I nod, recalling it distinctly and wishing we’d at least been able to get a photograph.
“There was a figure seated inside. Mary,” she breathes.
“Mary Todd,” I add, accounting for what we already know.
Jules nods vaguely in agreement but seems deep in thought. “I can only assume, but I think I’ve seen that glass building before. Well, not actually, but an image of one like it.”
“You mentioned.” I’m already pulling out my phone to search.
Jules practically bounces in her seat as if she now recalls the details. “The World’s Fair. Major cities were competing for the honor to host the four hundredth anniversary celebration of Columbus’s arrival in the New World. Ultimately, Chicago won.”
I do quick math in my head. “But that would’ve been after Lincoln was gone. 1492 discovery, 1865 assassination, 1892 celebration.”
“Right, but at the museum in Chicago, there’s a section with all the proposed building plans, well, more like color depictions. The one in Washington, DC, the nation’s capital, included a series of glass buildings.”
I snap my fingers. “Since the fair was in Chicago, the glass buildings were never constructed.”
“The layout was there, where they would’ve been.” She blinks a few times, thinking hard. “Abraham Lincoln would’ve known about the great Crystal Palace in Hyde Park, London.”
I stare at her. “History professor, how do you know all of this?”
“I had to do a project on it in college.”
“Cool. So tell me about this Crystal Palace.”
“Lincoln and Mary may have visited. It could’ve been that he considered her his queen, placing her in a glass building, but smaller than the palace. A place just for them. A place they’d be safe in a peaceful post-war world.”
Like Mom’s beloved cabin by the lake.
The pieces shift around in my mind, but don’t quite click into place. “Remember, the diptych was composed by a third party.”
“Perhaps Lincoln gave some artistic instruction … or the world they lived in and the one he wanted for his bride were explored in the love letters.”
“Whoa.” I let out a long exhale. “I can see your mind is racing a mile a minute, but that still leaves a big unknown. How do the paintings point to the letters?” I say this as much to Jules as to myself.
She shrugs. “That’s the extent of my knowledge. I’m a dead end, even if I may have put us on the right track.”
My thoughts loop and loop, in an endless circle, and then snap into sharp relief. “The track.”
Jules shakes her head. “I’m not interested in going to any tracks.” She trails off, vaguely commenting about her father’s interest in horse betting.
“I went to college in Washington, DC, which, in part, is built on a swamp. They had to close the athletic area for a time because of a sinkhole. When they were excavating to shore up the ground, they found some artifacts.” I hardly remember the details, but excitement makes my body hum.
“It’s a bit of a stretch …”
I shake my head. “Jules, you haven’t given me a dead end.
You’ve given me the key. I happen to have the lock.
” I pull out my phone and start making calls.
“My mother wrote in her journal about her and my father’s honeymoon.
They spent five days getting lost in the Smithsonian and the National Art Gallery. ”
“They went to Washington, DC for their honeymoon? That’s not especially romantic.”
“They both loved history and art.” I think about my father now, how he’s spent so much time focused on business that he’s forgotten what originally drew him to my mother. He’s neglected to enjoy the present or prepare for the future, focusing on the things that really matter. “Washington or bust.”
Jules gawks at me. “Seriously?”
I grin at her as the car turns toward the airport. “What better thing to do when dressed up like this than to go on a treasure hunt in the nation’s capital?”
She tips her head back with laughter as if agreeing to this absurd adventure.