The High Season(44)

Helen stepped onto the porch, a welcoming expression on her face that slowly drained into puzzlement. “Ruthie?”

Panting, Ruthie threw the tree on the driveway. “Should I tell you where to stick this?”

Helen’s mouth dropped open. She looked old and stricken.

Ruthie decided not to feel guilty (One can choose this, she was thinking) and slid back into the car.

Lucas laughed. “Badass!”

    “Just go.”

They drove with all the windows down, through the swollen summer evening, symphonic with cicada song. Ruthie felt her exhilaration ebb. The sight of Helen’s face had flipped her mood to shame. She rested her head on the door. The wine was sloshing through her and she was starting to feel sick.

“Don’t give up on me now, cowgirl.” He pulled into the driveway. “Want to ask me in for a drink?”

“No. Take the car. You can leave it by the post office. I’ll bike to it tomorrow.”

“Your ex is an idiot. You’re hot.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m serious. Look, every five years, she remakes herself and finds the man to match it. She had an expat period. Moved to London. Hated it. Too hard to crack, even for her. Got dumped by an earl. Decided to become a businesswoman and built up the foundation. Bought a lot of lady coats. Hooked up with the big finance whiz. Now she’s fallen for Orient. Wants a simpler life. A simpler man goes with that, I guess. I overheard her talking to Michael. About buying your house.”

She stared at the dashboard. Adeline wanted the house? Or was it just idle talk? The way some renters promised This was amazing, we’re definitely renting next year and then they never saw them again?

“She tends to get what she wants.” He looked ahead and flexed his fingers on the wheel. “Did he ever give you anything, a drawing, a print?”

“Mike?”

“No, my dad.”

She shook her head. “We did not part friends.”

“That’s a big club you’re in. Did you ever think, for everything you did for him, you deserved something? A drawing, something he’d toss off in a morning, could pay for, I don’t know, a very nice life?”

“No, I never looked at it that way.”

    “Wouldn’t it have been wild if you did find something? Something you’d overlooked? What if you’d just unpacked those boxes and found something you’d missed?”

Ruthie shrugged. “I’d already gone through the boxes twenty years ago.”

“I bet you used to do a lot of his work.”

“Well, I was his studio manager.”

“Come on, I’ve talked to his old buddies, I know how much the studio assistants did. Famous artists run factories, right? Nothing new about that. The artist is the thinker, the conceptual idea behind the work that others execute. Look at Jeff Koons, he’s a genius.”

“Sure.” She swung open the door but he kept on talking.

“It’s just funny, it’s like a movie. You’ve got everything you need right there in the shed. The shop that made the canvases—it’s gone. The studio, gone. You’ve got the last of his materials. It’s like a message from the grave, right? My old man and his ego. He wants his immortality and he’s giving you the chance. One last painting. Don’t you think it’s sort of hilarious, how it could work?”

“Not hilarious. Ridiculous.”

“Can you imagine, though? Even a small painting would be worth ten million, fifteen, minimum. I mean, dealing privately. At auction, even more.”

A flowery scent still hung in the air. The car smelled funereal. She had an urgent need to get out.

“And here’s the funniest part. I’m his son. I work at his foundation. I know the crazy collectors, the ones in Japan and Russia. China. The ones who care that they’d get something unique, something that hasn’t changed hands ten times. The ones who like to buy things under the table.”

“Lucas, you’re joking, right?”

“You should see your face! Of course! But hey, come on, don’t you ever think of committing the perfect crime?”

“No.”

    “Well, I do, all the time. It’s just fun to think about.”

Lucas turned. It was evening but the light was still hard and bright. It didn’t matter; his beauty took the glare without revealing a flaw. “Everyone has a number, you know?”

“A number?”

“A number that buys you the life you want. Buys you out of trouble, or buys you love, or a career, or the best doctors, or the best tables in restaurants. Or a house.” Lucas laughed. “My number is very large.”

He was just talking. Spinning his bitter wheel. Peter’s kid. Suddenly the resemblance wasn’t just the color of the eyes.

You lack the killer instinct, fishgirl. That’s why you’ll never make it.

“Anyway, rhetorical questions have answers,” Lucas said. “Do you know what my favorite rhetorical question is?”

He opened her palm and put a tube of paint in it; he’d taken it from the box. Cadmium yellow.

“Why not?”





24


“OH, MAN, I need an espresso,” Lark said. She opened her eyes. “Good morning, you.” She dived into Doe’s neck and snuggled for a moment. Then she flipped over and reached for her phone.