The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(56)

Papa persisted, “Didn’t that move you?”

“It was technically challenging. I enjoyed the cut, yes. For that reason. I wasn’t, I don’t know, passionate about the cutting.”

“I think you were, son.”

“Whatever you want, Papa, I don’t want to devote my life to jewelry. It’s as simple as that.” This was the most defiant Vimal had ever been.

His father’s eyes went to yet another sculpture. The work was a series of geometric shapes, one morphing into another. He called it Telephone, after the game in which players whisper a phrase to the person beside them and so on, during the course of which the words become something entirely different. The marble piece had won first prize in a competition at the Field Gallery in SoHo. Vimal couldn’t help but reflect that while everyone complimented him on it, no one was interested in buying. It was priced at a thousand dollars, a third of what he’d been paid for the diamond cut today.

Papa continued, “I don’t understand, son.” A nod at The Wave. “You’re an artist. Obviously, you’re talented. You understand stone. Not many people do. That’s so very rare. But why not be an artist who makes—”

“Money?” Vimal surprised himself by actually interrupting.

“—a difference in the world of jewelry.”

Vimal said, “There is no difference to make in that world. It’s the world of cosmetics. Nothing more.”

He’d just insulted his father and grandfather and many blood relations in the Lahori family. But Papa didn’t give any reaction.

“This…plan of yours. Running off. What were you going to do?”

Vimal’s steam was up. He didn’t evade, as he usually did. “Go to California. Get an MFA.” He’d started college at seventeen and graduated early. Learning, like sculpting, came easily to him.

“California? Where?”

“UCLA. San Francisco State.”

“Why there?”

They both knew the answer to that. Twenty-five hundred miles’ distance. But Vimal said, “Fine arts. Good sculpting programs.”

“You’d have to work. It’s expensive there.”

“I intend to work. I’ll find something. Pay for my tuition.”

His father examined the work-in-progress again.

“It’s good.”

Did he mean this? Vimal couldn’t tell from his eyes. He might. But then it might be the way a customer would look over a ring or pendant. The husband or boyfriend’s face would shine in admiration. But the lady with him, the recipient? Her mouth would smile and she would whisper, “Oh, my, lovely.” But her eyes said something different. She’d been expecting more. Flashier. More spectacular.

Or usually what she meant was: bigger.

“Listen to me, son. I can see you’ve thought about this for a long time.” He sighed. “And I see too that I haven’t really listened to you. This terrible crime with Mr. Patel, it’s made me look at things differently. I want to understand it. Will you stay here for a few days—let the police catch that man. Then, well, we can talk. I want to hear more about what you want to do. We can work something out. Really. I promise we can.”

Vimal had never heard his father sound so reasonable; so he too had been shaken, fundamentally, by the crime. Vimal felt that tears might swell. He fought the urge. He embraced his father. “Sure, Papa.”

The older man nodded again at The Wave. “It really does look like water. I don’t know how you’ve done that.” He left, closing the door behind him.

Vimal looked over his sculpture. He pulled on gloves and goggles, powered up the grinder and continued the heavenly task of turning stone to water.





Chapter 27



The Henri Avelon was perfect.

Beautiful. No, breathtaking.

Judith Morgan, soon to be Judith Whelan, had been uncertain about the choice. The bridal boutique, on upper Madison Avenue, offered easily fifty different wedding dresses and so the decision had taken some time. Sean couldn’t help her with this one, of course. No groom was going to see his bride’s wedding dress before the aisle walk. And her mother, a woman who was convinced that price was the best measure of quality, would have bankrupted the family with the dress that she wanted her daughter to wear. Not what Morgan wanted.

The blonde looked at the satin confection in the mirror once more and, while she didn’t smile, was pleased beyond words. She turned slowly, viewed as much of the back as she could and returned to pole position. She’d stayed true to her goal of dropping the thirteen pounds and the dress curved the way it should curve, clung the way it should cling, but had plenty of drape and spare room in reserve.

Eyeing the scallops, the reasonable train (half the length of her sister’s monstrosity), the shimmery cloth and the tulle at the shoulder, she knew she’d made the right decision.

“It’s a winner, my dear,” Frank said and though, sure, he had an interest in selling her the three-thousand-dollar dress, she knew he meant it.

She hugged him. This was the final fitting. Two weeks till launch but she had a business trip to one of her ad agency’s clients starting in a few days and wouldn’t have much time after she got back to handle all the plans that a wedding with 257 guests entailed. The get-the-dress box had to be ticked now.