The Good Twin(45)

School was the place I should have found my one true best friend, but I never did. I tended to be shy and didn’t reach out to others. I wasn’t excluded. I was pretty and came from money and wasn’t awkward, so I was invited to after-school playdates and parties when I got older, but I was the hanger-on, not the main attraction.

From the age of five, I knew I was adopted. “Chosen,” my parents told me. The word was supposed to make me feel special, to take the sting away from the knowledge that, in order to be chosen, I had to first be given away. My parents loved me fiercely; I never doubted that. Yet, I grew up with the painful awareness that first, before I was loved, I was rejected. I suspect that’s why I’d always held back from forming close attachments with schoolmates. Part of me feared I’d be turned away again if someone got to know the true me—the unlovable me. The first time I ever truly opened myself up was with Ben. And that fear, the one that had dogged me since I was five, was now realized. My husband was rejecting me.





CHAPTER 32

A day away from the office, and I’m thrilled. I need the fresh air to clear my head of the nightmare scenarios that keep swirling around. I’m headed out to Greenport, along with Phil, who was driving the company van, to visit one of my artists. Phil did all the physical work at the gallery—hanging paintings, moving them around in the racks kept in the back, retouching paint on the walls when needed. He was only twenty but had a good eye for art, and often accompanied me on visits to my artists.

I’d first spotted Conrad Jefferson at a Manhattan art show eleven months ago that showcased emerging talent. At the time, he’d been represented by a small uptown art gallery but had yet to make a sale. Conrad was different from the usual artist. Most were young, usually under thirty, hungry for recognition from art connoisseurs. Conrad had spent a career as a plaintiff’s personal-injury attorney, regularly clearing between $200,000 and $300,000 each year. When, at forty-two, he hit his first big payday, pocketing almost $1 million after taxes, he bought a lovely old farmhouse on the north fork of eastern Long Island, with views of the bay. He hadn’t wanted the fussy wealth of the Hamptons for his children. When the weather was fine, he took his family from their Great Neck home out to Greenport for long weekends.

At fifty-four, he took on a class-action lawsuit and ended up collecting a $9 million fee. With his children already grown and living on their own, he decided it was time to retire and pursue his passion—painting. He added a studio onto the Greenport house, sold his family home, and moved with his wife to this former little fishing village.

When’d I first met Conrad, I told him he had a lot of raw talent, but he wasn’t yet where he could be. I told him I’d consider taking him on in a year if his work evolved. It had, and I’d signed him up for my gallery. He was now ready to be included in a group show I was planning, showcasing new talent. Phil and I were here to choose which paintings to include.

Phil pulled into Conrad’s driveway, and we walked up to the front door. When my knock was answered, my mouth dropped open. The man in the doorway held out his hand. “Hi, I’m—”

“Ezra Jefferson!” I couldn’t believe the hottest new contemporary artist in the last five years was standing in front of me. “Are you related to Conrad?”

Just then, Conrad entered the foyer. “Charly. Phil. Glad you’re here. I see you’ve met my son.” Son? Of course, I’d fleetingly wondered if they were related, but since Conrad never mentioned Ezra, and Jefferson was a common surname, I’d just assumed they weren’t. They certainly didn’t look alike. Although they were both around six feet tall, Conrad was built more broadly, with a soft body. His face was round with thin lips and narrow eyes. Ezra was all sinewy muscle, with large, soulful eyes and full lips. The one feature they shared was softly curled honey-blond hair.

I shook Conrad’s hand. “Why didn’t you ever tell me Ezra was your son?”

He grinned sheepishly. “You know how kids of famous parents always want to make it on their own? Well, it’s the reverse with us. My first gallery took me on because of Ezra and then let me languish. I wanted someone who believed in me.”

Conrad led me into his studio, Phil and Ezra following close behind. As we looked over his paintings and debated which ones to take for the exhibit, I kept thinking what a coup it would be to land Ezra Jefferson for my gallery. It wouldn’t be easy. I knew he was represented by one of the top galleries in Manhattan. Still, I’d stolen away other artists before. And I welcomed the challenge. It might take my mind off my father . . . and Ben.



Two days later, I met Ezra for lunch at the Red Cat, on Tenth Avenue. After we gave the waiter our orders, I asked, “How long have you been with the Simon Sloane gallery?”

“Six years. I’ve never been anywhere else.”

“Are you happy there?”

“They’ve been good to me.”

“How good? What’s your split with them?”

“The usual. Fifty-fifty.”

“I could do better than that.”

He laughed. “You’re trying to poach me. I’d hoped maybe you were interested in me on a more personal level.”

I held out my left hand. “Married.” Then added, “For now.”

Ezra was easy to talk to. I didn’t expect him to abandon his gallery on the first lunch. It always took wooing. And I had to admit, I looked forward to seeing him for as long as it took.