The Perfect Marriage(26)
As much as James liked to fancy himself an art expert, he was first and foremost a salesman. He knew a lot about the art he was selling, but he knew even more about the art of persuasion that went into closing a deal. Right now, he knew that Noah Reiss was sold. It was Allison he had to convince that everything was on the up-and-up.
Or even better, convince Noah not to follow Allison’s advice.
James touched his pants pocket and quickly removed his cell phone. “Excuse me. I need to take this call. I’ll be quick.”
He walked into the other room, shutting the door behind him. James waited for two minutes, which was as long as he thought a phone call with another prospective buyer would take, if he had actually received such a call.
“Apologies,” James said when he returned to the others. “I don’t want to rush you, of course. Unfortunately, that call was from another buyer. I had originally planned to meet with him tomorrow, but he’s had a change of plans, and needs to return to Dubai this afternoon. He wanted to come by now to see the piece. I told him that I needed another fifteen minutes or so and would get back to him. So, if you’re not interested, I really do need to take that meeting.”
Reid was smiling as if trying not to break into laughter. James hoped his own expression better concealed the ruse.
“You can tell your Arab guy happy trails back to the Middle East,” Noah said. “I’ll take it.”
“As I told you over the phone, the purchase price is $750,000,” James said. “That’s firm.”
Noah extended his hand to seal the deal. “I’ll wire the money as soon as I get back to the office.”
After the doctor’s visit, Wayne suggested that they all get lunch together. Jessica declined, claiming that she had already made lunch plans with James.
Wayne doubted that was true, and her lie made him feel worse than if Jessica actually had plans with James. At least that way it didn’t necessarily mean that she didn’t want to spend time in his company.
He and Owen stopped in the first restaurant they saw that didn’t seem to cater exclusively to billionaires. It was a diner, but because it sat in New York City, the chef’s salad still cost twenty-one dollars, even though everything else about the place looked cheap. Cracked vinyl booths, scratched tables, fake Tiffany tulip chandeliers in pink.
They settled into a booth in the back. Owen ordered a grilled cheese and french fries. Wayne selected the overpriced salad.
“How you feeling about everything we heard today?” Wayne asked.
Owen’s response was a shrug.
“Yes, that makes sense, and I agree with your logic, but would you care to elaborate a little?”
At least that got a smile from his son. “It is what it is,” Owen said.
“I think you know that statement is the verbal equivalent of a shrug. I’m asking you to talk to me, Owen. Here’s the thing, and I’m not under any illusion that you’re going to believe any of it, but I swear to you that what I’m about to say is the one hundred percent God’s honest truth. In your life, you’ll meet lots of people. Some you’ll like. Some you’ll love. Some will like you. If you’re lucky, some will love you. But no one is going to love you the way your mom and I do. And that’s not bragging. It’s just . . . a fact, is all. Everyone else you ever meet, their love for you is conditional. And by that I mean you could do something to make them stop loving you, or you could just fall out of love with them, or vice versa. I guess your mom and I are Exhibit A on that one. But it doesn’t work that way with your children. There is nothing—and I mean nothing—that you could ever do that would change the way your mom and I feel about you.”
He had composed this little speech while in the Sloan Kettering waiting room. It had come out even better than it sounded in his head. So much so that Wayne’s only regret was that Jessica hadn’t been present to witness it.
“Why are you telling me this, Dad? Did the doctor say something?”
Wayne had intended this pep talk to cause his son to trust him more. But like so many things he did these days, it seemed to have had the opposite effect.
“No. Nothing like that,” he said, backpedaling. “What I’m trying to say is that you should know that you can always tell your mom and me the truth. Because there’s nothing you’re going to say to us that’ll change the way we feel about you. So, long story short, talk to me, Owen. I won’t judge. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll come up with something helpful. Or, even if I don’t, you’ll surprise yourself and feel better just for sharing.”
If Owen was moved by his father’s sentiments, he hid it well. “Thanks for saying all of that, Dad. I just . . . I really don’t have much to say about it. Honest. I’m bummed about missing school. Senior year and all, especially because I had a real shot at being first violin. But in the big scheme of things, that stuff isn’t important. What matters is that I get accepted into the treatment, and they find a donor, and all the rest. I figure that’s all going to happen because, you know, there’s no real benefit to thinking about the worst-case scenario all the time. So, I might as well have a positive attitude, right? And if all goes well, then, like the doctor said, it’ll suck for a while, and then I’ll be okay.”
Wayne stared hard at his son, trying to comprehend the jumble of contradictions that could reside in a seventeen-year-old mind. Owen rarely displayed any emotion, giving off the vibe that he didn’t care much about anything. But all it took was listening to him play the violin for two minutes to realize that wasn’t true. With a bow in his hand, Owen gave voice to feelings more deeply held than Wayne imagined possible. Last year, when Owen was rehearsing Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons for hours on end, all he could think about was that no one could play it like Owen did without fully experiencing the range of emotion those pieces called for—joy, sadness, anger, love.