Tips for Living(86)

“He never showed me this,” he said, shaking his head.

“According to my research, the book is worth almost half a million,” I said. “Now that he’s dead.”

Abbas glanced up with what appeared to be a disapproving look.

“Maybe,” he murmured, and perused the pages again. He finally set the book down. “Why are you offering me such a good deal?”

“I know you’re busy. It’s an incentive to make this a priority. I need to sell right now.”

“Why? You waited all this time, but now you rush, rush, rush? What is going on?”

I glanced at the door anxiously. He was asking too many questions. I’d have to try to engage his competitive instincts.

“Listen, if you don’t want to do this, I’ll take it to one of the auction houses.”

“Ah, yes, the auction houses,” he said, ruefully. “Those temples of art.” Abbas crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “I think something is wrong. I think you are in trouble.”

“My aunt is sick, Abbas. Her care is expensive.”

“Ah. I am sorry to hear.”

“Do we have a deal or not?”

Abbas paused for a moment, and then tapped the book. “If you can prove you own this.”

“What does that mean?”

“I need a bill of sale.”

“I told you, the book was a gift.”

“Was it listed in divorce settlement?”

“No. Hugh gave it to me years before we divorced. For my birthday. It wasn’t part of the settlement.”

“You have a witness? Someone who saw Hugh give it to you? They will swear to this on paper?”

“A witness? No. He left it under my pillow, you know, in bed. What’s the problem?”

Abbas frowned.

“I have seen this many times when an artist divorces. The wives steal. They wait. They try to sell the work years later without getting caught.”

“Abbas. You know me.” I was stunned. “I can’t believe you’d think I’d steal this. I swear it’s mine.”

“I’m not calling you a thief, dear girl. But you must prove this is not part of Hugh’s estate. His lawyers will be watching on a sale of this size.”

“Wait. I have a letter. A letter Hugh wrote. He says he gave it to me.”

“Let me see it.”

“I don’t have it on me—”

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a movement out a window close to the front door. A dark figure hunched against the wind and snow was heading for the studio.

“Shit.” I looked around wildly. “Tobias is coming. Please don’t tell him I’m here.”

“Why not?”

I turned and ran toward the Japanese screen.

“What is going on, Nora? Tell me!”

“Later. Please.”

I ducked behind the screen, nearly banging my hip on a utility table strewn with mountains of papers, books, rags and paint tubes. Crouching between a cloth-covered easel and a work sink, I tried to catch my breath as the door opened and the cold wind blew in.

“Mr. Masout,” Tobias said, stomping off snow and closing the door. “How are things coming along?”

Silence. Abbas wasn’t answering. I held my breath. Oh God. He was going to give me away. Finally, I heard one of the men clear his throat.

“I am almost finished,” Abbas said. “Another hour, I think.”

I began breathing again. But my nose had started to tickle. It must be all those chemicals: the cans of paint thinner, turpentine and spray varnish reeking on the shelves behind me. I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t sneeze.

“I thought I’d be able to stay until you were done, but I’ve got to go back to the inn. Ruth called. I’m afraid our niece is not doing well. Not well at all.”

“That poor child,” Abbas said. “My heart breaks.”

“She’s in a terrible state. She’s been crying all afternoon. The loss is overwhelming. I know it must be very emotional for you, too. Looking at these paintings, today of all days. Let me thank you again for staying to help, especially in this weather.”

“If it will help Callie, I’m glad to do it.”

“It surely will.”

I heard footsteps tread further into the room.

“My God. When did Hugh begin painting pornography?”

“What?”

“The beast with the erection.”

“That is art, Mr. Walker.”

“Really. What is this particular piece of ‘art’ worth?”

“About one point two.”

“Million?”

“Yes.”

“And the rest?”

“My estimate is not completed, but including unsold work at the gallery . . . it could be thirty-five million, I think. Maybe more.”

I was floored. I knew Hugh’s net worth had risen since his death, but that was more than twice what I estimated.

“I’m impressed,” Tobias said.

“You should be. Your brother became a very successful artist.”

The men went silent. My urge to sneeze was so strong I had to bite my tongue and pull my ears. Tobias finally spoke.

“That’s thirty-five million minus your commission, correct?”