Survival of the Richest (The Trust Fund Duet 1)

“Not like that one.”

“Not like that one,” I have to concede. “But the books can be restored and find new homes in libraries around the city. Bardot and Mayfair would be honored to fund restoration of some of the best pieces, for better preservation and display.”

She mulls that over, her shrewd eyes on the curtained stage, probably imagining how it would look. Not only the value, but the fact that the Tanglewood Historical Society had managed to secure it for the city. It would be a win. “I’ll have to talk about it with some of the others. I’m not making any promises.”

“There was a library I went to,” I tell her, cashing in my own secrets. The times between husbands. “We mostly wouldn’t talk to the librarians unless the computers broke. The machines told us where to find books. Then one day I went in and there was a brand new book about Leonora Carrington, the glue still tacky where they’d put the library label on. I could barely find a few lines and one photo of her work in the other books.”

“An artist?” Sutton asks, his voice soft.

“A painter. A surrealist.” None of those words accurately convey what she meant to me. “She painted mythological creatures, but they’re… they’re these radical statement about existence, about transformation, about sexuality. She’s the reason I believed I could be painter.”

Sutton makes a small sound and squeezes my hand.

“But there was nothing—no store where you could walk in and buy a book about her or a print of one of her paintings. It was like, in the world of money and power, she never existed.”

I don’t share that she was expelled from multiple schools for wild behavior. That she was a revolutionary and a vocal feminist. Her family never understood her desire to be an artist.

Sometimes it’s an act of rebellion to simply exist.

“My father was a carpenter,” Mrs. Rosemont says, her throat working. “Kitchen cabinets and basic furniture, that kind of thing. He never made anything artistic at home. I wouldn’t have known it was even inside him, if it weren’t for the library.”

A thump in my heart. “He made the wall?”

“They paid him twenty dollars for the whole project.”

“Oh my God. I can’t believe your father made that. It’s incredible.”

She shakes her head. “It broke my heart when they shut down the library. But it’s always been there. Waiting, I think. Waiting for someone who cares enough.”

I look at Sutton, who’s watching me with unreadable blue eyes. He’s waiting for someone who cares enough, maybe. Waiting for me. We might not be able to save the whole library, but we can save the wall. And it will be better—much better to preserve it properly than let it sit in that dusty, abandoned space, exposed to the elements through the broken glass dome.

“As it happens the extraction and transportation of walls has been a subject of particular interest to me. And Sutton’s a carpenter, too. I’m sure we can find a way to pull them off the building and move them… ” Where? “Maybe a museum.”

“City hall,” Mrs. Rosemont says, and I know we’ve won.

Sutton gives me a small nod of agreement. We still have to convince Christopher, who I think will be less amenable, but I have to believe I can do it. There’s a cost to what I’m proposing, but nothing in life is free. Being a stated supporter of the society will mean the project has their backing. It might even help smooth along some of the red tape.

This is the way business is done.

Like Christopher said, I am my father’s daughter.

Mrs. Rosemont nods once. “I still have to discuss it with the other members, but this might be the best option. We’ll be in touch with some specifics.”

That’s a nice way of saying she’s going to make us bleed through the nose for some expensive book restorations, but I can’t really blame her. My job is far from done. There will be more negotiations, but this is a solid start.

Sutton stands. “Shall we?”

He helps me up, but my foot has fallen asleep from sitting too long. I stumble a little against the chairs in front of me. It’s Sutton who helps pull me upright, Sutton who keeps me that way when my leg threatens to give out again. Sutton who leans down so that his face is only an inch away from mine, an intimate pose considering we’re sitting in one of the front rows of the theater.

Most of the seats are empty now anyway, but there’s one man at the back. In the shadows. Of course he would be there. I recognize his silhouette immediately. Christopher must have come down from the box seat and waited for us.

I lean on Sutton as we make our way to the back.

Vaguely I’m aware of Mrs. Rosemont and her husband trailing after us up the long carpeted aisle. We’re almost completely alone in such a large space. The stage is silent after being so full of life for the past three hours. Through the archway I can hear the buzz of voices, people excited and a little tipsy, but they seem far away.

Even a few feet away from Christopher, he’s too dark to read. I can feel the tension radiating off him. Is he worried I said something wrong? He steps forward, only half a foot, and I can see his black eyes flash with fury.

“Christopher?” I say, suddenly uncertain. It had felt so natural to make a deal with Mrs. Rosemont with Sutton beside me. This is what I would have done for my father, if he had lived long enough to use me for this. It’s what I was born to do.