What if she found the painting for him?
It was a long shot. He’d been looking for it for decades. But maybe he hadn’t been doing it the right way. Daisy had a few connections in the art world. If she could give him his heart’s desire, would it bring Leonidas back to them?
It was her best chance. A grand gesture Leonidas would never forget. She pictured his joyful face when she presented him with the Picasso. Then he would take her in his arms and tell her he loved her.
Her heart yearned for that moment!
So she called a young art blogger she knew
in Brooklyn. Aria Johnson had a huge social media following and a ruthless reputation. The woman was like a bloodhound, searching out stories about priceless art and scandals of the rich and famous. Even Daisy’s father had been a little afraid of her.
Picking up the phone, she called her and told Aria haltingly about her husband’s history with the lost Picasso.
Daisy didn’t explain everything, of course. She didn’t say a word about the way he’d been conceived. That was a secret she’d take to the grave. She just told her that Love with Birds had been lost when Leonidas’s mother had died in a big Turkish earthquake, some two decades before.
“Yeah. I know the story.” The blogger popped her gum impatiently. “People have looked for that Picasso for twenty years. Wild-goose chase. Why else would your father have thought he could forge it?”
“He didn’t—”
Aria cut her off. “They only found the woman’s body. No painting.” Daisy had flinched. The woman had been Leonidas’s mother. “Other bodies were found, though. Her household staff. A young man who no one came forward to claim.”
“Could you look into it?” Daisy said.
“A widow. With money. Hmm... Was she beautiful?”
“I guess so,” Daisy replied. What difference did Eleni Niarxos’s beauty make?
“Anything else you can tell me?”
She swallowed hard. It felt like breaking a confidence—but how else could she be sure it was the right painting? She said reluctantly, “There’s a cut in the canvas. Someone sliced the painting with a pair of scissors.”
“Someone?”
“Yes. Someone.” Quickly changing the subject, Daisy said, “If you could find it, I’d be so grateful. And I’ll pay you—”
“You can pay my expenses, that’s it. I don’t need a finder’s fee. I just need to own the story. Deal?”
Daisy took a deep breath. It felt like a devil’s bargain, but she was desperate. “Deal.”
The art blogger paused. “If I find the painting, it might not have provenance.”
Meaning, the painting might have been stolen. Which would make sense. How else could it have simply disappeared during the earthquake?
“I don’t care,” Daisy said. “As long as the Picasso is genuine. And I want the story of where the person found it.”
Aria popped her gum. “Don’t worry. I’ll get the story.”
That had been a few days ago. Now, holding her sleeping baby, Daisy was rocking in the chair in the nursery. It was late August, hot and sweaty summer in New York, but cool and calm inside their West Village mansion. She looked down at Livvy, softly snoring in her arms, in rhythm with the much louder snoring of the large dog snoozing at Daisy’s feet.
“Soon,” she whispered to her baby. “Aria will find it. And then your father will be home, and he’ll realize at last that he’s really, truly loved—”
The nursery door was suddenly flung open, hitting the wall with a bang. The dog jumped at her feet. Livvy woke and started wailing, then Sunny started barking.
Looking up at the doorway in shock, Daisy saw her husband, dark as a shadow. He was dressed in a suit, but his handsome face held a savage glower.
For a moment, in spite of her baby’s wails, Daisy’s heart lifted. Her husband had come home to her at last. Her body yearned for his embrace, for connection, for reassurance. A smile lifted to her lips.
“Leonidas,” she breathed. “I’m so glad to see you—”