“Except by the buyer.”
“Yes, except by the buyer. Speaking of whom, look what just arrived.” Cindy waited until Peggy turned around, so she could watch her reaction to the vase of magnificent pink roses. “Two dozen,” Cindy clarified, placing the vase on a nearby table so they could both admire it. “From the buyer of our other Renoir.”
With that, she pulled out the card and offered it to Peggy.
“‘Congratulations on a stunning debut,’” Peggy read aloud. “‘Let’s celebrate over dinner. You choose the where and when. With great admiration, Wallace.’” Lowering the card, Peggy made a gesture of proud recognition. “In the realm of great work, you accomplished even more than I did, and a whole lot faster. From a man who’s barely come out of his shell for almost two years, Mr. Johnson is certainly chomping at the bit. A bouquet worthy of a bride, and a dinner invitation with terms dictated by you. And all after one successful event that was supposedly a mere business endeavor. Brava.”
Cindy shrugged off the compliment and gave the roses an appreciative sniff. “Let’s not give me too much credit. You said yourself he was mesmerized by my resemblance to Meili.”
“Oh, he was. I watched him staring at you and hungering over the past. But you’re the one who played the part. The incentive for him is far greater this time. Meili was a reckless child. You’re a shrewd and accomplished woman. And there’s no wife standing in the way. So the tables will be turned. You’ll be the one pulling the strings.”
Cindy straightened up and grinned. “I think I’ll start pulling now. A thank-you phone call setting our dinner date is in order. My A Sook already shipped the gift. It will be a lovely presentation.” She lifted the vase and headed for the stairs. “We have to display these, of course. And since no one is allowed up here but us, I think the living room table would be best. A centerpiece, drizzled with sunlight.”
“Moonlight,” Peggy amended. “You’re having dinner. The evening could run late.”
“Right.” Cindy paused, thinking. “Friday night is too soon. Saturday night is too intimate. Besides, he spends the weekends in the Hamptons.”
“Not if you gave him reason not to. If you chose a weekend night for your dinner, I’m sure he’d stay at his Manhattan town house.”
“Maybe. But I’d rather wait.” Cindy’s eyes twinkled. “Who knows when I might want to spend a weekend in East Hampton—after an appropriate amount of time has passed, of course.”
“Of course.”
“What would you think about next week, say Tuesday?”
“I’d say it’s a good choice. It’s enough time to make you look interested but not overeager. Oh, and I’d say wear your turquoise silk blouse. It looks gorgeous on you. He’ll be captivated.”
Cindy’s laughter trailed behind her as she descended the stairs. “Then Tuesday and the turquoise silk it is.”
Phil Leary’s hand was shaking as he hung up the phone. When the call had come in from his bookie, Ardian Sava, he thought it would be routine—a hot tip on next week’s race and a reminder of the hefty wad of cash he owed.
It was anything but.
Sava had gotten wind from a reliable source that someone was trying to dig up dirt on Phil’s background, who he associated with and his recreational spending habits. They were nosing around at the track to find out how much time he spent there. They’d even contacted two Vegas casinos to determine his gambling habits and the frequency of his visits.
No surprise that Sava was freaked out. The hotheaded Albanian had told Phil not to contact him until this fishing expedition blew over—except to pay him his money. All of it.
Phil didn’t even have half. But that was the least of his problems. If this got out, it could ruin his career. It could ruin his life.
And, depending upon who’d ordered this investigation, it could end it.
Automatically, he grabbed the phone and punched in Leo’s number.
Wallace felt unusually peaceful.
Downstairs in his private haven, he sank back in his chair and soaked up the beauty of his personal gallery. The newly purchased Renoir had been well worth waiting for. He’d completed the transaction and hung it just hours earlier. And already it was enhancing the room.
The little girl in the painting was far off in the background, her features and expressions indistinct, creating a haunting, surreal effect. Her coloring was perfect, as was the hue of her frock. The full impact made it all the more effortless to lose himself in it. Especially given the focus of the painting—the breathtaking field of wildflowers spread out before the little girl, and her fascination with it. Her basket was beside her, and she was squatting down, reaching for another of the identical flowers she clutched in her hand.
Daisies.
When Wallace had first held the painting in his hands and scrutinized it up close, he’d felt that familiar constriction in his throat and chest, that pain that shot through his soul. But now, studying it as it hung in its carefully chosen spot on the wall adjacent to his chair, he felt oddly at peace.
The pain was still there. But so was an odd sense of comfort.
He shut his eyes, letting memories wash over him. He couldn’t explain why the sharp agony was softened by a feeling of peace. Maybe it was because his collection was almost complete, the sole bare spot on the wall across the room waiting for the masterpiece that would be the culmination of it all.
And maybe it was because he was experiencing the unexpected and ever-so-slight longing to live again.