“From what he said to us at the gallery, it seems that way.”
“The proceeds are supposed to go to charity.” Amelia read the front of the booklet. “To send underprivileged kids to camp.”
“The charity’s legit. I checked that out, too.”
“It explains why he cruised a flea market for art. He minimized his cash outlay for the auction. It also could be why he bought my painting from Hazel outright instead of going the commission route with her. He anticipates recouping his costs through the increased business the publicity from his event will bring in.”
“Guess you would know about all that stuff.”
“It’s basic economics. There’s nothing shady about any of this. Making it a charity event will give him a tax deduction, as well as some good PR from the newspaper write-ups.”
“Not exactly a philanthropist.”
“So what if he’s not a philanthropist? He’s a businessman.”
“I did an internet search for other paintings by Jonathan Mathers. I found two for sale at a gallery in Warkworth and three in Kingston, and they’d been there for months. Whitcombe lied about Mathers’s work being in demand.”
“Who cares? He was giving us a sales spiel, like Hazel did with her milk cans and her mirror.”
“Why are you defending him?”
“I don’t see why you’re digging into all this, anyway. Or do you have a general grudge against people who try to make money?”
“Not me. That’s what we’re here for.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“I believe you were trying to make a point about the art up for auction?”
He stretched his arm across the desk and pulled the catalog back. “Since none of it was on display at the gallery, none of it had been priced, so it’s hard to predict what any of it will sell for. To that end, I did some research on the other artists in the brochure besides Mathers. They can be divided into two groups. Six of the artists had paintings for sale at other galleries that were priced in the hundreds. The paintings of the other fourteen were selling for around ten thousand.”
“That’s a big gap. What were the prices of those Mathers paintings you mentioned?”
“They were all priced under two hundred.”
“Less than two hundred? That’s great! That means we should be able to win the bidding!”
“There’s a good possibility, yes.”
“Why didn’t you just say so at the start?”
“I thought you would want to know how I reached my conclusion, seeing as how you seem to have a problem trusting me.”
And you still avoid making a commitment. Amelia had to dig deep for more patience, but somehow, she managed to hold back the automatic retort. Trying to approach this from Hank’s point of view helped. She had taken months, no, years to cool off after he had hurt her in the past. It had only been two days since she’d dropped her bombshell on him. “I realize you’re probably still a bit annoyed with me for bending the truth,” she began.
“Bending?” He snorted. “That’s one way to put it.”
“And it would be easy for both of us to keep sniping at each other, but we need to focus, okay? Let’s keep this professional.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
Hank curled his fingers around the arms of his chair.
She did her best not to fidget as the silence grew. She knew he was waiting for her to break it, because she usually did, and she didn’t want to wait all day. Her gaze strayed to her wrist.
“You’ve done that before,” he said.
“Okay, we’ve already established that I lied. There’s no need to keep harping on it.”
“That’s not what I meant. I’ve noticed you often look at your wrist but you don’t have a watch. What happened to it?”
“I sold it. I sold all my jewelry.”
“Guess it was a Rolex or something fancy like that, huh?”
“No, it was the gift my parents gave me when I finished high school.”
Hank’s cheek flexed, as if he were gnawing the inside of it. “I remember that watch. It was gold, wasn’t it?”
She nodded. “With a diamond at twelve o’clock. It wasn’t worth anywhere near as much as a Rolex, but I always wore it. I hated having to sell it.”
“Yet you hung on to a Rubbermaid tub full of fancy clothes.”
“Sure, go ahead and judge me, Hank. Everyone else has. Don’t bother stopping to think that a watch can be sold a lot more readily than used clothes that fit a woman my height.”
“It would be worth more, too.”
“Much more. The watch was precious, not because of what it cost but because it was the last thing my parents gave me. I cherished it. I hung on to it as long as I could. Deciding to let it go was like losing a piece of myself, but as you pointed out the other day, sentiment doesn’t pay the bills. Gold wouldn’t have kept me as warm as a new furnace.”
“Wasn’t the heat included in your condo...” He trailed off. “You weren’t in the city by the time you sold that watch, were you? The furnace was for Will and Jenny.”
“That’s right. It broke down in February, a week after I moved in. Do you remember how cold last February was?”
He nodded. “It set records.”
“They don’t know where I got the money.” She rubbed her bare wrist. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell them.”
Another silence threatened. He was the one to break this one, too. “No problem,” he said gruffly.
“Fine. Now, if you’re done poking into my finances, could we get back on topic?”
“Actually, that’s the next thing we should discuss. Finances.” He tipped his head toward the brochure. “The auction’s cash only.”
“Seriously? For a charity fund-raiser? No checks or credit cards?”
“That’s what it says on the front page.”
“That’s nuts. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Chalk up something else that’s strange about Whitcombe.”
Hank was right. The cash-only stipulation was very strange. But since she didn’t have a credit card or a checking account, cash would be her only option, anyway. “I have three hundred and fifty dollars,” she said. “To be more precise, I saved three hundred and fifty-one dollars and eighty cents during the time I worked at Mae B’s. Jenny really did bring in more than five hundred at her yard sale. I didn’t lie about that. And she did offer to let me use it, but that was before Lanc—” She stopped. “Three hundred and fifty should be enough to buy the Mathers.”
“I wouldn’t count on it, not if there’s a bidding frenzy. I’ve seen auctions before where people care more about winning than actually getting the thing they’re bidding on.”
She’d seen that happen, as well. “You offered to give me a loan a few days ago, so I’m assuming you can get your hands on some cash. Not to put too fine a point on it, how much would you be able to chip in for the auction?”
His chair creaked as he rocked back toward the window. He didn’t reply right away.
“We’ll keep track of the amount each of us puts in,” she said. “We should be recording any other expenses incurred as well, like your gas money and the tickets for the gala. We’ll divide those eighty-twenty and deduct them from our respective shares of the winnings. Does that sound fair to you?”
“Yes, it sounds fair. What happened at Lancaster? That was the word you were about to say, wasn’t it?”
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t want to use Jenny’s money. You were about to mention Lancaster Cabinets. I’m guessing Will was laid off again. Am I right?”
She squinted. His change in position had put the light from the window at his back so she couldn’t see his expression. “Yes,” she replied.
“That’s a tough break. When’s the baby due?”
“Less than three weeks.”
More creaking as he rocked his chair a few more times. “By the end of the month
, I’ll have around twenty-two hundred left in my savings account.”
“That should be enough, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. I’d prefer to bring at least ten thousand in case something unexpected happens.”
“Ten? Could you get that?”
“I’ll do my best to scrape it up.”
“But what could happen? It’s just a charity fund-raiser put on by a minor-league art dealer, and besides, no one’s going to bid that much for a Mathers.”
“We have to hope not.”
“And since the payment has to be cash, there’s a limit to how much anyone would be comfortable carrying. That works to our advantage. I’ll bet the selling prices for all the pieces are going to be on the low end of the scale.”
“Just trying to be...”
“Cautious,” she said.
“I thought we were done with the sniping.”
“Who’s sniping? I’m just stating a fact.”
“Uh-huh. It’s a good habit to get into, telling the truth.”
Does he know you still love him?
Amelia shook off the memory of Jenny’s words and got to her feet. Why was she quibbling? Hank was right to be careful. Ten thousand dollars might be out of reach for her now, but not long ago it wouldn’t have made a dent in her budget. It wouldn’t mean much to the kind of people who collected art and attended charity galas, either. With so much at stake, it would be a good idea to have extra money available. She and Hank had both learned the hard way that life didn’t always go as planned.
* * *
THE WHITCOMBE GALLERY Annual Gala and Auction was being held at the Dalton Place Hotel. It was on the fringes of Yorkville, which was a section of Toronto’s downtown that was known for chic shops, fancy, overpriced restaurants and serious art galleries that were miles out of Rupert Whitcombe’s league. The boutique hotel had only a few dozen guest rooms and was small in comparison to the major chains that had locations throughout the city core. Its primary business came from hosting corporate meetings and events such as Whitcombe’s auction, and the staff were well trained to keep things moving. Within seconds after Hank had pulled up beneath the arched portico in front of the red sandstone building, a maroon-coated teenager had driven off with his car.
“Don’t worry,” Amelia said drily. “You’ll get it back. They call this valet parking.”
“Uh-huh, I’ve heard about that. I think I might have seen it in a movie once.” He craned his neck to look in the direction his car had disappeared. The repairs had been more extensive than he’d thought at first, and he’d only had it back for a few days. “I hope the kid doesn’t ding the new fender.”
“After tonight, you can get yourself an entirely new car.”
“Why? I like that car.” He offered her his arm as they moved toward the entrance. “It’s good on gas, and the gray paint hides the dirt.”
She made a tsking sound, hitched the chain of her beaded evening purse on her shoulder and placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. “You have no imagination,” she said.
The comment didn’t bother him. Since their big fight, they’d progressed from criticizing each other to trading something closer to banter. He suspected it was one of Amelia’s ways of coping with her anxiety. She’d never been good at waiting, and the closer the auction drew, the jumpier she’d become. Even through the sleeve of his rented tux, he felt the tremor in her fingers. He covered them with his free hand, pressing them gently against his arm. “That’s me, all right. Thick as two planks nailed together. Now, relax and smile for the camera.”
“What?”
“There’s a closed circuit video camera to the right of the door.”
“Near the Incredible Hulk?”
There was no question who she meant. The man was enormous, and had the no-neck, puffed-chest shape of a serious bodybuilder. At first glance, Hank had assumed he must be standing on a step, but the entrance was wheelchair-accessible and dead level. He was simply that big. While he was dressed in a black tux, the earpiece and dark glasses marked him as a security guard. Another two guards were positioned just inside the entrance. They weren’t as large, but their demeanor alone was menacing. By contrast, the succession of maroon-jacketed hotel staff who directed Hank and Amelia across the lobby were as smilingly perky as a cheerleading squad.
A good-sized crowd had already gathered in the hotel lounge. Along the far wall, a long, linen-covered table held a colorful array of hors d’oeuvres. Thick velvet drapes the same shade as the staff’s jackets covered another wall, the only one where there might have been windows. Although groupings of low-backed, white leather sofas and chairs were scattered throughout the room, few people sat. They stood in small groups or milled around the intricately patterned parquet floor, champagne flutes and tiny white plates grasped in their manicured and be-ringed hands. Piped-in classical music mixed with the hum of conversation. Though crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, the overall lighting was dim.
Whitcombe stood near the maroon drapes in the midst of a knot of people. He was easy to spot—his ponytailed white hair gleamed like a beacon. His assistant, clad in black again, lurked beside him. Amelia had been right: the name Morticia suited her better than Evangeline or Gillian. In spite of the poor lighting, Hank recognized one of the men in the group as a former goalie for the Leafs. To his left was a box-shaped woman who used to head a national political party. Whitcombe’s art might not be high quality, but his guests were. Hank scanned the rest of the room, noting the exits. Apart from the archway to the lobby, there were only two. One was behind the food table and likely led to the hotel’s kitchen. The other led to the room where the auction would be held, according to the sign on the easel beside it. As he expected, a pair of security guards was posted beside each exit. With high-profile attendees carrying so much cash, Whitcombe would have needed to ensure there was a large security presence. Which made the cash-only stipulation even more puzzling, since it added significantly to the cost of the event.
On the other hand, maybe these people were getting an added thrill out of the guards’ air of silent menace. Hank was no expert when it came to functions like this one. Social events for him usually involved beer, barbecues and jeans. The only other time he’d worn a tux had been at his senior prom. Amelia had been with him then, too.
He braced himself for the inevitable flash of memory—they’d been getting more and more frequent over the past few weeks. Anything could trigger one: the tilt of her head, the way she said his name, or like now, the twin tendrils of red hair that had escaped her French braid and corkscrewed down her neck. For their prom, she’d worn her hair piled on top of her head and had tried to keep it in place with hair spray and countless pins, but those tendrils had defied her then, too. He’d been glad. He’d thought they’d made her even more appealing. He remembered how springy they’d felt when he’d twined them around his fingers, and how silky they’d felt against his lips when he’d kissed her neck.
And that memory naturally led to the one of their most recent kiss. In a smelly cement stairwell. In the middle of an argument.
He wished he could still be angry. That would have been simpler. He’d stretched it out as long as he could, but staying mad was exhausting. Besides, it interfered with their goal. That was one thing they were in complete agreement on. Getting hold of that lottery ticket was the only reason they were together. To that end, they had to pretend to be a happy couple, out for an enjoyable evening.
Hank didn’t have to pretend very hard, though. Amelia looked beautiful tonight. Her dress was gray, but the shade bore no resemblance to the color of his car. Gauzy layers of smoky fabric surrounded her body like mist around a waterfall, flowing delicately over her curves to curl in uneven waves below her knees. The dress gave off a liquid shimmer as she moved, lending her the air of a magical being, an illusion only the lucky could see.
A waiter glided up to them with a tray of champagne flutes. Amelia released Hank’s arm and reached out to plu
ck one.
Hank declined with a shake of his head, waited until the man had moved on, then took the glass from Amelia. “Thanks.”
“Hey, that’s mine,” she said. “You could have taken one for yourself. It’s an open bar.”
“You shouldn’t be drinking in your condition.”
“Are you kidding? The alcohol will be good for my nerves.”
“Did you forget that Whitcombe knows our secret?”
“What?” she whispered.
“That you’re pregnant, darling.”
She pressed her lips together, her nostrils flaring as she inhaled. “Right.”
“Amelia? Oh, my goodness! Is that you?”
At the woman’s voice, they both turned.
A small, painfully thin blonde in a sparkly pink dress grasped Amelia’s hands. “I don’t believe this,” she said. “It is you!”
Amelia curved her lips into a smile that didn’t get anywhere close to her eyes. She leaned down to bring her cheek next to the woman’s while they exchanged air kisses. “Hello, Cecelia. How nice to see you again.”
“Yes, it’s a wonderful surprise. How long has it been?”
“Since Spencer’s arrest, I believe.”
“A terrible, terrible time,” she said, shaking her head. The string of pearls that hung around her neck swayed over her protruding collarbones. “I was just thinking about you the other day. I’m so glad that you’ve decided to circulate again. I had heard that Rupert’s parties have become the place to be.”
“Yes, we’ve been looking forward to it.” She gestured toward Hank. “This is Hank Jones, a very old friend of mine. Hank, Cecelia Steinman. She used to be Spencer’s and my neighbor. Her apartment was on the same floor as ours.”
“Delighted to meet you, Hank,” Cecelia said. She let go of Amelia and held her fingers out for Hank. “And what do you do?”
He took her hand carefully. It was like squeezing a sack of sticks. “Right now, I’m hoping to collect some art.”
Cecelia laughed. “Aren’t we all? Normally I spend August at my Muskoka house, but this year I was determined not to miss the fun. And it’s all for such a good cause,” she added.
Winning Amelia Page 16
