by Eliza Watson
“I’m sure they have great memories of you, and you’ll make new ones with them.” He made it sound so simple when it was anything but.
“My family is warm, friendly, and outgoing. Welcoming strangers into their home for breakfast and chatting with them like they were close friends. I don’t trust someone enough to give the key to my house to water my plants. I’m not used to family dynamics, to people relying on me. What if I don’t meet their expectations? What if I don’t fit in? I shouldn’t have come.”
Ethan stepped in front of her, bringing her to an abrupt halt. He leaned in, looking like he wanted to shake her senseless. “What do you want me to say? Go home, forget all about your family? What about Kate and Roger? They lost both you and their son. They knew what they were losing; you never had a clue until two days ago. Don’t they have the right to know that their son is dead and you’re alive? You may not have known about your family, but you have them now. Appreciate what you’ve got.”
And what he didn’t have. She had the feeling Ethan had no family outside of his aunt. He was right. She’d been given a second chance to know her family, largely thanks to Ethan. He’d given her the courage to come here, and now the strength to stay.
She placed her hand gently on his arm and gazed into his eyes, wanting desperately to ease his pain. “You’re right. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry such an awful thing happened to you when you were just a little boy. I lost my mom when I was only five, but I can’t imagine having lost both parents.”
He opened his mouth but wore a conflicted expression. As if he wanted to confide in her about his parents yet couldn’t find the words. Probably because he’d never talked about them to anyone. Not even his Aunt Maggie. He shook his head faintly, then turned and took off toward the lake.
She wanted to go after him, but she knew he wanted to be alone.
Unlike her.
Chapter Twelve
An hour later, they were headed to the grocery store for gummy bears and food to fill their mini fridge. They’d barely spoken a word since their talk after breakfast, and an awkward silence filled the air until they rounded a corner and Olivia muttered, “A cemetery.”
Ethan followed her gaze to a cemetery set on a hill overlooking a lake.
“I wonder if my mom’s buried there.”
“Probably only two, maybe three, cemeteries in such a small town.” He took a left and drove up a narrow road alongside the cemetery. At the top of the hill a wrought iron sign, arched over the entrance, read St. Mary’s Catholic Cemetery. “Are you catholic?”
She nodded. He went to turn in, and she grabbed his arm. “No, stop.”
He stopped under the gate.
Her hand still resting on his arm, she stared down the gravel road leading into the cemetery. “I’m not ready. It’ll be too difficult after visiting her grave in San Francisco for the past twenty-two years. I visited my mom’s grave for the first time when I was seven years old. My dad wouldn’t take me, and I threw a fit until he let my nanny Maria take me. Maria ended up quitting. On that Mother’s Day, my dad dropped me off at the cemetery’s entrance but refused to go in. He never went to see her grave as far as I know, probably because he knew she wasn’t buried there and couldn’t handle the guilt of watching me cry over an empty grave.”
“My mother is buried in that same cemetery. Yesterday was the first time I’ve set foot in there.”
Her gaze darted to him, but he stared straight ahead. He wouldn’t be able to continue if he saw her sympathetic look. And he wanted to.
“My aunt used to try to get me to go with her on my mother’s birthday and Mother’s Day, but I couldn’t. As the years went by it got harder to go. I’ve been thinking about it a lot since yesterday. Wondering if my aunt and uncle could afford a nice tombstone. My mother deserved one.”
“Maybe it’s time to visit her grave and see. I think your Aunt Maggie would appreciate you going with her, especially after the parole hearing. Her next visit is probably going to be a very emotional one for her. She could use your strength.”
He nodded. “My mother’s birthday is next month. Maybe I’ll take Maggie to visit her grave. Buy a new tombstone if needed.”
Olivia brushed her hand down his arm and covered his hand with the warmth of hers. He peered over at her, gazing deep into her eyes. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.
Yeah, it was time to visit his mother’s grave.
* * *
After leaving the cemetery, they continued toward town and encountered a boutique/art gallery housed in a white cottage with hot pink trim.
“Can we stop here?” Olivia asked, sounding like a kid spotting a McDonald’s.
“Katie’s Kottage?” Ethan didn’t sound thrilled, but he turned in. “Gee, maybe I’ll find a cow cookie jar or corn husk wall decoration for my apartment.”
She smiled. “Be careful. It might start looking like a home. Wouldn’t want that.”
“Yeah, a cookie jar without any cookies.”
“You don’t even keep food in your house?”
“I slept in my apartment five nights in the past month. No need for food.”
“Then keep your gun in the cookie jar, like Rockford did. But that’ll be hard since you probably sleep with your gun. When you sleep.”
“Guess the cookie jar is out.”
“You could buy it with the hope of one day having cookies.”
He smiled. “I don’t dream about having cookies.”
Why did she have the urge to go into the shop and find him the perfect cookie jar?
She stepped out of the SUV. “Who knows, maybe I’ll discover the next Chagall. A local artist who’s too avant-garde for a small lake town but a perfect fit for San Francisco.”
“Always in work mode, aren’t you?”
“Guess we have something in common after all.”
Besides having criminals for dads.
The boutique sold everything from designer swimwear to crystal wineglasses to exotic flavored coffees. The tourists here weren’t exactly roughing it. Ethan headed off to find mosquito repellent, while she browsed locals’ artwork, mainly lake sketchings and paintings and a few black-and-white framed photographs.
She came across easels displaying a copy of Van Gogh’s Irises and Monet’s Haystacks. A sign read Own a Real Fake. She was far from an Impressionist expert, but the paintings were quite good. They should be for eight hundred bucks a piece. The craquelure—a final layer of glaze that produced fine lines and cracks on paint surfaces, giving a work an aged appearance—was so well done, the paintings looked authentic at first glance, and even at a second and third. An easel between the two paintings displayed a sign that read Paintings by Five Lake’s own forger, Andrew Donovan…
Olivia’s stomach dropped.
Not only had her dad sold forgeries, he’d painted them.
She stared at the paintings in disbelief, as if she’d just discovered a Picasso at a yard sale. But this was a bad find, not a good one.
How did these even still exist? Why hadn’t the police destroyed them when they’d busted her dad? Because these weren’t middle market paintings like what her dad had sold. They hadn’t been part of his scam. Maybe he’d painted them, then decided high-valued paintings would have attracted too much attention. The article her dad had left hadn’t mentioned he’d also been the forger. Maybe the authorities hadn’t known this at the time. Or, maybe he hadn’t really been the forger. Someone was just out to make a buck. No. Kate and Roger wouldn’t allow the paintings to be sold if it wasn’t true. But why would they allow them to be sold period? Five Lakes was a small town. They had to know about them.
“Whoa. Didn’t see this coming,” Ethan said, materializing next to her.
“It’s not illegal to paint a Monet or even put his signature on it,” she quickly pointed out. “It only becomes illegal when you try to pass it off as the real thing.” Like her dad had done with the other paintings. “Most art students copy the masters to learn thei
r methods. I did it in college.” In other words, she could be a forger also. Nothing like making her case worse. “These have letters of inauthenticity, not authenticity. Not like he was gonna—”
Ethan held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m concerned about the present, not the past. Even if he had tried to sell these, I couldn’t do anything about it now. Besides the fact that he’s no longer alive, the statute of limitations on art forgery is probably long past.”
That depended on the state. California’s statute of limitations on forgery depended on the circumstances and severity of the crime. Others had no time limit at all. She had no clue about Illinois or Wisconsin, but now Ethan knew her dad had been a talented painter. Something she hadn’t even known. Not needing a forger would have made it even easier for him to have continued his life of crime. A sliver of doubt regarding her dad’s innocence crept back into her mind.
A saleswoman walked up. Likely in her early forties, heavy tanning and smoking had her looking fiftyish. “Most of these paintings sold to tourists back in the eighties. Vacationers from Chicago scarfed them up. The artist helped bring down the biggest crime boss in Chicago’s history. Paintings went for ten times this. This price is a steal. Wouldn’t even have these except the museum is selling them to donate the proceeds to Tommy Jackson’s cancer benefit.”
“Museum?” Olivia muttered.
“The Andrew Donovan Forgery Museum. It’s quite the draw.”
Did Five Lakes consider her dad their claim to fame? She glanced around, searching for souvenir shot glasses or T-shirts boasting her dad’s name.
The woman gestured toward the paintings. “You like them?”
Olivia slowly shook her head. “No. But I’ll take them.”
* * *
The woman at the store had insisted on protecting the paintings in bubble wrap before securing them in cardboard. Olivia had told her to just stick them in oversized garbage bags. Where they belonged. Her dad’s work was way too good to be circulating in the art world. Some scam artist might latch onto them. Even though any knowledgeable art collector would know the whereabouts of such famous works, she still didn’t want them out there. More proof of her dad’s crime.
Now Olivia sat in the SUV, glaring at the yellow Victorian house. The lower half housed Curl Up and Dye beauty salon, the upper half the Andrew Donovan Forgery Museum.
“I cannot believe someone opened a museum dedicated to my dad’s crime.” She prayed to God Kate and Roger weren’t the owners and had fought to close it down. But who else would have had her dad’s paintings? They had to have been involved in establishing it.
“Sorry. I’m sure this isn’t exactly what you’d hoped to find here.” Ethan’s tone was sympathetic, not like he’d just collected further proof that her dad may have continued his life of crime.
“A lot of famous forgers’ paintings have sold for large sums of money because of the forger’s reputation—I just can’t believe my grandparents profited off my dad’s crime. By selling the paintings, they’re condoning what he did. Granted, he brought down a crime boss, but still, the end didn’t justify the means.”
So much for her relatives having exceeded her expectations.
“Should we go in?” Ethan asked.
“No,” she snapped.
Ethan reached to start the car.
She threw open the door and flew out. She paced back and forth alongside the SUV, sliding her mom’s wedding band across the chain around her neck. Ethan stepped in front of her, and she nearly slammed into him. One baby step forward and her body would be flush against his. She wanted his rock-solid chest pressed against hers and his arms wrapped securely around her, his sheer strength ensuring her everything would be okay.
“Sure you want to do this?” he asked softly.
She nodded hesitantly. “Yeah.”
He reached out and grasped the ring lying on the outside of her dress, resting his hand against her chest. “I don’t think you want this showing.” He slipped his fingers beneath the neckline of her dress, grazing her bare skin, causing her stomach muscles to tighten and her breath to hitch in her throat. He paused a moment before releasing the ring, slipping his fingers from her dress and up over the hollow of her neck as he removed his hand. “That’s better.”
Oh yeah, that was great. She loved the feel of his skin against hers. But he obviously didn’t feel the same way after he’d so easily backed off after their kiss last night.
They walked through the front door of the Victorian house, and instead of taking a right into the hair salon, they followed a sign directing them up the stairs. When they entered the museum, nobody was around. A small wooden box at the entrance requested a five-dollar donation. The two paintings she’d bought were donation enough.
Outside of a few famous Monets and Renoirs, most of the paintings filling the red walls were lesser-known works by Pissarro, Cezanne, and some not so prominent Impressionists. They’d have been middle market works twenty-four years ago, worth a hundred grand to a million. Had her dad been preparing to sell these when he was busted? No surprise the authorities hadn’t confiscated them even if they had found them. They’d been focused on bringing down Vinnie Carlucci. They hadn’t given a rip if the forgeries circulated, especially back then. Not that art theft and forgery were taken a whole lot more seriously now. A few years ago, a guy had infiltrated the archives of the Tate Museum in London, altering art catalogs to include his forgeries—which he made millions off of—and in the end he received two measly years in prison.
“He was pretty talented,” Ethan said.
She nodded grudgingly.
The place was a shrine to her dad.
“I’ve seen this before at a museum. Monet, right?” Ethan gestured to Monet’s Woman with a Parasol—Madame Monet and Her Son.
“At an art museum?” She sounded shocked, like a total snob.
He nodded, looking more amused than offended by her remark. “Yeah, believe it or not, I’ve been to a few art museums in my life thanks to Mike. He used to work for the FBI’s Art Crime Division. He dragged me to the National Gallery of Art when we were out in DC a few years ago. Have to admit it didn’t totally suck.”
This made her happier than it should. As if Ethan thinking that an art museum didn’t “totally” suck made him potential boyfriend material.
She glared at the painting. “That’s Monet’s wife, Camille, and their son, Jean.” His wife, wearing a flowing white dress and holding a white parasol, stood next to their son, dressed in a white hat and pant set. They stood on a hilltop, peering down at Monet painting them.
“He was a great painter. You can actually feel the sunshine against the woman’s skin.”
She nodded, impressed by his assessment. Most people merely saw a painting, but never really felt it. “And the warm breeze catching her dress, sweeping the long grass against it. You can smell the grass and the fresh country air. The painting has the aura of an original. The feeling that the artist had truly been there, experiencing his surroundings.”
She had a sick sense of pride. This wasn’t a crappy copy like most of the fakes she’d seen over the years. It was an incredible forgery. Her dad had been quite talented. Hard to believe he could have given up painting. If one of the artists she repped quit painting, it would be like cutting off one of their arms or ears. It was a part of who they were. You couldn’t just kill your muse.
She rubbed her temples, her head ready to explode.
Ethan’s phone rang out at his waist. He glanced down at the number. “I have to take this,” he said, stepping away. By his tone, it was likely Gwen, the woman he’d spoken to in the car yesterday. A tinge of jealousy shot through her, which was crazy when he’d said she wasn’t a girlfriend. Even if she was, Olivia and Ethan had shared a kiss, not a bed.
“Welcome,” a woman said.
Olivia turned to find a tall, slender woman. A loose bun held back her snow-white hair and a long, red rayon dress and red lipstick washed out her p
ale complexion even more. A pleasant, congenial smile didn’t include her green eyes, which conveyed a deep sadness. She had the timeless elegance and poise of a 1940s movie actress. “I’m Isabelle Newman. Everyone calls me Bella.”
Isabelle Newman. Olivia’s maternal grandmother.
Olivia tried to maintain a blank expression when her emotions were battling inside her. She couldn’t believe her grandma was standing here in front of her, yet she wanted to demand why she’d opened this museum. Had she been that bitter toward Olivia’s dad?
“I’m Oriana, and this is Ethan.” She gestured toward Ethan as he finished his call and joined them. “This is Bella Newman.”
His eyes didn’t betray a hint of recognition, even though he undoubtedly recalled her grandma’s name.
“Oriana, what a lovely name. Like the Italian opera singer Oriana Bianchi. I was named after Chagall’s wife.” Bella placed a hand to her chest and swirled the other in the air in a dramatic gesture.
Olivia’s eyes widened. “Really?”
A whisper of a smile curled the corners of Bella’s mouth. “No, not really. I’m just funning ya, dear. Seems appropriate since I work in a gallery.” A reminiscent sparkle lit Bella’s eyes. “I did meet him once. Chagall. A very interesting man.”
“You met Chagall?” Olivia said with a hint of doubt, unsure if Bella was funning her again.
“Yes, I truly did.”
Olivia only knew a few people who had ever met the artist, who’d died when she was only ten. “What was he like?”
“Believe me, it’s nothing to brag about. I was twenty-two, and I babbled like an idiot, couldn’t even tell you what I said. He was very gracious. It was the early fifties, and I was traveling through Europe with a friend, finding myself. We went to a showing of his in Paris, held in a tiny Montmartre gallery. Wish I’d bought a lithograph. They were going for mere francs at the time. He signed a postcard for me. Nice man.”
