Two rows back sat Birdie, and beside her a woman April considered the most Important Person of all the Very ones in attendance, at least in terms of the auction. It was Agnès Vannier, accompanied by her velvet blanket, home health aides, and a fiendish half-smile.
April was anxious for the bidding to start. Through the windows she watched the press swarm below. Eventually representatives herded the reporters to the standing-room-only section and cordoned them off with a red rope. Bidders started to fill the room.
Once seated, the bidders flicked through the catalog. From her perch April studied the crowd, with particular focus on those in the front seats, the ones most likely to spring for the high-ticket items. She knew to look for that nervous, squirmy energy bidders exhibited moments before lifting a paddle. A lot of people were fidgeting in that room, not only those in the premium seats.
At seven o’clock Olivier took the podium. He could not see her through the double-paned glass, but April gave a thumbs-up nonetheless, though the action was really more for her than it was for him.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Welcome to Sotheby’s, and to this evening’s sale of the Madame de Florian Collection. I think you’ll find this collection as remarkable as we have. A few reminders before we begin.”
The crowd’s twitchiness intensified as Olivier read the bidding rules as well as the conditions of the sale. Finally (finally!) after the taxes-commissions-premiums rigmarole, he gestured toward Marthe, who sat propped up on the rotating stage, bathed in light and shining in her pink-dressed glory. If only she could’ve seen the cameras, felt the fervor, heard the eruption of cheers. Not even the grandest show at the Folies could’ve compared.
“Lot one,” Olivier called out and banged the gavel.
Then he started. Marthe de Florian was on her way.
“At five hundred thousand euros?” he said. “Do I hear five hundred thousand euros? Who will bid in at half a million?”
The room remained still. April’s heart scrambled up into her throat. She held her breath while glaring at the former fidgeters, willing them to bid in.
“Five hundred thousand euros,” Olivier said again. “Do I hear five hundred thousand?”
Something creaked behind her. April turned around to see Luc Thébault slip through the door. He planted himself beside Madame Vannier. April smiled. She hadn’t been sure he would make it.
“Half a million here,” Olivier said as a paddle went up. April exhaled in relief and felt Luc nodding behind her. “Six hundred thousand euros? Do I hear six hundred thousand?”
The excitement started then. All the parties and receptions and even those topheavy women did what they were supposed to. They created hysteria. Paddles shot up.
“Seven hundred fifty thousand euros. Here.”
“Eight hundred thousand. Here.”
“Nine hundred. Here.”
“One million. Here.”
They hit the estimate. April exhaled again and closed her eyes. This, a painting not even the French government would take.
Tonight you are the most famous woman in all of Paris, Marthe. Enjoy it.
The numbers continued to climb. One-point-one million euros. A paddle went up for one-point-two million, the magic number at which April considered the sale a success. Perhaps Marthe’s newfound fame might last longer than one night.
Olivier’s mouth moved faster. Paddles shot up with more frequency. People dialed into the phone banks, the operators scrambling to keep up. The crowd rumbled with excitement.
When the number jumped above one-point-five-million April clapped. She looked over to find Troy on his feet, standing beside her cheering as though he were at a sporting event and not watching fine art.
The number hit two million euros. April yelped, her pulse racing, her brain light. She turned to Madame Vannier, who sat in a wheelchair smiling in satisfaction.
“At two-point-one million euro. Are we finished? Fair warning. Last chance at two-point-one million euro,” Olivier said. Then, as the entire room held its breath, “Sold! Two-point-one million euros. To bidder number three-three-four.”
April thought she might pass out. She truly thought she might.
The floor broke out in applause. People leapt to their feet and Marthe received a standing ovation lasting two minutes, three minutes, four minutes, more. April attended a Super Bowl once. The excitement and cheers did not come close to what was happening now. Two-point-one million euros, nearly three million U.S. dollars.
“You did it!” Troy said and wrapped April in a hug. “Damn, that was exciting! You did it!”
“No. It wasn’t me.” April stepped back. “It was Marthe, all Marthe. And this is just the start. There are thousands more lots. I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it.”
At the podium Olivier called out for lot number two. Legs weak, April slumped into her seat. Troy whooped one more time and sat beside her. He kissed her cheek.
“Brilliant work, babe,” he said. “Brilliant.”
The remaining properties continued on at the same rapid clip, the excitement escalating and reverberating through the walls and into the skyboxes. Paddles popped up like fireworks. The price board flickered. Numbers and currencies scattered down the board as April made notes, her mouth open in shock. By the end of the night 150 assets had been sold. Though the prices, as expected, never matched the Boldini, they were all elevated by Marthe’s portrait, and maybe also a little by the journal entries interspersed throughout the book.
In the end April did not have to write “Passed” on a single item. The collection was 100 percent sold. The best April had ever done in a single night was 91 percent. But tonight it was 100 percent .
When the final gavel of the night hit the podium, April sprang from her chair. Hugs were exchanged all around. She didn’t have the data in front of her, but April knew this would be the most successful auction her small department had ever done. Though perhaps Sotheby’s would not consider it small anymore.
“Madame Vannier,” April said, when she finally managed to catch her breath, when all hugs and kisses were distributed and most of the skybox emptied. “These numbers, they are unprecedented!”
“It was very exciting,” she agreed. “I did not expect to have such fun.”
“Well, I’m glad you could come,” April said as two men helped Madame Vannier up from her wheelchair.
Upon standing Madame Vannier smoothed the skirt of her iridescent navy gown and then fiddled with the sapphire-and-diamond earrings pulling down her lobes. She smiled, her face suddenly a decade, two decades younger. Her white hair glittered beneath the chandelier.
“I must confess,” she said. “It was rather exhilarating. I can see why you have such enthusiasm for your work. It’s nice to know my father’s paintings weren’t so worthless, so out of style. I think he would’ve been pleased.”
“‘Worthless’? Not a chance! Based on the purchase price, few artists are worth more. Your father, he set records tonight. He set a record for his own works. This I know.”
Madame Vannier blinked. Hard. Her eyes turned wet as April’s gut clenched. She knew better than to personalize the item, to make the seller regret putting it on the floor.
“Your father”—April started, the words gummed up in her mouth—“it’s obviously a bit late, but you know we could’ve arranged for you to keep it? You did not have to sell the painting. There are plenty of other items, as you can see. I’m concerned this wasn’t made clear.”
She was not supposed to say that, or anything like it. Had Peter still been in the room he would’ve tried to push her through the plate-glass window.
“No, Madame Vogt,” Agnès said with a chuckle. “I did not want that particular painting. It was the money I was after. I needed the money.”
April glanced over at Luc, the man forever her Parisian barometer, and noted the smile he was very carefully trying to keep off his face. The woman wanted money, but April couldn’t point
out the obvious, namely that the auction would generate more than Madame Vannier could spend in the balance of her lifetime.
“I know what you are thinking,” Madame Vannier said and laughed again. “That I am too old to need all this money, non? I will die soon. What a waste!”
“Of course not! You’re not old at all!”
“That is not true in the least. I am excessively ancient. Alas, I do not want the money for jewels or fancy shoes.” She snickered and pointed to the silk slippers on her feet. “The painting, your Boldini, no one knew of its existence before, non?”
“Correct,” April said. “It was a shock to everyone.”
“Giovanni Boldini has another covert painting, ma chérie. It is owned by a private investor and has never once passed through an auction house.”
“That’s actually rather common. Many of Boldini’s works are owned by individuals.”
“Yes, but only a few people know of this one’s existence. Andreas!” Madame Vannier snapped. “Where is my coat? I am ready to leave. I would like my coat applied to my body this instant!”
“Which painting?” April asked. “I am quite familiar with the full spectrum of his works.”
“You don’t know this one,” Madame Vannier said and wiggled into her jacket, a deep brown mink. “It is a painting of my mother. She is nursing me.”
“Another unknown Boldini?”
“Oui. And now I finally have the funds to purchase it from the private investor.”
April laughed, out of shock and nervousness and some other feeling she could not articulate. There was another Giovanni Boldini in the world, and Agnès Vannier planned to get her hands on it.
“I suppose I don’t need to tell you but this price point will not help your negotiations,” April said, still laughing.
“Perhaps you are right,” Agnès said with sparks in her eyes. “Mine also has—what do you call it? Ah, yes, this painting has quite the fascinating provenance.”
After wrapping a scarf around her neck, Madame Vannier grabbed hold of one of her two helpers and doddered out of the room, leaving April dumbfounded and Luc, forever, smirking.
“I see what you’re devising,” Luc said, the first words he’d spoken to her that night. “You hope to get the premium on that sale.”
“That is not true one bit. I also want the commission.”
Troy appeared behind him then, chuckling and shaking his head.
“Monsieur, you know my wife quite well. Can you believe this racket? Charging the sellers and the buyers?” He extended his hand. “Troy Vogt. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“So this is le grand m’sieu. It’s a pleasure. Luc Thébault.”
“‘Le grand m’sieu.’ At some point one of you will really have to tell me what that means. Anyway, thank you for ensuring my wife didn’t get into any trouble this summer. It is much appreciated.”
“Ce n’est pas un problème. I did what I could. It’s a shame you were never able to make a visit.”
“Well, that should be rectified soon,” Troy said. “Did she tell you? We’ll be moving to Paris in the new year.”
“Paris?” Luc said, a funny look skittering across his face. He gave April a quick glance from beneath his eyelashes. “This is fantastic news, but it is the first I’m hearing of it. Regardless, bravo! I know your wife is happiest here.”
“That’s the plan,” Troy said. “To make her the happiest.”
“Avril!” Luc almost sang. “Such news you’ve kept from me!”
“Well, nothing’s set in stone. We’re still waiting for the final okay from the Paris office…” April let her words trail off. “So, where’s…? I’m surprised you didn’t bring a date … I mean, how come Delphine’s not here?” April turned to Troy. “You should meet his girlfriend. She works in finance too, and is about as stunning a creature as you could imagine.”
“Oh! Great! I’d love to meet her!” Troy said a little too enthusiastically, clearly glad this Frenchman had romantic interests aside from his wife.
“Alas,” Luc said and smiled sadly. “Delphine is no longer. Or no longer in my world in any case.” He shrugged before either could express condolences. “C’est la vie. Sometimes things do not work out as you’d like.”
Suddenly the phone rang. It was Olivier, dialing up from one of the operator’s phones below. The first night was over. April should come down. This was her show, and he wanted her to share in the glory. Furthermore, if her transfer to the Paris office was going to work out, April needed to meet the European players.
“Olivier wants me on the floor,” April said, heart still pounding, adrenaline pulsing through her veins.
“All right,” Luc replied. “I will see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
“Nice to meet you, buddy,” her big, handsome American husband said.
“Yes, okay, right, buddy.”
Smiling, April reached for her bag. She peeked inside to make sure they were there: a new set of letters and documents. These were not as old as Marthe’s, a few decades compared to a hundred years, but they were more valuable, at least to April.
The papers were not from some stranger’s estate but from her father. April’s parents had been packrats after all, at least when it came to letters posted to and from Vietnam. There was even a journal. For so many years April asked about furniture and knickknacks. She never thought to ask for letters.
They walked down the stairs, April grinning as if she might never stop. Troy paused. He leaned into April’s ear, and a chill ran along her skin.
“When we move, am I going to have to get chest-hair implants? Because, looking around, I question whether I have the ability to blend in.”
“If everything goes the way it should, lack of chest hair will be the least of your problems.”
“You’re telling me.” He rolled his eyes and pretended to groan. “Up to my neck in furniture and Frenchies all damned day.”
April laughed.
“You could do worse.”
She stepped around him and out into the thick din of voices on the floor. People closed in on her from all sides. As well-wishers kissed April and shook her hand, Troy kept a palm at the small of her back. She wanted to turn around, ask that he bear with her for the remainder of the night. Ask that he stay. Then April remembered. She didn’t need to ask. There was no reason to think he wouldn’t.
Acknowledgments
There would be no acknowledgments to write, indeed no book at all, if not for the tireless, impossible, and crafty machinations of Barbara Poelle. Thank you, Barbara, not only for sending me the article that inspired this book, but for believing in my voice, sticking with the turbulence, and always making me feel like the only client you have.
To my brilliant and savvy editor, Katie Gilligan, who understood where I was going with April Vogt before I did. I appreciate your enthusiasm, keen insight, and ability to push me in ways I never conceived. I will gladly share a bottle of wine (or two) with you (and Barbara) any day of the week … whole pig and all.
The crew at Thomas Dunne Books/St. Martin’s Press worked tirelessly behind the scenes to make good on a tight timeline. Thank you to those I’ve spoken with, those I haven’t, and specifically to Sally Richardson for her early backing and to Melanie Fried for keeping me and this project on track (plus answering all manner of befuddled newbie questions). My publicist Katie Bassel ran with this book the minute it landed on her desk. Thank you for your talent, smarts, and so deftly handling late-breaking changes and dramatics. A huge heap of credit goes also to copyeditor Sue Llewellyn. It’s like you were born to edit this manuscript.
Thank you to Jeb Spencer, Sig Anderman, Jonathan Corr, and especially Ed Luce for the best “day job” (and night and weekend job) a person could have. I think most would be surprised how engaging and inspiring the corporate world can be.
Inspiration is a writer’s greatest asset and no three authors have inspired me more than Tammy Greenwood, Allison
Winn Scotch, and Amy Hatvany. Thank you for the continued advice, encouragement, and support.
I can’t mention the word support without also thanking my friend of nearly thirty years, Karen Freeman Landers. Thank you for being a sounding board and sharing in the excitement (and attending any and all Chargers games). I am so lucky to have you in my corner.
I must also mention Jen McGlothlin (aka Jenny Walker), my very first “writing partner” and coauthor of myriad Sweet Valley High ripoffs. How did those not take off, I wonder? Thank you also to Aileen Dowd Brill for your advice and for reading many a manuscript along the way.
So many friends have championed this book and the process to get here. Offline and online … from book club (Michelle Campbell, Denisia Chatfield, Leesa Davis, Lisa Gal, Kerri Merson, Suzanne Miller, Heather Olson, Sabrina Parr, Kat Peppers, Kerry Rooney, Jenna Scarafone, Dede Watson), to my William & Mary crew (special shout out to Jes Singer), to Facebook groups, to the amazing community of Cardiff-by-the-Sea—thank you, thank you, thank you. I’ve always been reticent to share “writing stuff” but the reception has made me wish I’d started sharing sooner. I am overwhelmed with gratitude.
As much as I’ve hit the friend lottery, even more so the family one. To my father, Tom Gable, the first writer I ever admired, thank you for passing along your gifts, encouraging me to write from a young age, and, of course, being a humorous and complex character in your own right.
Thank you also to my mom, Laura Gable, though a mere thanks feels insufficient. The support you’ve given is unparalleled. I rely on you as much now as when I was a child, though in different ways. You are, in a word, the best.
I’m also fortunate to have two smart and quick-witted siblings to make every family meal entertaining and provide no shortage of material. To my brother, Brian Gable, thank you for lending your persona to the “Brian” character in this novel. I hope you find him sufficiently likable. And to my sister, Lisa Gable Wheatley, for your support and inspiring ambition and for reading several early stories.
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