The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1)

by Olivia Wildenstein

  Table of Contents

  The Masterpiecers

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  THE MASTERPIECERS

  Olivia Wildenstein

  Copyright © 2016 Olivia Wildenstein

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to any actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Formatted by Athena Interior Book Design

  To my mother and her twin sister,

  Aster and Ivy are not you,

  but you did inspire The Masterpiecers

  with your amazing talent with a needle & thread.

  To my father,

  thank you for raising me in a world

  filled with the timeless beauty of Art.

  Chapter One

  Aster

  Our mother used to say that Ivy sucked all the good from the womb and I was left with the scraps. I hate to think she was right about anything, but my twin sister is exceptional.

  “You’re going to do so well,” I tell Ivy, squeezing her hand.

  “No touching,” barks the guard watching over us.

  It’s just the two of us in the visitation room.

  Ivy yanks her hand out of mine. “I don’t know about so well, but I’m going to do my best.” She links her fingers together in a business-like manner. “Has Josh come to see you yet?”

  “No.”

  “He told me he spoke to your warden about letting you watch the show. You have his permission to look at it whenever you want.”

  I give her a weak smile. “That’ll be the highlight of my day.”

  She runs her nail underneath the peeling, synthetic wood surface of the table.

  “I’m happy you came to see me,” I say.

  Her gaze sticks to the tabletop. It’s as though she doesn’t dare look up at me. I think she’s afraid to cry. “Was it really an accident, Aster?” Her voice is so faint that I have to strain to make out her words.

  “Yes.”

  “You promise me—”

  “Yes,” I say. “Stop worrying about this. By the time you come home, it will be ancient history.”

  She bites her lip.

  “Now go make history,” I tell her.

  “I’ll probably be disqualified after the first round.”

  I shake my head. “Can you stop putting yourself down? You are so talented. So much more than all the other contestants.”

  “But this isn’t only about talent.”

  If only I could curve the outer corners of her lips into a smile like I do at work with my computer cursor.

  When her eyes twitch down to my hands, I slip both inside my jumpsuit pockets. “There’s something I wanted to give you before the show,” I tell her.

  “What?”

  “Just a little present.”

  “What is it?”

  “If I tell you, it’ll ruin the surprise.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “It’s in my underwear drawer. Where I kept my baby teeth.”

  She stays silent and still for so long that I shift around on the rigid iron chair. Suddenly, she stands. “I have to go home to pack.”

  “Already?”

  She nods. “Before I go, though, you have to sign something for me.” She heads over to the guard stationed in the corner.

  As I watch her, the tips of my coarse curls brush against my gray jumpsuit. Ivy’s hair is much longer than mine, and much softer. She styled mine once like hers—she even tried to teach me—but I have no patience with brushes and serums and creams. Besides, as much as I love my twin, at nineteen, we’re past the age where it’s cute to look identical.

  After a quick exchange, she returns with his pen. She digs out a folded piece of paper from the back pocket of her skinny jeans and smooths it out on the desk. “The show sent me some extra forms to fill out. They need the signature from my next of kin in case something goes wrong.”

  My mouth goes dry. “It’s an art competition…what could go wrong?”

  “It’s just a formality, Asty.” She sticks the pen in my hand.

  “But—”

  “Nothing will go wrong.” Her gaze softens. She knows I can never say no to her when she looks at me like that. “I promise.”

  I push out the breath I’m holding and study the paper. It’s all fine print.

  Ivy points to the signature line. “I’ve already read it. It’s legalese. Disclaimers. The usual.”

  I bite my lip, and look back up at her. She’s checking the round white wall clock, so I hurry to scratch my name on the dotted line. “Here.”

  She tugs the sheet away from me and folds it back into her pocket. “Are you eating? You look skeletal.”

  I study the sharpness of my wrist bones. They do look like they’re about to pierce my skin.

  When she doesn’t sit back down, I say, “It’s time, isn’t it?” I don’t want her to leave, even though I encouraged her to go.

  She nods.

  I stand up, hoping for a hug, but instead, she lifts the pen from my hand and walks over to the guard to return it.

  Over her shoulder, she calls out, “You take care, all right, Asty?” Her voice catches on my name.

  I smile even though I didn’t get my hug. Just like she didn’t give me one yesterday when she came to visit. Maybe with the whole “no-touching-the-prisoner” rule, she doesn’t know she’s allowed to hug me on her wa
y out. I keep the smile on my face long after she’s gone, just in case she returns. She doesn’t, but I don’t hold it against her. Ivy has trouble with separation.

  She was a mess when Mom was committed fifteen months ago. She was an even bigger mess when I was arrested.

  Chapter Two

  Ivy

  With both Mom and Aster gone, our tiny, ground floor apartment is quiet, too quiet. I toss my keys onto our Formica kitchen countertop and head to Aster’s room, which we shared before I moved into Mom’s. The butterfly wallpaper is yellowed in spots and peeling, but Aster doesn’t want to replace it. She hates change. She also hates order. I trip over a lone sneaker, catching myself on her white wooden dresser. Swearing under my breath, I pull open the top drawer and comb through her all-black cotton underwear until my fingertips touch a piece of cool porcelain—the tiny box Mom bought her to keep her baby teeth in when she was six. I have a matching one. Something jiggles inside. I pop the tarnished latch. Among an array of tiny dead teeth lies Aster’s present.

  My first impulse is to stuff the box back inside the drawer, but then I think of the police. What if they search our place and find it?

  “Shit, Aster, where did you get this?” I mutter.

  I snap the box closed and tread back out, hopping over an old sock that didn’t make it into the hamper. I grab the large red bag I’m taking to New York, empty it, and head to the adjacent veranda Mom used as her studio. It’s the only room in the apartment I feel happy in, perhaps because it’s filled with colorful fabric and drenched in natural light.

  I find a spool of red thread, a needle, and my seam rippers, and set to work. Ten minutes later, the porcelain box has vanished inside the lining, cushioned by the foam inserts Mom used for texture in all of her quilts. A part of me feels guilty for transforming her last creation into a bag, but another part feels reassured to bring a piece of her with me on this trip.

  A car honks outside, making me jump. At the window I see a forest-green cab parked in front. My ride to the airport. I knuckle the window to get the driver’s attention and hold out my open hand to signal five minutes. I race back to my room, place all of my belongings inside the mended bag, check that all the lights are off, that the fridge is empty, and turning back one last time, walk off into the unknown.

  ***

  Indianapolis has shrunk. The backyard pools are drops of turquoise and the vehicles are miniature toy cars rolling over looping, white-dotted highways. I strain to make out the site of Aster’s jail and think I spot it when a voice crackles over the loudspeakers, focusing my attention back inside the plane.

  “Hi, folks. So it looks like our trip is going to be uneventful. Just the way I like it.” The pilot guffaws. “We should be touching down in Newark at around 5:30 p.m. The weather in New York City is clear and sunny and in the high eighties. You should see the city coming up on your right thirty minutes before landing. I’ll be sure to remind you. Sit back, relax, and have a pleasant flight.”

  “What can I get you to drink?” the stewardess asks me. “Champagne, orange juice, water?”

  I’m tempted to have the champagne, but she must know I’m underage. “Sparkling water would be great.”

  When she leaves, I flick my gaze to the compartment overhead where I stuffed my bag. I’d been worried about going through airport security, but it turned out fine. I go back to staring at the world below.

  “First time on a plane?” She’s already back.

  “Yes.”

  “I can always tell when someone’s a sky virgin. I’m perceptive like that.” She hands me the glass of water and a small packet of cashews. “Have I seen you somewhere before? Your face looks awfully familiar.”

  “I’m one of the contestants on the Masterpiecers,” I say so that she doesn’t come to another conclusion.

  The frown on her face fades. “Of course! And here I thought they chartered private jets for their contestants.”

  “I think they do for the winners. But flying business is—”

  “Can I get your autograph?” She thrusts a cocktail napkin and a ballpoint pen at me.

  “Sure,” I say, and scribble my name—Ivy Redd—on the napkin before handing it back to her.

  “I’ll be rooting for you, Miss…” Her voice trails off as she studies my name, and the frown gusts across her face again. Thankfully, someone’s call button draws her away.

  When she stops by my row later, I’ve put my headphones on even though I’m not listening to music; I just don’t want her to talk to me. To make my intentions clearer, I fasten my attention to the window and the empty sky beyond until we land.

  As I step off the plane, she whispers something in the other stewardess’s ear, but holds her thumbs up nonetheless. She’s probably figured out whom I’m related to. It’s not much of a secret, especially now that I’ve willingly stepped into the spotlight and splashed our family name on every tabloid in the United States. I pass by a newsstand and spot my face, alongside the other competitors’ in a Brady Bunch composition on the cover of People Magazine. I don’t purchase it. I’d rather not read what is being said about me and I already know everything there is to know about my adversaries.

  With no suitcase to wait for, I breeze past the luggage carousels and find the person sent to pick me up. He’s carrying a sign with my first name. No last name so as not to attract too much attention.

  “Is this all?” He points to my duffle bag.

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose they’re going to be lending you clothes,” he says.

  “Yes.” They mentioned it in the exhaustive packet they sent me two weeks ago.

  “How was the trip?” he asks.

  “Fine.”

  He tries to pluck my bag off my shoulder, but I hold on tight.

  “It’s not heavy,” I tell him.

  We walk through the crowded terminal toward the glass doors.

  “First time in New York?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “You’re going to love it. Supposed to be great weather all week.”

  “Don’t think I’ll be getting out much.”

  “Right,” he says, just as his phone rings. “Yes…I’ll pick him up too…okay, ma’am.”

  He stops and doubles back toward the terminal, signaling for me to follow him.

  “Another contestant?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Woo-hoo! Mister Jackson!”

  A man in a tailored suit clutching a rolling black leather case catches sight of him and treads our way. Because he’s on the phone, he greets the driver with a silent nod. He doesn’t greet me, though. But I suppose that a judge can’t greet a contestant, because Brook Jackson is none other than one of the Masterpiecers’ judges.

  Brook walks alongside the driver, crossing the car lanes. I follow close behind. We arrive in front of a big black car whose trunk pops open without anyone touching it. The driver sets Brook’s wheelie case in.

  “Want to put yours in the back?” he asks me.

  That’s when Brook realizes I’m there and finally hangs up. Dark brows pulled together, he slips the phone into the breast pocket of his jacket. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were with us.” He looks at the driver and then down at the sign that carries my name. “Ivy,” he reads out loud. His gaze snaps up to my face. His skin has gone a few shades lighter. He scans the parking lot. “Carl!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get the girl another ride,” Brook says.

  “On it.” The driver raises his cell phone to his ear.

  “Judges and contestants can’t be seen together! Who was in charge of this planning?” Brook is so loud that a few people stare.

  Carl covers the mouthpiece. “Mrs. Raynoir, sir. She told me to pick you up since I was already at the airport.”

  Brook shakes his head a great many times, yet his dark hair is gelled back so stiffly, it doesn’t budge.

  “Danny, buddy, I got a customer in the parking lot of terminal A,” Carl says. �
�Needs immediate pickup. You free? Great. Usual spot.”

  “This could’ve been a disaster. If the paparazzi—”

  “You better get in the car, sir,” Carl says, disconnecting. He tips his head toward two men with large cameras poised in midair. “They’re here.”

  Brook lunges into the backseat and shuts the door just as the two men barrel across the busy car lanes toward us. They stop inches away from my face. I can nearly feel the cool glass of their lenses. I hear the click, click of the shutters. It mirrors the blink, blink of my eyelids. Carl grabs my arm and yanks me away from them just as a black sedan pulls up. He opens the door and pushes me in. Before I’ve even straightened upright, the door closes and the car swerves away.

  The new driver is chuckling. “Never loaded up a customer so fast and I’m used to working with stars. Movie stars. Music stars. You name it, I’ve driven it.”

  I turn around to look at the paparazzi. Their cameras are aimed at the car.

  “They got their money shot, sweets,” he says. “Your pretty little face will be everywhere by tonight.”

  “It’s already everywhere.”

  He eyes me in the rearview mirror. “Everyone’s been waiting for Lucky Number Eight.”

  “Lucky?”

  “That’s what the media calls you. Lucky Number Eight. You know…because the person they picked before you was disqualified, and you got the spot.”

  “I suppose I did luck out,” I say as we pull up next to a tollbooth.

  He lowers his window and hands the woman in the booth a ten dollar bill. As he waits for his change, he turns to peer at me. His hair is gray at the temples and his eyebrows are so bushy, some hairs are curling. “You’re prettier in person.”

  “Thank you.”

  He spins back toward the toll officer to pocket his change. “So which contestant are you the most worried about?”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “Confident little thing, huh? And pretty. Got a boyfriend?”

  “Not yet.” I pick at a loose thread on my bag and pull on it. It bunches up the seam and finally rips off. I’m left with a small hole which I’ll have to mend…like everything else in my life.

  His phone rings. “Yello,” he shouts. “All good, chief. On our way to the Met…yup…ETA is forty-five minutes…you can count on me.”