The Sky of Endless Blue

by Ava Miles

  “Yes,” Tanner said, his mouth tipping up. “Anyway, this student said the former president always made a point of talking to him, asking about his studies, that sort of thing, but Dr. Matthau doesn’t even know he’s alive. He might even think he’s employed by a cleaning service. Today, Cynthia Newhouse was meeting with the president, after office hours, when my student was cleaning. For whatever reason, President Matthau didn’t close the door.”

  “And your student heard something,” J.T. said. “What’s she up to?” Please don’t let them be having sex, he thought but didn’t say.

  “She’s planning on giving the university a three-hundred-million-dollar gift for cancer research,” Tanner said.

  J.T. felt like someone had hit him in the head. “Cancer research?”

  “Matthau has a PhD in microbiology, and this is a pet interest of his,” Arthur said. “Plus, his mother died of breast cancer at fifty.”

  His brain started to work. The media was going to love this. “And let me guess—the gift is conditional.”

  “My student didn’t know,” Tanner said, “but I think we can assume as much.”

  “And cancer research wins over art any day,” J.T. said, feeling deflated. She’d outplayed him again.

  “It’s still a breach of the agreement the board made for the museum,” Trevor said.

  “Also, it’s illegal to leverage one gift to knock out another,” Tanner said. “If you can prove it, of course, and I don’t think we can.”

  J.T. couldn’t sit down anymore. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll look like dicks if we try and fight it. After all, cancer research is more important.”

  Arthur growled and grabbed his tumbler, taking a healthy swig of bourbon. “That’s not the tack to take. I hate to say this, J.T., but you have a decision before you. Tanner needs to get someone on the record about this gift.”

  “Not the student?” Trevor asked.

  “If he does, he could lose his work study and get kicked out of school,” he said. “Also, going up against the president of the university—”

  “Dr. Slimeball could and likely would say he lied,” J.T. said. “Leave the kid out of it. I don’t want anyone to lose their university education out of this.” Of course, he wouldn’t let that happen regardless. He’d sooner give the kid a scholarship himself.

  “I plan to show up at a few trustees’ offices tomorrow and ask for confirmation. There are a few people who might be willing to go on record.”

  “You think other people know about this?” Trevor said.

  “About the Newhouse gift, yes,” Tanner said. “If it’s conditional, they wouldn’t be open about that. Only a few people would know.”

  “She’s one smart cookie,” Arthur said. “The CIA could have used her to take down the Berlin Wall.”

  The whole thing was a lot to take in. J.T. rubbed his aching head. “So what happens if you get trustees to go on record?”

  “I need to get two people minimum or—”

  “We won’t run the story,” Arthur finished. “But Tanner will get his sources and write a damn good article because he’s a damn good journalist. The problem is where that leaves you, J.T.”

  Over a barrel holding his ankles, like old times. “Any ideas?”

  Arthur sighed. “Well, you could issue a press release saying you welcome this gift by the Newhouse family for cancer research and that you don’t see a conflict with the museum. You’re divorced and don’t hold any ill feelings against Ms. Newhouse.”

  He’d choke on those last words if he ever had to speak them aloud. Right now he couldn’t trust himself around her. He wanted to rage at her for messing with his life. For attempting to destroy his future.

  “Trev?” J.T. asked.

  His brother was staring into his bourbon and swirling the amber liquid. “I need to think this one through. I can see a gift of this size earning Sin City a seat on the Board of Trustees.”

  “So can I,” Arthur said, tapping his cane on the ground.

  Wasn’t that a kick in the teeth. “The old president had suggested giving me a board seat so I can represent the Merriam family again.” He’d been excited to follow in the family footsteps.

  “If that still goes through, you might find yourself dealing with Sin City for the foreseeable future. There would be ongoing power struggles—”

  And he’d never be free of her. Exactly like she’d promised him.

  “Want to pull the museum yet?” Arthur asked. “Because you look like you’re considering it.”

  He found he couldn’t deny it.

  “Look, we lost our biggest advertiser for the newspaper today, so I don’t have it in me to sweet-talk you.”

  Trevor leaned forward. “Is there anything we can do, Uncle?”

  “Bah, no,” Arthur said. “I’ve managed to keep the paper solid for almost sixty years. We’ll weather it. But that’s not why I brought it up. Sometimes shit happens. Do you want to hear what I think your great granddaddy would do if he were here, J.T.?” Arthur pointed to the painting where Emmits Merriam stood in all his young glory.

  “I’m all ears,” he said.

  “You find a way not to look like a dick and stand your ground.”

  J.T. stared up at that painting, taking in the flash of determination the artist had captured. His great grandfather had faced incredible challenges in his day, everything from digging his first oil well to shipping it out of Oklahoma. He wasn’t going to be the first Merriam in the history of the family to give up his dream without a whimper. He certainly wasn’t going to let Caroline down either.

  “Then let’s find a way.”

  Chapter 23

  When J.T. finally fell asleep, Caroline slipped out of bed.

  She thought about reading some more of his grandparents’ love letters—she’d stretched them out, savoring the slow unfurling of their romance—but she didn’t have the heart. The enormity of his gesture wasn’t lost on her. She’d thanked him for lending the letters to her, but the words “thank you” didn’t feel big enough. She was showing him how she felt by hanging with him, just like he’d asked, and hopefully that was enough for now.

  Still, she couldn’t sugarcoat what he’d told her tonight. They had a big problem on their hands, and the museum was more than a little in trouble. If that woman got her way, she’d soon be on the board of the university.

  Retreating to the kitchen, she boiled a kettle of water for a pot of chamomile tea, turning the problem over and over in her mind. It was about time she contributed more than moral support, outrage, and art consultancy.

  The question before her was terrible, if she were being honest. What about art could be more important or exciting than a huge new cancer research institute?

  The first thing that came to mind—the recovery of a stolen painting—like Marc Chagall’s painting “Othello and Desdemona,” which had recently been found by the FBI after being stolen thirty years ago from a couple in New York.

  That wasn’t going to work. Tanner had already mentioned that in his article, and it was old news. Besides, it wasn’t like that work was a Chagall.

  She tapped her temple. What else got people in the art world excited?

  The answer came to her at once: a lost painting by a great master. Something they didn’t have.

  “What are you doing?”

  She jumped and looked over her shoulder. J.T. was tying his full-length navy robe as he padded into the kitchen.

  “I…ah…”

  The teakettle whistled, making her jump again. J.T. walked over to the stove and turned off the burner. Pouring the water into the waiting teapot, he brought it over to where she was sitting.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted.

  “I’m sorry about before,” he said, setting the pot down and going to the cabinet for two mugs.

  “What do you mean?” But they both already knew, didn’t they? The awkwardness between them was back in spades.

  “I had the weight of the worl
d on my shoulders when I arrived, and I pretty much checked out during Jimmy Fallon. Not very romantic.”

  She went for honesty. “Truthfully, I checked out too. My mind kind of exploded when you told me about the cancer research gift. It was a shock.”

  “Yeah,” he said, sitting down and taking her hand. “Sometimes I feel like we should run off to some private island.”

  She remembered Trevor teasing him about that. Right now, it didn’t feel very funny. “Me too, but this is…our home. Your grandparents stayed tough and made a home against odds greater than these.” There, she’d said it.

  “You’ve been reading the letters,” he whispered. “I’m glad.”

  Crossing the room, she opened her arms and engulfed him in a hug. For a moment, they simply stayed that way, swaying a little from side to side.

  “Home. That’s what I thought when I was coming back here. Then I met you, and everything clicked. I felt like I had everything I wanted.”

  He was talking about big love, the kind to build a life on. “You still have me,” she said, squeezing his hand for emphasis. “Like your grandma writes in her letters, I’m learning what it means to love someone no matter what happens.”

  He was shaking his head. “That might be the most wonderful thing anyone has ever said to me. That’s what I want for us. What I’ve wanted from the beginning.”

  “Do you think about us getting married someday when all this is over? Like Noah and Anna? Sorry, they aren’t your grandparents to me when I’m reading the letters. They’re young people in love like I am even if their odds are so much greater. I mean, what tops war?”

  “Not even Cynthia tops that,” he said with a harsh laugh. “I love you. And I’d hoped we might make this permanent at some point. Living in the same house. Getting a dog or cat. Maybe kids if you’re up for it. But I’m still having PTSD or something about the marriage, and I’m not sure I want to do it again.”

  “Oh,” she said, trying not to sound deflated.

  He grabbed her by the shoulders. “It’s not like that. A relationship doesn’t need to be official to be permanent. Plenty of couples in Europe live together forever without getting married. I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t need a piece of paper to tell me how I feel about you.”

  She knew what he meant, and yet… “Marriage has always been an obvious equation to me. Two people who love each other and want to be together forever get married. But I can see your point. And given your ex, some divorce PTSD seems pretty inevitable.”

  “I don’t want you to feel bad,” he said, looking directly into her eyes. “It doesn’t mean I don’t want our relationship to grow. I’m just not so sure I want it to be sanctioned by the law.”

  His explanation was honest and it made sense. She inched her chair closer and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’ll open my mind up since it’s so important to you. I don’t need a piece of paper to tell me how I feel about you either.”

  “I’ve watched my parents support each other through thick and thin. I’ve always wanted that, and with you, I think I’ve finally found it.”

  Those words warmed her heart. “I love you.”

  He kissed her sweetly on the lips. “I love you. Now, let’s get you some tea. You’re cold. What kind is this?”

  She went for more humor. “Raspberry leaves.”

  He gave her a blank look as he reached out to pour.

  “Women’s herbs.”

  Watching him snatch his hand back, she laughed so hard tears leaked out of her eyes. Man, it felt good to laugh like that. “Oh, your face. Just kidding. It’s chamomile. To calm the nerves.”

  “Whew, good thing you’re the only one having any,” he said, swiping at his forehead playfully. “All I could hear was Trev having a go at me for drinking women’s tea. What were you thinking about when I walked in? Your brows were delightfully scrunched like they are whenever you’re trying to figure out how to work the entertainment system.”

  “Blake is insane! I’ve never seen a system so complicated.”

  He laughed as he set her tea in front of her. “You don’t like technology. Admit it.”

  “I’ve never denied it. I’m an art person,” she said, cocking an eyebrow. “I’d be happy to buy leather-bound books and handwrite everything. As for what I was thinking, I was trying to puzzle out what kind of art thingamabob would top a cancer research gift.”

  “Art thingamabob? Is that a technical term? Sounds like we need some gelato.”

  She socked him. “Yes. I’ve ruled out the recovery of a stolen painting.”

  “Right. Been there, done that.” He took a sip of her tea. “This tastes terrible. I need that gelato.” He rose and grabbed the carton from the freezer along with two spoons.

  “I love this,” she said when he served her a spoonful of gelato. “Yum. It struck me that what we need is a lost work of art by an old master. But I’ve catalogued your whole collection, and nothing quite hits that mark.”

  His spoon clattered to the table, and he grabbed her face and kissed her on the mouth. Before she could properly enjoy it, he broke away and leapt to his feet.

  “Caroline Hale! You are a genius!”

  “I am? What did I do?”

  “You gave me an idea,” he said, pacing in the kitchen. “Of course, it won’t be easy. She’ll probably slam the door in my face, but I’ve got to find a way to convince her. Of course, assuming the story is true.”

  Caroline lurched out of her chair and grabbed the front of his robe. “You’re speaking in code!”

  He set his hands on her shoulders. “You remember what I told you about my horrible aunt who has the other half of the Merriam art collection?”

  “You mean the one I’ve been trying to get you to call?” she asked with some sauciness.

  He tapped her on the nose. “Yep, that one. One of those paintings might just fit the bill.”

  “Really?” She bounced in place. “You have a lost painting! Why didn’t you tell me about this ages ago?”

  He started laughing, but she thought she detected a little bounce in his step too. “According to family lore, it’s a Rembrandt—something he painted right before ‘Night Watch.’”

  “I think I have to sit back down.” Her ears were ringing as she lowered back into the chair. “A Rembrandt.”

  “You sound like you do when we’re in bed, and I’m—”

  “J.T. Merriam, you’d better tell me everything. Right this minute.”

  He saluted her. “Yes, ma’am. The story goes that Emmits’ wife, Joanne, was the one who saw it in an old antique shop in a small town in the Netherlands. She was touring the tulips and they’d stopped for a bite to eat—”

  Was he crazy? “Forget the tulips! Cut to the painting!”

  “I’ve never see it, but I’ve heard—”

  “What do you mean you’ve never seen it?”

  “Caroline, do you want to hear this story or not?” he asked, sitting next to her.

  “Fine, I won’t interrupt.” She mimed zipping her lips.

  “We never went to the Hamptons where it was stored,” he said. “My parents preferred…other places. Anyway, from what my dad told me, Great Grandma Joanne had a keen eye for detail, and the painting first drew her eye because of the mood and subject.”

  She grabbed his robe when he paused again. “Keep going.”

  “It was a biblical scene—of Mary—done in Rembrandt’s trademark light and shadow. It’s a nude, which is a little surprising perhaps, but he also painted Bathsheba nude—”

  “Because the Bible characterizes her as an adulteress,” she finished for him. “He painted Mary, the mother of God, nude?” That was…crazy or…inspired. She didn’t know which right now.

  “Maybe that’s why it got lost,” J.T. said. “The fact that half of his signature was scraped off might also have contributed to it disappearing.”

  “A nude Mary would have been scandalous in the 1600s in the Netherlands,” she said. “J
.T., this is huge!”

  “Don’t get so excited,” he said, holding up a hand. “We have some obstacles. First, there’s my aunt. When I tell you she’s a bitch, I’m not mincing words. Second, the painting hasn’t undergone any of the new tests, so I can’t be sure it’s a Rembrandt until we test—”

  “But you just said—”

  “Given Cynthia’s accusations, I’ll need more than family stories to bolster my confidence.”

  Right. “Okay, so we need to see the painting. No use asking your aunt for it back unless there’s a strong indication it might be the real deal. You know the Dutch masters are a specialty of mine.”

  He waggled his brows. “I do, but we have some challenges. Dad says she’s purposely refused to have it authenticated because she likes the allure of it being a potential Rembrandt. Kinda like how those churches in Seville and Santo Domingo in Spain both claimed Columbus was buried there until they finally consented to a DNA testing of the bones.”

  “And Seville won,” she said. “I remember that. That story broke right before my high school graduation. I remember Andy yelling at me for dawdling over something so dumb.”

  His eyes sparkling, he leaned in to brush a kiss on her mouth. “It was like we were meant to be. It happened right before my college graduation at Stanford, and Trev pulled the newspaper out of my hands to get me out the door.”

  Golly, it was like they were two soul mates who’d found each other.

  “Anyway, this won’t be a walk in the park,” he said, rubbing her hand. “But it’s the best idea we have right now. I still can’t guarantee she’ll see me.”

  “You have to try!” she said. “But we’ll need to move fast if Tanner’s trying to confirm Cynthia’s gift for a news story.”

  The smile he gave her reminded her of the J.T. of old, the one who’d walked into the gallery and bought a painting for thousands of dollars and talked her into going to Rome on a whim.

  “Good thing I specialize in fast,” he said, his lips twitching as he dug into the carton and came up with a huge spoonful of gelato.

  Her mind flashed to the dreams he’d shared while they ate gelato on Palatine Hill in Rome. Then, like now, he’d seemed larger than life.