The Sky of Endless Blue

by Ava Miles

  J.T. felt something shift in his heart. Most of his life he’d been told how horrible this woman was, and now he was seeing the truth. She’d been trapped in a marriage she hadn’t thought she could leave. Her family had stood against her husband, and she’d felt included in their disdain. Yeah, he could understand that.

  “I don’t tell you this so you’ll pity me,” she said, pointing at him. “I made my own choices, but the older I get, the more it weighs on me. It was a grace I couldn’t have children with that man, but the silence in this house is growing. I don’t like it.”

  Hadn’t he noticed it?

  Caroline reached for the woman’s hand, and wonder of wonders, the regal woman took it. He watched them share a moment before Aunt Clara released her hand.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to show up, J.T.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “After Arthur called…”

  He’d have to thank the old man—after he swatted him for not saying a word about the call.

  “I may be late, but I’m no less earnest for it,” he said, putting his hand over his heart.

  “Oh, you’re full of it, aren’t you?” Her blue eyes softened. “You’re more charming than your father.”

  His lips twitched. “I suppose so. Dad still believes in knocking heads together when its called for. My twin brother favors him more.”

  “Yes, Trevor,” she said. “He handles the oil and gas negotiations and any sticky items that arise. Of course, I would have thought Connor and Flynn were cut from the same cloth too, given their positions in the company.”

  “For someone who’s stayed out of family dealings for decades, you’re well informed,” he said, taking a bite of one of the triangle sandwiches to cover his surprise.

  “Not much left to do but read these days,” she said. “I loathe television.”

  “It’s the agent of the devil, haven’t you heard?” J.T. said.

  She laughed. She actually laughed. Then she coughed, as if the sound was foreign to her throat. “And how is Arthur Hale really these days? Other than being an interfering bastard?”

  He gestured for Caroline to take that volley. “He’s up to his old tricks,” she said. “Working non-stop. Fighting for justice. You know…”

  The touch of a smile appeared on Clara’s face. “I had a crush on him once, you know. Of course, he pretended not to see it, moron that he is.”

  “No…” J.T. leaned forward. Hadn’t she said Arthur had stopped talking to her after her wedding? What was the story there?

  “Yes,” she said in the same dramatic tone. “I wasn’t always seventy-six, boy, but he thought I was a brat, and then he got married in Dare Valley…and I got married too, of course. Arthur tried to mediate a truce between your father and Reinhold, you know, but neither man was interested. I was always grateful for that even though nothing came of it. His heart is in the right place.” Clara leaned forward, smiling conspiratorially. “Don’t tell him that last part. His head is big enough as it is, I imagine.”

  “Of course,” Caroline said.

  “Mum’s the word,” J.T. said. “So can we circle back to the Rembrandt?”

  She adjusted her napkin in her lap. “As you like.”

  Oh, she was playing hard to get, but he knew she was on board. “I have a Rembrandt expert and a forensic consultant on call to start the authentication process.”

  This time she scratched her lip, and oh, if that secret smile didn’t appear. “The painting has already been authenticated, Julian.”

  He jumped to his feet, and so did Caroline.

  “What?” they said in tandem.

  “I never touched the painting while Reinhold was alive. Even a man not interested in art would have had his heart race over a lost Rembrandt.”

  J.T. felt his own heart beating hard in his chest. “And?”

  “I brought it out of storage the day after he died, and had it authenticated confidentially,” she said, fiddling with her diamond bracelet, pleased with herself, no doubt.

  The world slowed down. “Is it real?”

  She stroked those sparkling diamonds encircling her wrist. “Yes, it most certainly is.”

  Chapter 25

  J.T. was the only man on earth who could talk his seventy-six-year-old estranged aunt into hopping on a plane with him the day they met.

  Perhaps Caroline should drop the estranged part. Aunt Clara was on her second gin and tonic, artfully crafted by her butler, Hargreaves, whom she’d insisted on bringing to Dare Valley. Still decked out in his butler’s uniform, he had yet to crack a smile. Caroline had struggled not to laugh at the stares people had given them at the airport. What a picture the four of them must have made.

  “Your father isn’t going to like our little reunion,” Clara was telling J.T. as she clinked her ice cubes around in her glass.

  “Honestly, I’m not too concerned about it,” J.T. said, touching their glasses together again.

  “He didn’t approve of your choice, right?” She patted his hand, her diamond bracelet winking in the sunlight streaming in through the plane’s oval window. “It was the same way with me. I disappointed him, you see. It’s hard to overcome that, but at least you and I understand each other. Let’s have another drink.”

  Another? Caroline had stopped at one. After her incident at Hairy’s Bar, she was on a self-imposed one-drink limit.

  “You must have Trevor’s gift,” J.T. said as Hargreaves stepped over to the tiny bar area on the plane. “He can drink like a fish too.”

  “My dear boy,” she said, “since I’m older, he has my gift.”

  “Touché, Aunt,” J.T. said, his lips twitching.

  “‘Aunt,’” she drew out. “Now that’s something I never expected to hear again. I’m glad you finally got the balls to come and visit me.”

  “Me too, Aunt Clara,” he said, grabbing her hand affectionately. “Well, Caroline, how’s it going over there? Is the authentication report a must-read?”

  As the future curator of the museum, she was reviewing the report on the lost Rembrandt.

  “It’s thorough,” she said.

  “Of course it is!” Clara said. “Do I look dense? I might be old, but I’m not stupid. Good God, do you know how much trouble a person could get into if they told the world they had a lost Rembrandt and it turned out they really didn’t? I might have been egged on the street on my way to Central Park.”

  “I would have protected you, madam,” Hargreaves said in his dry British accent.

  “Did I mention Hargreaves is my bodyguard too?” she asked.

  “I’m proficient in martial arts,” Hargreaves told them.

  She found the urge to laugh. Somehow the image of him making a karate chop in his butler’s uniform tickled her. “I can’t fault the people Clara brought in to authenticate the piece. I mean, her lawyers even tracked down the store owner in the remote Dutch town where Joanne Merriam bought it and learned it had been picked up in an estate sale.”

  Clara cackled. “Can you imagine? The poor man died without any heirs and didn’t tell anyone about the painting, so it was sold alongside his china and silver. Thank God, we tracked down information in the family journals. I love the bit about how the painting was so scandalous Rembrandt denied he’d painted it.”

  “I wonder what possessed him to paint the Mother of God nude,” J.T. said, taking his third gin and tonic from Hargreaves. He shrugged and then lifted his drink. “Whatever the reason, to the Rembrandt. I can’t wait to see it.”

  “You want to see it?” Clara asked, clinking her glass with his.

  Caroline lowered the report. When J.T. had asked about the collection, Clara had told them most of it was in a secure storage facility. They’d agreed to leave the paintings there for now. It wasn’t like the museum was open for business. Besides, they would need to arrange for packing and shipping and the like. Plus, she’d wanted to read the report…

  “What do you mean, ‘see it’?” Caroline asked.

  “I
brought it with us, of course,” Clara said, taking another healthy swallow of her drink.

  J.T. gripped the edge of the small table between them, his knuckles white, and Caroline felt her own hands ball into fists.

  “Don’t tease me, Aunt,” J.T. said.

  “Boy, I haven’t had this much fun in years. Do you really want to see it?”

  “Yes!” they both shouted.

  She wiggled in her chair. “Who’s the belle of the ball now? Hargreaves, bring me the painting.”

  J.T.’s face went black with shock. “I can’t believe you really brought it.”

  “It’s in my carry-on.”

  “Your carry-on!” My God, did the woman not know priceless paintings needed to be handled with care?

  “Oh, don’t worry, my dear,” she said, chuckling. “It’s well protected.”

  “But anyone might have stolen it,” Caroline said.

  “Who? It’s not like anyone knew I had it on me. Not even you knew until now.”

  Oh, she was having fun with them. At another time, Caroline would have teased back, but her stomach was jumping. This was a lost Rembrandt. This was a miracle. Their miracle.

  Hargreaves brought forward a black carry-on and opened it on the adjoining sofa. Sure enough, the painting he drew out was packed to Caroline’s specifications.

  “I told you I wasn’t stupid,” Clara said.

  Caroline barely heard her. She’d left her seat to get a better view, and it didn’t surprise her one bit when J.T. did the same.

  “You know, madam, I’ll just have to re-pack it,” Hargreaves said in a tired voice.

  “Oh, what else do you have to do?” Clara said flippantly. “It’s not like it’s a hardship. Come on, man. Open it up.”

  “I am, madam,” he said.

  The front packaging came off, and the painting was revealed. “Ohhhhh! It’s—”

  “Beautiful,” J.T. said, edging closer and putting a hand around her back to draw her nearer. “I know it might be scandalous, but she’s stunning.”

  Indeed she was, Caroline thought. Mary was lying on her side on a white mat in front of an open window. Her hand was resting on her rounded belly and—

  “Oh my God! I know why he painted her like this. She’s—”

  “Pregnant!” J.T. exclaimed.

  “Didn’t you know?” Clara said.

  J.T. looked over his shoulder at her. “No! I had no idea. The signature is slightly scratched off like I was told.”

  “I imagine Rembrandt had enough pride in his work that he couldn’t bring himself to erase his signature completely,” Caroline said. “How horrible that something this beautiful could be considered scandalous.”

  Of course, people across the ages had strong opinions about how biblical characters were represented in art. People would still have strong opinions about the piece—that was what made it so priceless.

  “She’s happy,” J.T. said, tracing the lines of Mary’s face inches above the actual painting.

  “She’s having the Son of God, if you subscribe to The Bible and Christian beliefs,” Clara said. “I’d like to think she’s just happy because she’s having a baby. I always imagined it would be a wondrous thing. Minus the diapers and adolescence.”

  “This is going to be huge,” Caroline said, feeling almost in a trance. “We need to—”

  “Go out with this fast,” J.T. said. “I can’t be sure when Cynthia or the university will announce her gift for cancer research.”

  “Who cares? We need to do this right, J.T. Have a proper unveiling. Invite the right people. Make sure the press is there in force.”

  “That stuff can catch up,” J.T. said, finally peeling his eyes away from the painting. “We need to go out with this tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? I won’t have everything in place in time. I need to prepare a one-pager for the press on the painting, plus give them a snapshot of the authentication process. Otherwise, this will come off as a stunt.”

  He squared his shoulders like he was preparing to argue with her, and she lifted her chin. He was being reckless, and they couldn’t afford any more dust-ups. They couldn’t afford for their find to be treated as a fake.

  Glass clinked, and they both looked over to Clara, who was tapping her spoon against her drink. “Sit down. Both of you. We’ll talk about this tomorrow. Caroline, finish reading the report. J.T., drink your gin like a good boy.”

  His gaze didn’t waver. Neither did hers. When he turned away from her, she knew she’d won this round, but at a steep price. The feeling of joint discovery, of being a team, had faded. She was right, dammit, but that didn’t make her feel any better about the hurt look in his eyes.

  Caroline looked back at the Rembrandt. The painter’s use of light to capture the details of the woman’s body was masterful. It had to be revealed to the public and the greater art community with the greatest forethought and preparation. The press would go mad for the one-of-a-kind finding, enough so to wash away the gossip about J.T. Enough so to make her reputation as a curator.

  And he wanted to throw all that away with a quick reveal.

  Oh, they were so going to have it out.

  Chapter 26

  J.T. knew Caroline was stewing when they landed, and frankly, so was he.

  She didn’t understand Cynthia, and so she didn’t understand his urgency. Besides, her insistence on doing things “right” implied she thought he was wrong, didn’t it?

  After they landed. Aunt Clara insisted they use the limo she’d rented to drive to Dare Valley.

  “When did you have time to rent a limo?” he asked.

  “What do you think Hargreaves was doing in between making us drinks?”

  “But I have a car here,” he protested.

  “Your Ferrari wouldn’t hold four people comfortably,” Caroline said like he was a moron. “Why don’t you drive it back? I’ll go with Clara and Hargreaves.”

  She was avoiding him now? He didn’t like that. He thought about getting someone else to drive his car back, but it would take too long. Maybe it would give them a chance to cool off.

  “Fine.”

  “Hargreaves can go along with you if you’d like company,” Aunt Clara said, her brow arched.

  He couldn’t tell if she was messing with him or trying to reassure him. It had to be obvious to her that he and Caroline were having a tiff.

  “I’d be happy to navigate for you, sir,” Hargreaves said.

  Like he needed that old windbag to help him find Dare Valley. “I know the way.”

  “Very good, sir,” he replied.

  He caught Caroline fighting laughter. “Great. I guess I’ll see you in Dare Valley then.”

  On the ride back to Denver, he kept an eye on the limousine, but at some point he lost sight of it. How in the hell could anyone lose sight of a car like that? He looked for it, but he didn’t see it again. Since he was driving, he used his Bluetooth to call Caroline. She didn’t pick up.

  Where in the world were they?

  Aunt Clara was like a horse released from the barn in spring after a long winter. For all he knew, she might have suggested they stop at a casino or day spa. Although she’d looked completely sober, she’d been on her fourth gin and tonic. God, he couldn’t wait to see her and Trevor drink together.

  Speaking of whom.

  He called Trevor next. “Did you get my text?” he asked when his brother answered.

  “You mean the one that said, ‘Got the lost Rembrandt and the whole collection. Coming home’?”

  Why was everyone giving him a hard time? Wasn’t this exactly what they needed? “Aunt Clara is on her way to Dare Valley with me.” He paused, then amended the word to “us.”

  “You’re kidding,” Trev said. “The old battle-axe? Dad won’t be happy.”

  “Seems it takes two to tango, and Dad played his part. You’ll like her. She could out-drink you.”

  “In your dreams. I got news too. Get your ass back here fast.”
/>   “Can’t you just tell me now?” he asked. “I’m twiddling my thumbs, driving back to Dare Valley.”

  “I hate phone calls,” he said. “Punch it.”

  “What if I get a speeding ticket?”

  “We’ll pay it. Get a move on.”

  His brother hung up before he could tell him that he’d meant Aunt Clara was coming now. Oh well. He punched the gas.

  The sun was setting when he entered Sardine Canyon. The Dare Valley sign welcomed him back, and it struck him anew that he did feel welcome here. Always had. Suddenly, he was looking forward to being home.

  When he arrived at his house, the limo wasn’t in sight. “Shit.”

  Tromping up to the front door, he let himself in. Trev was on his laptop in front of the roaring fireplace.

  “I take it the others haven’t shown up yet?” he asked, shrugging out of his coat.

  “They didn’t come with you? Right, the Ferrari. Maybe they’re taking their time. Look, we have a problem. I’m still not sure what it means yet, but my gut is telling me Cynthia is behind it.”

  Some of his excitement about the painting faded. Trev’s gut was never wrong. “What is it?”

  “Cynthia moved all of her money and a significant portion of Newhouse senior’s over to a new bank today.”

  He tilted his head to the side. “What bank is it?”

  “Carlyle’s,” Trevor said.

  He knew it by name, of course, but it didn’t ring any bells for him otherwise. “Do we have any dealings with this bank?”

  “No,” Trev said. “I checked. But it’s a big move.”

  Yeah, changing banks with that much cash would be a total pain in the ass. “What about the safe deposit boxes?” he asked Trev.

  The Newhouses had several of them, full of priceless jewels and important papers. But what could this have to do with him?

  Trev pursed his lips. “I hadn’t thought of that. Good point. I’m wracking my brain here, but I can’t make sense of it. My sources don’t have any ideas either.”