And so he assumes I’ll just . . . call the staff.
When I practically am one.
“Oh, uh, yeah. Henrietta? Do you still want to go to the movie? I can help you downstairs . . .”
She waves her hand. “I’ve had enough excitement now. And I just remembered that The Price Is Right started,” she says, frowning. “I missed the first half.”
“I set it to record for you, remember? I’ll get it going. You haven’t missed a thing, promise.”
Malik pushes the half-open door all the way in, and we lead her inside. My shoes clack on the marble entry, echoing off the fourteen-foot ceilings. We pass the little parlor off the entry, stepping into the wide-open living room. I know I’m not technically related to Henrietta, but her exquisite taste in furniture makes me feel like I could be. She likes stuff from the Victorian period. Her sofa is rosewood and leather, with intricately carved armrests and bolster cushions. I will literally drool if I stare at it too long.
I deposit her on one end of the couch, then click on her program and give her a brief hug. Then I’m back out in the hall, standing next to Malik, acutely aware of the fact that I’m standing next to one of the hottest, richest guys in the country.
“Uh, thanks for your help,” I say.
“No problem. She seems sweet,” he says.
“Um, yeah, she’s awesome.”
I should tell him that I have to go get a vacuum to clean up the carpet and that Henrietta is not my relative and that he’s way too out of my league to be looking at me with that smile.
Also, I definitely should not smile back.
Too late.
“Come with me to visit with my grandpa,” he says. “I think he’s sick of me and he’d probably rather look at a pretty girl anyway.”
Pretty? He thinks I’m pretty? I forget everything I wanted to tell him.
“Unless you’re busy,” he says after I don’t reply.
“Oh. Uh, no. I mean, if you’re sure it’s okay . . .”
“Of course,” he says, reaching for my hand. “Come on.”
Oh god, oh god, oh god, I’m holding hands with Malik Buchannan. The same hand that has held Emma Watson’s. I try my best to act casual, like the way he’s tugging on my fingers is just . . . a friendly thing, meaningless. As if I’ve had a million smart, older, sophisticated boyfriends like him.
I think my hands are getting damp again though. Maybe this is a real problem and they make over-the-counter, anti-palm dampness pills I should look into.
I really should come clean, but the urge to meet Charles Buchannan, a name synonymous with Bill Gates and Steve Jobs and Richard Branson, is overwhelming . . . almost as heady as the feel of Malik’s fingers intertwined with my own.
Henrietta’s room is at one end of the hall, but Charles’s place is at the center of the V, and there aren’t any doors nearby. I guess that’s because of the size of his unit, the way it sprawls in both directions.
Malik pulls me down the hall, and we pause at the door. It looks like all the others on this floor—dark-stained wood with six recessed panels—except that it has a different knocker.
“Wait, is that new?” I ask, narrowing my eyes and trying to make out the shapes and contours of the brass.
“Yeah. It’s our family crest.”
Their family crest.
Because of course his family would have a crest.
He grabs the knob, twisting it, then steps back and motions me into the apartment.
I’ve never been in this unit, but it takes only a step to know it’s the best in the building, even fancier and much larger than Henrietta’s. The marble floor in the foyer is the deepest, most vibrant green I’ve ever seen. Beside us, a stone fountain—four feet across, at least—trickles water from a lion’s head. Ahead, Grecian columns—similar to the enormous ones in the dining room—hold up an archway that must be twenty feet tall.
And as I follow Malik into the living room, my gaze goes up, up, up. The windows soar to the high ceiling, letting in a swath of light. And, thanks to being at the center of the building, they angle toward the point, almost like the bow of a ship, and I can finally see the lake in both directions. I can see the I-90 floating bridge spanning Lake Washington and, in the distance, the skyscrapers of Seattle.
“Wow,” I say, unable to take my eyes off the windows. Henrietta has a great view, but the extra ninety degrees here really show why this suite rents for top dollar and is considered the best in the building. “This is—”
“Who are you?” someone barks.
I whirl around, realizing I’d been so distracted by the view that I walked right past the apartment’s occupant.
Charles Buchannan is sitting at one end of an enormous button-back Chesterfield leather sofa, glaring at me so hard, his eyes have become two narrow slits. My mouth goes dry. I shouldn’t be here. I should be—
“Grandpa, this is Lucy. Her . . .” Malik pauses and looks at me. “Your grandma?”
“Uh, what?” I ask, except I think it comes out more like muffled nonsense because I can barely breathe and there’s definitely a lump in my throat. Why did I think this was a good idea? Charles Buchannan looks really, epically mad at me for setting foot in here.
“Henrietta. Is she your Grandma? Aunt?”
“Oh.” Breathe, Holly. “Yes.”
“Which one?”
I swallow, glancing over at Mr. Buchannan. I want to say neither, explain who I really am, but I can’t just blurt it out now. Mr. Buchannan looks like he wants to shoot daggers at me with his eyes.
I’ll explain the whole thing to Malik later. If there even is a later. “Um, Grandma.”
Malik turns back to Mr. Buchannan. “Her grandma lives two doors down.”
“So?” he snarls, crossing his arms. If body language were words, his would be get out of my apartment. “What’s she doing here?”
“She’s my friend,” Malik says simply. His words make the blush creep back in, and I look away, my eyes trailing over the furniture in the room. He has exquisite taste—a Tiffany lamp sits on a Chippendale sideboard, a bronze sculpture perches on a pedestal near the window, and a pair of French Renaissance, glass-front bookcases sits opposite the couch, stuffed full of leather-bound books.
And then my gaze falls on a painting hanging high over the books. “The Clothed Maja,” I say, my awe obvious. The painting had hung in the Prado Museum for over a century, until they finally sold it just a few years ago. I step closer to it, blinking as if it’ll disappear. Or maybe turn into a regular print. A reproduction.
If Malik is a lifeboat on the Titanic, this painting is something better. It’s so amazing, I’d go down with the ship just to stay close to it.
The room falls silent, and I return my eyes to Mr. Buchannan, who’s staring at me with an unreadable expression, his eyes dark, his lips pursed.
“I mean, sorry, I don’t mean to—”
“It is,” he says, sitting back in his chair, the tightness in his crossed arms loosening up, like I’ve dented his armor. “Picked it up at the Prado auction two years ago.”
“You were the phone bidder,” I say, my eyes widening. I’d read all about it on one of my favorite design blogs—the phone bidder’s identity had been debated and discussed, become the thing of legends overnight.
His lips twitch and I swear he’s almost smiling, which is impossible. I’ve seen his face in the papers, on the evening news, and he never smiles. His face could be chiseled into Mt. Rushmore or put on a penny or something, it’s so permanently stoic.
I look up at the painting again, studying the light and dark, the curves of the woman’s body on canvas. “Its partner is here in Seattle, you know.”
He says nothing. I flick a glance over at him and he’s frozen. I don’t know if he’s stunned or confused. “The Nude Maja?” I add.
Unlike Mr. Buchannan’s painting, The Nude Maja had been sold privately, moments before the auction. It was never explained why, and everyone hoped the same
person had purchased both pieces, at least at first. They belonged together, after all. Separating them was tragic.
“I know what The Nude Maja is,” he snaps.
Okay, then. I glance back up at the painting on the wall, racking my brains to bring up everything I know about the artwork. The two paintings, by a Spanish painter named Francisco Goya, are a matched pair. They’re over two hundred years old and feature the same model in the same pose—but in one she’s clothed, and in the other, she’s nude.
“But it’s not in Seattle,” he says. “I would have heard about it.”
“I mean, maybe I’m wrong,” I say, glancing over at Malik, waiting for him to bail me out.
Instead, he’s got his head tipped to the side and is staring at his grandfather like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle, like this conversation has surprised him. Is it weird that I’m talking to his grandfather? Or weird that he’s talking to me?
I clear my throat. “I, uh, saw it on this design blog I follow, in the comments. Someone claimed it’s going to be the showpiece in some auction next month.”
“Show me.”
“Show you the painting?” I dart another glance over at Malik. He crosses his arms and shrugs. “Um, it’s part of an estate—”
“The blog, girl!” he says, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Show me the blog.”
“Oh! Uh . . .” I swallow, suddenly feeling entirely in over my head. I should have just kept my mouth shut. Or never walked into this apartment. My mom is going to totally flip when she realizes I’ve been in here, getting Mr. Buchannan all riled up. “I mean, I don’t have my laptop with me.”
“You can use his iPad,” Malik says, finally chiming in. He strides into an adjacent room, leaving me alone with his grandfather for an awkward, painfully silent moment, before returning with the tablet.
“Um, okay. Yeah, sure.”
I pop open the browser and Google the name of the blog. At first I can’t find the mention of the The Nude Maja in the last few posts, and my heart starts a steady climb up my throat, picturing the snarly face of Mr. Buchannan and the moment he decides I’m a total idiot.
But then it’s there, buried four posts down, in the comments trail.
“Here,” I say, walking to him with the iPad held out. “Some guy named Roger Cartwell passed away—”
“Cartwell!” he exclaims. “Cartwell had it the whole time?”
I swallow. “Um, well, I guess it was in his collection. Mozak and Klein are scheduled to handle the auction next month, but they haven’t put out any press.”
“We’re going there,” he says, abruptly standing. “You two can take me.”
I’m so stunned, I hardly move, just grip the iPad and stare at him, slack-jawed. When he steps past me, leaning on a cane and muttering something about his coat, I finally snap my mouth shut.
Malik meets my gaze, his eyes flared wide in surprise, before grabbing his grandfather’s jacket off a nearby wingback chair.
“Uh,” I say, feeling as if I’m in the eye of a storm and everything is spinning out of control. “I mean, it’s not like I know where he lives.”
“I do,” Mr. Buchannan says, slipping his arms into the jacket when Malik holds it out. “Went to a fundraiser at his house two years ago. Should have known that man would have The Nude Maja and not tell me about it.” He limps his way to the foyer. “He knew I had its match. It would probably kill him to see it in my hands.”
He pauses at the door, flashing the first real, toothy smile I’ve ever seen on his face. “Lucky for me, he’s already dead!”
And then he disappears out the door. I’m about to follow him into the hall when Malik stops me, a hand on my arm.
A wide grin envelops his face. “He hasn’t left home voluntarily in months.”
“Oh?” I say, barely able to speak. My mouth is dry. I need water. I need . . . the Bering freaking Sea.
“Yeah. I’m so happy, I could kiss you.”
And then he spins on his heel and hustles after Mr. Buchannan.
I scramble to follow, Malik’s words ringing in my ears.
CHAPTER FOUR
Malik drives like a professional race-car driver. I’m glad I can’t actually see the speedometer because I’m a little worried about how fast we’re going. Occasionally, he glances up at me in the rearview mirror, and I catch a glimpse of one deep brown eye and that perfectly styled eyebrow, and it reminds me just how acutely out of place I am, sitting in the backseat of his luxury car, in my flowy pink cotton shirt I sewed out of some discarded drapes and blue jeans I picked up at Sears.
Sears. I shop at Sears. I bet if I told Malik that, he’d kick me out of the car for fear the cheap fabric could scuff his pricy leather seats.
“Thank god we’re finally out of that place,” Mr. Buchannan grumbles beneath his breath.
Malik darts a glance at his grandfather, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am—that apparently Mr. Buchannan never wants to go anywhere in the first place. “If you wanted to get out and do something—”
“I don’t want to go anywhere, I just need to get away from that silly manager.”
“Mrs. Weaver? She seemed—”
“No. The other one. Miranda something-or-other.”
I nearly gulp aloud, shrinking into my seat. People always say my mother and I look alike.
“Oh, come on, she’s not that bad,” Malik offers. “She seemed pretty nice when I met her yesterday.”
“She’s constantly trying to get me into all those stupid activities! It’s not even her job, you know. I saw her business card. She’s a leasing specialist. She leased me the place; what business is it of hers if I partake of those stupid activities?” He hits the door with his fist. “It’s not as if I’m going to sit around playing bingo! Does she even know who I am? What I’ve accomplished? Why would I play bingo?”
The air is suddenly too hot and stuffy, and I crack the window, but it doesn’t help; it just seems to draw attention to the fact that I’m back here.
“Mr. Buchannan,” I say, my voice coming out unsure and wobbly. “Uh, I’m sure she’s just trying to be helpful. My, um, grandma really likes her. She’s really a wonderful person. Sometimes she sits in the café with my grandma and they read the Sunday paper together.”
Malik meets my eyes, and our gazes lock. I get the feeling he’s trying to say thank you. “Yeah, just let her do her job, Grandpa.”
Just don’t make her lose her job, Gramps. She needs it. I need it.
“She needs to leave me alone, is what she needs to do.” Before the conversation can go further, Mr. Buchannan points to an upcoming road, and Malik slows just enough that the tires don’t squeal as we round the corner. I keep waiting for his grandpa to tell him to slow down, but he seems oblivious of the speed, or maybe he’s just that eager to see the art.
“This one on the right,” he says, pointing to a house hidden behind a tall brick wall. “Pull up to the gatehouse.”
Malik downshifts, slowing to a stop next to the little building near the front gates. A security guard steps out, waving the car down.
Of course these people hang out at homes with gatehouses and security guards. This is normal to them. They probably have a vault and they swim in their gold coins every day and they’ve got to keep the riffraff out somehow, so they install guards and gatehouses and those laser security systems with ninety-seven beams only a gymnast or Charlize Theron could avoid.
Malik rolls his window down, and his grandpa leans across the center console.
“Can I help you?” the guard asks.
“We’re here for The Nude Maja.”
He narrows his eyes. “I don’t know what that is, Mr. . . .?”
“Buchannan. Charles Buchannan. And it’s a painting.”
Surprise flashes across the guard’s face as it sinks in just who is sitting at his gate. “Mr. Buchannan,” he says, his tone now sweet and accommodating. “Pleased to meet you. But I’m sorry, sir, the auc
tion isn’t until next month.”
“I don’t want to wait. Surely you can allow me to speak with someone.”
He pauses, studying Mr. Buchannan and then glancing back at the house again. “Just give me a moment.”
He retreats to his desk, and we watch in silence as he picks up a phone. Two minutes later a buzz rings out and the gate swings open.
“Go ahead on up to the house. Ms. Cartwell is in. She’ll talk to you.”
“Thanks,” Malik says before taking off, the tires chirping. The engine purrs as we cruise up the circular drive, then park next to a big copper sculpture. It sort of resembles a bird, except it’s basically the size of a dinosaur.
When Mr. Buchannan slams his door, I realize I’m just sitting in the backseat, gawking, and Malik is waiting for me to slide out from behind his seat.
I climb out, staring in awe at the house before me. It’s shockingly modern, all ninety-degree angles and walls of glass, giant steel beams holding it all together. Like a series of boxes stacked on top of one another, the upper floor sort of cantilevers over the bottom one. One side of the house is completely see-through—you can even see the lake on the other side.
I try not to show my astonishment, since I know Malik probably lives in a house like this—or even swankier—but it’s hard not to.
As I finally stop gawking, the front door of the house swings open and a woman in her fifties, dressed smartly in a navy wrap dress and heels, steps out into the sunshine. She’s so poised and glamorous that she looks like she could be the first lady or something.
“I think that’s Cartwell’s daughter,” Malik whispers, leaning over so close, his breath is hot on my ear.
Panic shoots through me. Malik may not notice my clothes, but surely this fashionable lady is going to ask who the heck I am and why I shop at Goodwill.
I shouldn’t have come with them. I should’ve faked a sudden headache.
“Mr. Buchannan, what a surprise,” she says, smiling as she shakes his hand. “We met years ago, at the Fifth Avenue Theater. What brings you to the house?”
“I want The Nude Maja,” he says, but it comes out more like a bark. This man is nothing if not to the point. I can picture him now in his boardroom, commanding a roomful of people in thousand-dollar suits.
Everything but the Truth Page 4