Everything but the Truth

by Mandy Hubbard

  She blinks. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the auction,” she says. “It’s our centerpiece.”

  “I’ll give you four million,” he says. “Probably more than it’ll fetch. It’s more than I paid for The Clothed Maja at the Prado sale.”

  She pauses, and I think I choke on my spit.

  FOUR MILLION DOLLARS? Just like that?

  She recovers, flashing him an empty smile. “I’m sorry, but without the painting, we may get fewer attendees. I need it to headline the sale. Mozak and Klein said—”

  “Five,” he says.

  She snaps her mouth shut, studying him. Sizing him up.

  Seconds tick by, and it starts to feel like a showdown at the OK Corral. “Let me call Mozak and Klein and ask . . .”

  “Can we see it?” Malik asks, stepping forward. “The painting, that is. I’d like to know what all the fuss is about.”

  She turns, as if just noticing the two of us. Her eyes dart between me and Malik, but if she’s surprised by my presence, or my attire, she doesn’t show it. “Why not? Come on in, and I’ll call Mozak and Klein while you take a look at the collection. It’ll just take a moment.”

  We follow her up the steps and into the home. We find ourselves in a giant open great room, big enough to play basketball or rugby or something in. What I didn’t see from outside, thanks to the glare of the afternoon sun, is that it’s filled with folding tables covered with sculptures and lamps and jewelry boxes. As I watch Ms. Cartwell pick up her cell phone off a table and head out of the room, I notice that, along one wall, two dozen easels prop up a variety of colorful paintings.

  I scan the room, looking for the Goya, but I make it just three easels down before I stop.

  “A Volpi,” I say, pointing to the third painting. I’m not even a little bit embarrassed by the breathiness of my voice. A Volpi calls for shock and awe. “It’s beautiful.”

  I step farther into the room, my eyes wandering over the most exquisite collection I’ve ever seen.

  Mr. Buchannan walks right past me, to the last easel. To the Goya. He freezes there, staring, his body blocking the painting from my view. Even though I want to see it, it feels oddly . . . intimate. Private. Like he’s spent his lifetime in search of this one painting, and he can’t believe he’s so close to it.

  I turn away, studying the next painting. “And a Pollock,” I say. “I can’t believe one person has all this.”

  Malik stops in front of the Pollack, studying the canvas. “How do you know this stuff?”

  I smile at him. “When I was a baby, my grandma gave my mom an antique rocking chair. It’d been in the family a long time and it was really pretty, with carvings on the armrests and seatback.” I pause, realizing he’s going to assume that the grandmother I’m referring to is Henrietta, not my mother’s mom, who passed away ten years ago. I guess it doesn’t matter. “I loved it as a little kid just because it had a seat cushion with teddy bears on it. Something she’d sewed herself. My mom put it in my room and no matter how many times we moved, the chair always came with us. It kind of became this one stable thing in my life.”

  “You moved a lot growing up?”

  My breath hitches in my throat as I realize how much truth I’ve shared with him. Wealthy people don’t schlep from one place to another, not like we did. “Um, yeah, my mom was, you know, climbing the career ladder.”

  Understatement of the year.

  “By the time I was ten or twelve, it was like I started to recognize how when things are made well, they last. And I started seeing that in other things, and becoming more fascinated. I guess it was all downhill from there. To me, antiques . . . fine art . . . they’re a symbol of something, you know? Permanence, I guess. Plus, I like the way everything used to be built by hand. I like to picture the artist at his canvas or the furniture maker sculpting the trim on a table leg, turning it by hand, sanding it hour after hour.”

  I don’t tell him how part of me loves these things because they have stood the test of time, and all I ever had growing up was the cheapest of everything, stuff that broke constantly.

  There’s a click-click-clack as Ms. Cartwell returns, her cell dangling from her fingers. Malik and I turn around, and I know instantly by the thin line of her lips that it’s not good news. “I’m sorry, Mr. Buchannan. They were clear that we need Goya’s painting to headline the sale. Without it, we’ll attract a fraction of the buyers. Even if they pay less for the Goya than you’ve offered, it’s worth it to have it in the sale.”

  “How much?” Mr. Buchannan says.

  She crosses her arms. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to wait for the auction to buy the painting.”

  “Not the Goya, woman,” he says, crossing his own arms. As if it’s a contest or something. “For all of it.”

  I can’t help but take a step back, shocked, and I bump into Malik. He grips my elbows, keeping me from knocking both of us to the ground.

  She raises a brow. “You want to buy everything in this room?”

  “Yes.”

  She darts a glance over at Malik and me, like we’re going to rein him in or something. Obviously, she doesn’t know I’m a total stranger. “Mozak and Klein estimated twelve million for the collection,” she says.

  “Done. Cancel the sale.”

  She’s stunned, simply staring at Mr. Buchannan as if he’s grown a second head.

  He just spent twelve million dollars.

  Twelve.

  Million.

  Dollars.

  He walks to the table and picks up a clipboard that someone’s left behind, quickly scribbling something down before handing it to her. “Have it all shipped to this address. I’d like it within a week. My banker’s phone number is at the bottom. I’ll authorize the wire transfer. Just give him your information.”

  He pauses. “And I’m taking The Nude Maja with me. Malik?”

  Malik nods, seemingly unfazed by his grandfather’s shopping spree. He walks to the painting and stops just shy of it. “Do you have some kind of packing crate?”

  “It’s going straight up on my wall,” Mr. Buchannan says. “Just don’t drive quite like you did on the way here and it’ll survive a trip in the backseat with Lucy.”

  Moments later, we’re walking back to the car. It could just be me, but I swear Mr. Buchannan has serious bounce in his step. I also think he’s humming beneath his breath, but it’s too faint to know for sure. It’s like he’s not even the same person.

  Malik slides the painting into the backseat next to me and then climbs into the front seat and we’re off.

  I’m sitting in the backseat of a silver sports car, next to a two-hundred-year-old Spanish painting, with one of the richest men on earth in the passenger seat and the hottest boy I’ve ever met behind the wheel.

  And they both think my name is Lucy.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Twenty minutes later, Malik hands his keys off to a valet at Sunrise House and rounds the car, meeting me where I’m sliding out from behind the passenger seat. I step to the side, and he gently slides the painting out, inspecting the frame and canvas as if to make sure it survived the trip.

  “I don’t have all day,” Mr. Buchannan calls out.

  I glance over Malik’s shoulder, realizing Mr. Buchannan is already at the front entryway to Sunrise House, leaning on his cane. The way he’s acting, you’d think he was a little kid waiting to open up his birthday present.

  “The maintenance guys are around until six, if you want them to hang that,” I say. And then my heart shoots up to my throat. “I mean, I think so, anyway. I called them once for Henrietta.”

  “Cool,” Malik says. “You coming up with us?”

  The front door of his car slams shut, and I realize the valet is ready to go park it, so I step away, shutting the back door. “Um, no, I really can’t. I’m just going to pick up a treat at the bakery for Henrietta and then I’ve got to get home.”

  It’s not true, but I’m sure my mom is wondering wher
e the heck I got off to, and I can’t just walk straight to my apartment with Malik watching.

  “You sure?” he says, nodding toward the painting. “You don’t want to see the art version of a family reunion?”

  I grin, and temptation swells. Soon. I’ll see them soon. I can come up with some reason to swing by Mr. Buchannan’s place. “Maybe some other time?”

  “Sure. Text me so I’ll have your number,” he says, and then starts rattling off his phone number.

  “Oh, um, hold on,” I say, digging my phone out of my pocket and willing myself not to jump up and down and squeal.

  Malik is giving me his phone number.

  MALIK IS GIVING ME HIS PHONE NUMBER!

  “Okay, got it,” I say a moment later, clicking Send on my phone.

  “Cool,” he says. “Maybe we can go out soon. . . .”

  “Sometime today, kid!” Mr. Buchannan calls.

  Malik laughs under his breath. “Later, I guess,” he says, turning away to follow his very impatient grandfather. “Text me.”

  “Okay. Yeah. Definitely.” I enter Sunrise House, feeling like I’m floating on air as I walk in the opposite direction as Malik, toward the bakery, until they step into the elevator and disappear.

  Then I make a U-Turn and head to my apartment, which is only a few doors past the elevator, not far from the billiards room. Which I can now pass in peace, by the way, since the sofa is in the right location.

  The apartment is quiet when I slip inside, and I’m relieved. I half expected it to be like one of those clichéd scenes in a movie where the parents are sitting on the couch and they go Where have you been all night? when the kid walks in.

  In the kitchen, I dig a tub of salsa from the fridge and rip open a fresh bag of tortilla chips.

  I’m just dipping a chip into some salsa when my mom walks in.

  “Where did you go with Charles Buchannan?”

  I freeze mid-scoop. “What?”

  “You signed him out at the front desk,” she says, and I don’t miss the edge of nerves in her voice. “I saw it. Only relatives are supposed to do that. Where did you take him?”

  “Ohhhhh,” I say as my stomach dances a painful jig. Malik had walked right past the sign-out book, and I’d been worried everyone would think Charles went missing, so I’d scribbled him out myself. I blurt out the first thing I can think of. “The circus.”

  She rolls her eyes. “For real, Holly.”

  “Um, the park?” I ask, trying to decide if the truth is worse than fiction.

  “You’ve never been a good liar,” she says, hanging her building keys up on a hook near the door.

  Hahaha, that’s hilarious. I’m a way better liar than she thinks I am.

  I swallow. “Ummmmmmmmmmmmmm,” I say, stretching the word out so long, it could be seven syllables. Then, realizing I’m still standing there holding one freaking chip, I stuff it into my mouth.

  “You’re making me nervous.”

  Right. Of course I am. Everything about Charles makes my mom nervous. She’s going to freak out when she realizes I spent the afternoon with him!

  “We went for a drive,” I say around the chip. I mean, it’s not my fault he spent twelve million dollars, right? Plus he’s a bajillionaire, so it’s pretty much the same thing as twelve dollars to him.

  My mom can’t get in trouble for it, right?

  I think. I mean, he’s a senior citizen and some of them do have restrictions like that in place, but it’s not stuff my mom is responsible for seeing through. One of the residents is such a shopaholic, she’s not even allowed to have her credit cards in her room, but she keeps ordering new ones and then someone always has to intercept her mail.

  “You drove him around town?”

  “Not exactly,” I say, swirling another chip around in the salsa.

  “How do you not exactly drive him around?”

  “His grandson was the one driving,” I say, trying to swallow the chip. It feels like it turned sideways in my throat.

  “Grandson?”

  I take a swig of water, finally meeting her eyes. “Uh-huh. His name is Malik. I met him yesterday. He’s nice. Around my age.”

  “And they just . . . invited you on a drive,” she says in such a way that I know she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “Yeah.”

  “Where did you go?”

  I lean a hip against the counter. “To Roger Cartwell’s house.”

  “Who?”

  “Some guy who died.”

  “Why?” she says, her voice growing exasperated, like she just wants to say, Out with it already.

  “To buy art,” I say, as if I’m talking about a reprint at Target. “You know, for his new place. All those blank walls and everything. . . .”

  But she’s not buying it and searches my eyes for the real answer. “You went with Charles Buchannan to someone’s house to buy art. A man who has not voluntarily gone on any excursion of any kind in months.”

  I give her a little jazz hands, like I just performed a magic trick. She wanted him to get out of Sunrise House, right? “Yep.”

  “And what happened?”

  Oh. Right. Not magic. I quit the silly grin and steeple my hands in mock-prayer. “Please don’t be mad. I couldn’t say no. One minute I was admiring his Goya painting, and the next we’re zipping across the bridge.”

  “Did he get it?”

  “Get what?”

  “The art.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Actually he bought the guy’s whole collection. For . . .” I trail off and mumble the last part.

  “For what?”

  “Twelve million,” I say, louder this time. “I went with Charles Buchannan to some fancy estate to buy twelve million dollars’ worth of art.”

  She’s so stunned, she says nothing, just stares.

  “I know.”

  “You invited yourself, didn’t you? You heard about the art and you couldn’t resist the idea of seeing—”

  “No,” I say, throwing up my hands to stop her. “He invited me, I swear. I wasn’t an intrusion. I barely said a word the whole time.”

  “I should go talk to him. Make sure he’s not upset,” she says. “I’m not sure why he’d want my teenage daughter accompanying him on that kind of a trip, especially if he’s been reclusive for so long.”

  “Wait, I’m not in trouble? I thought you’d flip. I’m not allowed to sign residents out.”

  “No, I’m not mad,” she says, walking to the fridge to grab a bottle of water.

  I study her, taking in her relaxed posture, the casual way she twists open the water.

  “There’s something you’re not telling me,” I say.

  “What?”

  “You nearly grounded me last month for walking Henrietta down the block without approval. I went miles away with Mr. Buchannan. Why aren’t you ticked?”

  Condensation trails over my mom’s fingertips as she twists the lid back on. “His daughter just called. That’s why I came to find you.”

  “The one who set him up here?”

  She nods. “Yeah. Her son—Malik, I assume—texted her that Mr. Buchannan voluntarily left his apartment, and she was thrilled. I had no idea what she was talking about, of course, so I played along until I could open the logbook, and then I saw your name.”

  I grin widely. “So, you’re telling me I scored you brownie points? Sweet.”

  She waggles a finger at me. “Not so fast, missy. Her enthusiasm will fade if you annoyed him with your little tagalong adventure and he never leaves again. I still have to talk to him.”

  “You can’t,” I say, walking closer to her.

  “Why?”

  “He doesn’t know we’re related,” I say. “And, um, he kind of grumbled about you? I didn’t know what to do, and I sorta came to your defense, and if you out me now, he’s going to know I was biased and think we were trying to trick him or something and . . . well, you know. He seems like he’s the suspicious sort.”

 
“You didn’t tell him you’re my daughter?”

  “No.”

  And he doesn’t know my name is Holly.

  “So either I tell him, and he feels like you were dishonest with him, or I don’t, and we risk his finding out later and thinking the same thing.”

  “Yeah. But you know, he might not find out, and I’m going to college in, like, two months, so I don’t think it’s a big deal.”

  She runs a hand through her hair, looking like this bit of news deflated her a little. “We can’t lose him as a resident, Holly. You have no idea how thrilled Mrs. Weaver was that I filled that unit. If he moves in one week and then I drive him away the next, I could get fired.”

  “I know.”

  She chews on her lip. “I guess you’re right. You’ll be gone before we know it,” she points out, tapping her nails on the countertop.

  “Yeah. I mean, I’ll be six hours away.”

  “Okay. Then we won’t tell him,” she says. “But avoid him as much as possible until you head off to school.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “I mean it, Holly. Stay away from Charles Buchannan.”

  “Scout’s honor,” I say, giving her the little two-finger salute.

  I can avoid Charles.

  But she didn’t say anything about Malik.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Meet me at the rain garden at Redmond Town Center at 7. I’m taking you out.

  That’s all Malik’s text says. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised; the boy is used to getting what he wants. I bet he’s never had a girl refuse him. Not that I’m going to be that girl, or anything. After a few days of silence, I thought maybe he’d forgotten all about me. So, basically, my heart has been dancing a jig since the text arrived.

  Also, my room looks like it’s been hit by a hurricane.

  I have nothing to wear. My clothes are all old and faded and worn and stretched and cheap and . . .

  I have nothing to wear.

  “ARGH!” I scream in frustration, throwing the last piece of clothing over my shoulder to land on the pile on my bed. I wrack my brains for some scrap of clothing that might be unaccounted for. That might be hidden under my bed or in the washing machine or something.