“What gift?” Carolena asked.
“You gave Otto a fucking painting that has a special ability…”
Carolena was quiet.
“What about this painting?” she snapped.
“Otto didn’t kill John and Campbell. And he’s not hiding them. He sent them back in time through this Wentworth you gave him,” Blake said.
“Oh, no,” she said breathlessly.
“So this is real?” Blake asked, even though he knew the answer. He wanted to hear her say it.
She didn’t.
“I remember the stories you told me when I was a child—about how certain pieces of art could transport you to another place and time. I thought the stories were metaphorical.”
“They were. And yet, the Wentworths are more than that.”
“This gift that you gave him wrecked Addie’s family.”
“Blake…I’m so sorry. Je suis désolé, mon amour…” she whispered.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” he asked.
“How did you find out about it?”
“Grace,” he said. “Addie said she found proof of John and Campbell’s existence, and eventually, Grace had no choice but to tell us. Christ, Carolena. Of all the people in the world who shouldn’t have something like this.” Blake worked hard to quell his need to hit something. “Is it real?”
Carolena exhaled long and slow. Her breath brushed across the phone and sounded like static. “Yes. It’s real.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“Because I was concerned you would try to change the past as it related to Otto or Addie. And it’s very dangerous to meddle with the past. You could destroy your present or your future.”
The gravel crunched under Blake’s feet as he paced, and he picked up one of the rocks, rolled it over between his fingers. It was hard to argue with someone who knew you too well.
“Still, I should have known,” he said without much conviction. He didn’t know if he would even trust himself with access to such a painting. The temptation to go back in time and kill off Otto would have been too sweet to resist. “Were you ever going to tell me?”
“Doubtful,” she said. “I hoped that he had lost it. Destroyed it. Or maybe that someone took it from him.”
“Did you know that Otto used the painting to send John and Campbell away?” Blake hated that he had to ask, but Carolena rarely answered an unasked question.
“Non,” she said. “I wondered, but non.”
Blake threw the rock at an oak at the far end of the drive. “Why did you give him such a thing? Why not a tie clip?”
“It wasn’t a gift, Blake.”
“You gave it to him,” Blake said.
“I—sort of. Why do you need to know this? What difference does it make now that I can’t do anything about it?”
“Because I’d rather not be blindsided by any more of your secrets. You gave a painting to a criminal, who then used it as a weapon to destroy the family of the woman I love. And let’s not even mention the damage that their disappearance has done to every woman in this family—especially Addie. If that woman ever fully trusts a man again in this lifetime it will be no small miracle!” Blake paced half way around the circular drive and stared down the main thoroughfare that was lined with majestic oaks.
“It’s not enough that I have to protect her from my father, but my mother, and all of her secrets, too?” He felt a disconnect and checked his phone to make sure she hadn’t yet hung up. He breathed the cold air deeply to calm himself, and felt the burn in his lungs.
“I’m sorry, Maman,” he said.
There was no response. So he waited.
“It wasn’t a gift,” she finally said.
“How did you get it?”
“Why do you need to know this?”
“Because Addie is hell-bent on seeing her father’s and grandfather’s safe return. There are other paintings out there like the one that Otto has, and I need to do something to make this right for them.”
“You can’t go through the paintings, Blake. They are much too dangerous.”
“Do you know where these paintings are?” he asked.
“I know enough about them to know that they do not offer a safe passage,” she said. “Because—”
“Because why?”
“Because I taught Otto too much about this type of thing. If he wanted to make it difficult or even deadly for someone else who traveled behind him, he could.There are ways to manipulate the elements in the painting. You can create traps, someone could die.”
“Christ, Carolena…”
“Blake, for that very reason you can’t—”
“If there’s another Wentworth out there, we will have to, Maman. I know Addie and she’ll not give up on this, no matter what I say. Not to mention that Grace and Isabella will continue to try to help them.”
“I see,” she said. “Then we have to hope that Otto has lost access to the Wentworth he used to have, or that he forgot what I taught him about manipulating the paintings.”
“Why in the hell would you teach him such a thing?” Traces of his fury bled into the air and he knew he’d regret it later.
“It was more of an experiment. I didn’t know it was possible until I tried it. Plus, he was different then. I was different then.” She sighed, sounding exhausted when she said it.
“Tell me how you got the painting,” Blake said. “So we can try to find one of the others.”
He heard the sound of wine being poured into a glass.
“When I worked at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Wentworth was one of the items he pushed me to steal.” Her voice sagged when she said it. “I had access to all of the collections, including the ones in the basement. No one at the museum really knew what they had down there. They thought the Wentworths were just pretty watercolors from another talented, dead artist. The public doesn’t realize this, but the Met only displays about ten-percent of its holdings. The other ninety-percent is hidden away in their many basements and storage areas. It’s not unusual for pieces, even priceless pieces, to go missing. He wasn’t that well known, his art was never publicly displayed, and no one missed them when they were gone.”
“Does he have the others that are in the series?”
“No,” she said and sounded relieved. “Just the one, as far as I know.”
“Thank God for small gifts.” Blake dragged a hand through his thick hair.
“I don’t think the Met has any of the others, but I don’t know for certain. If I had to guess where the others were I’d guess private ownership.”
“Meaning, they traveled along the black market?”
“Maybe. Does Grace know where John and Campbell are? Exactly?”
“New York City, 1920. Same month and day as our time. She’s found a way to communicate with them. Where did Otto keep the Wentworth?”
“Blake, no—”
“If he has the power to change the present or the future, he could destroy our lives all over again. Especially now that Addie has pushed him away altogether, he might go back in time and kidnap her or keep us from meeting. He could kill her grandfather and keep her from even being born. Someone has to stop him.”
“I don’t know that anyone ever will.”
“If I can find out where the Wentworth is, I’ll take that away from him.”
“He used to keep it in his office, right on the wall. Only a few of us really knew what it was and what it was capable of. I don’t know what happened to it after I left.”
“It wasn’t in his office when I was at the firm,” Blake said. He stood in front of the Montgomery mansion as the Southern winter wind swirled around and chilled him. He had the unmistakeable feeling that Carolena was hiding more, which meant he wouldn't be able to protect her the way he wanted.
“I’ll do whatever is in my power to make this right with Addie and her family,” Carolena said.
“No, don’t do anything. I’ll fix it.” Blake sai
d.
“Je t'aime, Blake.”
“Je t’aime, Maman.”
Chapter 36
“Grandpa did the Gardner heist with Otto?” I asked. My hand was still frozen in the air, I wasn’t yet ready to touch anything else.
“Addie…” Grace said while she walked toward me, then sat in front of me on the edge of my grandfather’s desk. Her eyes drifted to the letter and picture I’d taken from the book. “It’s a hard day when we grow up and realize those we love aren’t entirely who we thought them to be,” she said.
“He was Otto’s partner in the Gardner heist?” I asked again, and felt the truth tilt my world into a devastating kind of perfect sense.
Grace put her hand on the desk in front of me. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Tears of shock and release welled up in my eyes. I stared at the visual remnants of the story as they hung in the air in front of me. “My grandfather is an art thief.”
Grace patted my hand three times then returned my hand to me.
“It wasn’t planned. Not really,” she said, and moved to the edge of one of the green upholstered chairs across from the desk. “It began as an innocent discussion between Otto and John about how museums didn’t invest in the security they should, how easy it would be for someone to break in and steal priceless works of art. And get away with it. Then one night they just did it. Completely impromptu.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I asked John the same question. After the fact, that is. I didn’t know he was going to pull such a stupid stunt.” She stood, and dragged her fingertips across my grandfather’s desk as she passed by.
“Not that I could have stopped him. He said they had stolen the art to teach the museum a lesson on how important security was. They were supposed to leave clues as to where the police could find the art. Unharmed, of course. Then, as the plan went, the museum would invest in additional security. And John and Otto would have done their good deed for the century,” Grace said with a heavy sigh.
“Did you believe him?” I asked.
Grace’s lips thinned into a frustrated flat line. “I’ve known John for a long time,” she said. “And if I were going to be honest, I’d say that he wanted to own one of those masterpieces even if it were just for a short time. Though I think he did plan to return the pieces to the museum.”
I agreed with a nod.
“Of course once two people commit a crime together, everything changes. Otto wanted to hang on to the art. So he told John that it was too dangerous to return it, that the heist had become a media obsession and they might be caught if they tried. John was firm that the art needed to be reinstated in the museum. He tried to convince Otto that if they played it right, they could return the art and collect the five million in reward money. It wasn’t long after that that John and Campbell disappeared.”
“Did Dad have anything to do with—?”
“No. Otto suspected he might expose him, though, so he condemned him to the past for good measure. John’s involvement messed it up for all of us,” Grace said with disgust, and stared out the window.
The energy from the corner of the desk grabbed at my attention, and I eyed the spot where I’d seen that my grandfather was an art thief. “I was nine when they left,” I said. “That was about the time—”
“That was the year you began trying not to see,” Grace said. “And I’ve spent your entire life trying to talk you out of doing that. Of course there was just no convincing you to embrace your gifts.”
“I was afraid I would see something that I didn’t want to see. Something that would incriminate someone I cared about,” I said. “How is it that he’s the one who did something wrong and I’m the one who felt guilty for seeing it?”
Grace clicked her tongue and sighed. “It’s just the way it goes in life. Love is a faulty process.”
“So all these years you’ve pushed me so hard to use my gifts because…”
“I just wanted you to see that you could do anything, and that you shouldn’t make seeing a fault. I guess I tried too hard, and I’m sorry. No one lets go of their fears just because they should.”
My insight and her empathy gave wings to the years of fear and resistance within me, and my heart grew wider, became lighter. Years of guilt tumbled away with these realizations. I felt oddly free, as though the secret was no longer mine to keep. I inhaled deeply as a bit of my past and present knitted comfortably into one, and finally, no longer fought one another for control.
Grace ran her hand along the outer lines of my face and looked at me just like she always had—as though I was the one she needed to work extra hard to help. I understood that now as a kindness, not a criticism.
“All this time, I thought you didn’t have any faith in me.”
Grace wiped the tears from my cheeks then held me close, as she had when I was young. “My sweet girl. I pray that one day, you will know how much faith I have in you. Because it will lift your soul for the rest of your days.”
She kissed me on the forehead, then blessed me with her triple pat.
When she walked to the other side of the room, I saw Blake standing in the entryway of my grandfather’s office. His smile slowly widened.
“I just have one more thing to show you,” Grace said.
Chapter 37
One of the heavy, double wooden doors to Grace’s bedroom creaked when she opened it. It was impressive. Not the canopied four poster bed with all of its textured upholstery, and not even the outright size of the room, with its grandeur overlooking the picturesque sound. No, it was the sheer volume of framed photographs around the room. They covered the walls from waist to ceiling, while others were gathered on tables and atop the mantle. All of them black-and-white imprints of my father and grandfather.
“These are just my favorites of what they’ve sent me over the years. There are countless others I’ve placed in photo books.”
“Unbelievable.” I walked around the room and into the eyes of the men who were lost in time.
Blake inspected a different set of photos against the nearest wall and shook his head in disbelief.
“John or Campbell will send me a letter and a photo or two every few months. Sometimes more frequently. It just depends how often they can get to Savannah. I’ve seen snapshots from most of their travels. They’ve met quite a few interesting people. Then again, so have I,” she said. “Knowing where someone will be before they do always helps.”
Most of the photos were taken in Paris and New York, though several were shot right in front of the Montgomery mansion. My grandfather and father stood next to a tall, slender man in a white suit with a shock of thick, dark hair.
“Is this—”
“This is your great-great-grandfather. Horace Campbell,” Grace said, and she smiled as if she’d just seen an old friend. Blake peeked over my shoulder at the print.
“He’s the one who purchased and developed this property,” Grace said. “And the Fitzgerald books.”
My mouth must have hung open because she smiled, then kept explaining. “It has something to do with the fact that the books sit in the same place now as they did then. They’re sentries to the passing of time.”
“Did F. Scott Fitzgerald actually endorse that book to you?” I asked.
Grace smiled and nodded. “Such a gem of a fellow. Unless he’s drinking.” Her eyes widened with the pleasure of another story yet to tell.
“Did you say books? As in plural?” I asked.
Grace put the photo of our relative back on the shelf and adjusted it into its exact former spot.
“Yes, there are two more. One in New York, the other in Paris.”
“In New York…” I repeated. “At the firm?”
“No.” She walked past me, then bent at the waist and visited with a few more memories in print. I followed her. “At your grandfather’s townhome. On the bookshelf in the library.” Grace winked at me. “Now you know why I allowed you to stay there only after you agreed not
to move any of his things.”
“I never knew.” My mouth fell open again.
She walked to a new set of photographs where her husband and son wore white surgical masks.
“Why are they wearing masks?” I asked.
“This was New York in 1918, beginning of the flu pandemic,” she said. “20,000 people died in New York between September of that year and November of the following year. So John and your father were on their way out of town for a while.”
“Good thing they knew their history,” Blake said.
“Mmm-hmmm. And Isabella and I have helped.” She pointed to a new photograph.
“Is that The Plaza?” Blake asked.
I peered over his shoulder and saw my father and grandfather in front of The Plaza Hotel in New York.
“That’s where they’re staying now,” she said. “Though I don’t know if they’re still there. I think they were trying to purchase the condo.”
“My God, it looks exactly the same then as it does now,” he said.
“And here they are in Cincinnati at the 1919 World Series,” Grace said, and tsked her disapproval. “Do you keep up with baseball, Blake?”
“A little bit,” he said. “I do know about this World Series.”
My father and grandfather stood side by side in the uncovered stadium, the end of a Coca-Cola sign hovering in the background.
“The Black Sox Scandal,” I said. “Wow, to see that firsthand.”
“They’ve made a lot of money on sports gambling. It was illegal back then, but people still did it,” Grace said.
“Here they are at game four of the series in Chicago,” she said, and pointed to another photo where my father and grandfather stood with a third man, who wore a white fedora.
“Otto,” I choked his name out. “That’s Otto.”
“No, honey. Otto’s not in any of these photos,” Grace said as she angled her head toward the photo I pointed to. “That’s Gary. Some no-good scoundrel John met at a party just before they left New York. John found a couple of pieces for him to move—you know he’s making money however he can. Not that he didn’t already have a taste for the underworld,” Grace said as she backed up and squinted at the photo. “And I think Gary found them a betting connection, too. Somehow Gary was tied into that Black Sox Scandal. Never liked him.” The pearls on her necklace clicked when she twisted them.
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