Sheila felt her lips tremble. “I’m so proud of you.” She grabbed her sister into a hug and held on. How could she feel as if things were falling into place at the same time her heart was breaking? “Mom would be, too.”
“Thanks. And you two.” Morgan aimed shifty eyes at each of them. “I couldn’t have done this without you. Malcolm, that check allowed us to bring in an extra crew to complete the landscaping in time for the gala. And wait until you see the magic your guys worked on the entertainment facility.”
“Open for business as planned?”
“January first.” Morgan nodded and squeezed Sheila tighter. “I had Gina update the foundation’s website. Come on. Dad’s popping the champagne.”
“Who didn’t you invite?” Sheila asked as Morgan dragged her and Malcolm by the arms up to the rose garden outlining the front entrance to the center. It was then Sheila saw the three beautifully polished benches and the brass plaques welded into the slats. One for their mother, one for Colin, and the third . . . for Brandon.
“Sheila.” Kelley, towel cape soaring behind her, was jumping up and down on Brandon’s bench before she launched herself forward. Malcolm caught her midair and swung her into his arms.
“Oooh,” Kelley’s eyes went wide as her mouth pursed. “Superman.”
The chuckles and guffaws from those surrounding them warmed Sheila’s heart despite the ache his refusal had caused. In spite of having every reason to be embarrassed, he tweaked Kelley’s nose and said, “Shhhh. Secret identity. Just between us.”
“Like Gage is James Bond?” Kelley asked.
“Um.” Malcolm looked to Sheila, who shrugged.
“It’s possible,” Sheila said. “He used to be Prince Charming.”
“Good to know.” As he started to lower Kelley to the ground he stopped, and Sheila noticed everyone had gone quiet as they handed out filled plastic champagne flutes. From the Fiorellis and all the foster kids, to Gage’s family of parents, twins, and two of his brothers, to Jackson and Nathan along with, to Malcolm’s surprise, Ty hovering in the background, she couldn’t remember feeling more content. Or—she stepped under Malcolm’s free arm and wrapped her arm around his waist—more loved.
“To Colin, our inspiration,” Jackson said as he held up his glass. “And our Catherine, who I hope is looking down on us and smiling.” Everyone raised their glasses to the sky. “Sheila and Morgan, for never giving up. And to Malcolm,” Jackson concluded as he stepped forward and offered his hand. Sheila felt Malcolm tense but he set Kelley on her feet and took her father’s hand. “Welcome home, son.”
“Welcome home,” everyone echoed. Except Sheila. Who closed her eyes as a solitary tear slipped free.
“No tears,” Malcolm whispered when the crowd dispersed and mingled among one another.
“You sound like your grandmother,” Sheila said as she swiped at her cheeks. “Only the two of you have ever made me cry.”
“Not true,” Nathan said, sidling up and then detouring as he caught sight of Veronica weaving in and around Cedric and Aiden as if they were two Whack-A-Moles. “You cried when they cancelled Firefly.”
“Some of us are still crying,” Malcolm said, and as he reached for Sheila his phone rang.
“Well, that’s a serious face,” she joked as he looked at the screen. “Can it wait?”
“Um, no.” He shook his head as he moved away, handed her his glass. “No, I’ve been waiting for this call. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.” She watched him as he lifted the phone to his ear and disappeared around the edge of the center.
“Sheila? Everything okay?” Veronica asked as she hooked her arm through Sheila’s.
Sheila shivered, shook her head. “I don’t know.” But she dislodged the unease with the smile she’d spent years perfecting. “I hope so.”
“Yeah,” Veronica murmured with a strained smile of her own as she looked down the path Malcolm had taken. “So do I.”
***
“Hey, Doc.” Malcolm waited until he was well out of earshot.
“Glad to know we won’t be playing phone tag again, Malcolm.” Dr. Chapman’s voice was upbeat. A little too upbeat. Malcolm’s entire torso went tight, as if he’d been locked in bands of iron. “I have Doctor Collins conferenced in.”
“Two doctors on one call.” He rubbed his hand across his forehead. “Just what I was hoping for.” He hated being right.
“You wanted it straight, Malcolm, so here it is,” Dr. Collins said in a slightly more guarded tone than he’d had in his office. “The lymph nodes we biopsied are confirmed for stage two. We want to run some more extensive tests before we decide on a course of treatment.”
“Chemo and radiation again?” At least he knew what to expect this time around.
“Possibly,” Dr. Collins said. “There are also some new treatments that have been successful in trials. Given the type of cancer—”
“I’ll be back in the Bay Area in a week,” Malcolm said, not wanting to dive any deeper into the quicksand of this conversation. “Can we discuss this then?” He couldn’t deal with this while he was in Lantano Valley. He wanted to keep these weeks, this time with Sheila separate, untainted. As perfect as possible for as long as possible.
“Of course,” Dr. Chapman said. “Joshua, you said you’d be willing to fly up for the consult?”
Their voices faded and turned to buzzing in his ears. He murmured a good-bye, clicked off as his knees gave out. He landed on the ground, his entire body quivering as he struggled to breathe. Of all times, of all places. Statistics, treatments, survival rates all flew through his mind, but he couldn’t grasp any of it. Here he was, in the middle of promise, of hope. At the Tremayne Center and all it offered, including the love and support of the Tremaynes, and yet . . . he had to walk away from it.
And Sheila. Now more than ever, he knew what he owed the woman he loved. He owed her her life.
“Malcolm?” Morgan circled from behind him, her expression guarded as she approached, glancing over her shoulder as she stooped down and touched his shoulder. “I saw you disappear and wondered . . . was that Josh?” The worry in her eyes, the sympathy she couldn’t cover in a gaze that looked so much like Sheila he could barely look at her.
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat and pushed himself up, the tingling in his hands and feet making him stumble. “Yeah, and good news. The tests came back fine,” he lied. “All clear.”
“Oh.” Morgan popped up beside him, tears springing into her eyes as she threw her arms around him. “Oh, thank God.” She rocked him from side to side as he told himself he’d done the right thing. “Now we really have something to celebrate.” She laughed, let out a long breath. “Oh, that’s such a relief. This calls for more champagne. Come on.” She grabbed his wrist and dragged him back to the party, back to the family that had embraced him as one of their own.
To the family he could never have.
Chapter Twenty
Sheila wasn’t sure what made her more nervous, the auction or the theft. Right about now they were dead even, excitement and anxiety racing like runaway horses in her belly as Friday afternoon slammed into her.
“Okay, let’s get the bar service set up in the west corner of the gallery, please. Liza, can you make sure they have everything they need?” Sheila waved her toward the group of three bartenders at the far end of the gallery, breathing a sigh of relief as she saw the crates of wine and champagne being wheeled in.
As relieved as she was to have the center’s construction behind them, everything else had moved into warp speed. She was getting by on endless cups of coffee, maple bars from the Doh!Knot, and two surprisingly frenzied and sleep-deprived nights with Malcolm. No wonder she needed the sugar.
Something had jump-started him energy wise, but neither of them had brought up the possibility of her moving to San Francisco again. S
he wished she hadn’t said anything at all given he’d all but shut her out for a while, but he seemed to have moved past it now, which might give her a little maneuvering room when it came to his date of departure. Made it easier to fit into her schedule even as she wished, something, anything, would change his mind.
“Dad, there you are.” Sheila marked another point off her checklist as her father strode into the gallery.
“Sorry we’re late,” Jackson said. “Ran into some traffic on the way. I have your mother’s paintings crated in the back of the SUV. Is there someone who can give me a hand?”
“Sure.” Sheila snagged two of the gallery employees and sent them with her father. When they returned they were carrying four boxes between them.
“Great, bring those over here.” She waved the new arrivals over to the spaces next to the two paintings she’d copied in the far end of the gallery that was cordoned by the display walls and monitored by only one camera. “Just stack them here for now. Careful,” she murmured and took a deep breath. So far so good. “Dad, Nathan’s running through a final check of the security system up there on the second floor.” She pointed toward the staircase beside the hall where the bathrooms were located. “He asked if you could join him and Chadwick for a few minutes. Shouldn’t be more than nine minutes at most.”
“Understood.” She glanced up at the blinking red light on the camera overlooking the area—number nine—and moved away. With the caterers busy setting up the bar and the majority of the staff in a meeting with the owner, the gallery was as empty as it was going to be for the rest of the day. She set her tablet down on one of the café pedestal tables and sipped at her coffee, slipping out of her shoes as she waited for the all-clear.
“Come on,” she whispered, tempted to tap her foot as the time she’d need to switch the paintings ticked away. The red light flashed, flashed. And went dark.
She dashed across the floor and stooped down, popped off the first lid thanks to the temporary adhesive, and lifted the copied watercolor out from the padding of raffia and leaned it against the display. She pulled down the original and placed it in the box, hung the forgery in place. Lid back on, she set the box aside and repeated the process with painting number two.
Chadwick’s cheapness when it came to reframing some of the paintings had worked in her favor. She checked the camera, and felt her pulse kick into overdrive. “Dammit.” She pulled out two labels from her pocket and lined them up, covering the original and then unpacked the two paintings from her mother’s collection that they’d be including in the auction.
She was pulling them out of their crates when Malcolm poked his head around the corner. “All good?”
“All good.” Sweat dotted her forehead as she hefted the paintings onto their hooks. She fanned her face, let out a long breath as the camera light blinked back on. “Thanks. Just one last thing. Um, excuse me?” She leaned around the corner of the display and waved the deliverymen over. “I’m sorry. These two should have gone to my father’s office, Tremayne Investments and Securities.” She gestured to the re-labeled boxes and accepted murmured apologies. She let out a long, controlled breath as the real paintings were carried out the front door and she put her shoes back on. The rest would be up to Nathan.
“How do you do this without having a heart attack?” Malcolm asked.
“By imagining the look on your father’s face when he finds out these are fakes,” she said. “Trust me, it helps.”
“Why do you think I’m here? I’m not about to miss any part of this show. The gala will be a breeze after tonight.”
She didn’t want to think about the gala. Or what came after. “So your visit has nothing to do with me?” She batted her lashes at him.
“What do you think?” He moved in and kissed her until her face flushed hot. “Any sign of Levia’s painting yet?”
“They’ll be here soon,” she murmured and wiped her lipstick from his mouth with her thumb. “Here he comes.” She patted his cheek. “Play nice. I know you’re feeling the rush of the headlines about him losing the company, but we’re almost at the finish line. Chadwick, how did the security check go?” She stepped away from Malcolm toward his father. “Are you satisfied with Nathan’s setup?”
“More than,” Chadwick said as Jackson stepped into the gallery behind him. Chadwick’s tone might have been approving, but his cautious attention was fixed on his son as Malcolm came up behind Sheila and wrapped an arm around her waist. “I assume you’ll be attending this evening, Malcolm?”
“At Gran’s invitation, yes. Someone should be with her as you’re selling off her legacy. Since you don’t have one any longer.”
“Malcolm,” Sheila warned. The last thing she needed was an altercation right now.
“Don’t bother playing peacemaker, Sheila,” Malcolm said with more bravado than she remembered him displaying around his father before. “Dad and I understand each other now, don’t we, Dad?”
“Definitely,” Chadwick confirmed in a tone that chilled Sheila’s blood.
“I believe someone’s trying to get your attention.” Jackson coughed and gestured to the gawky bespectacled man who had just entered the gallery’s front door. Tall with muddied blond hair and wearing a plaid jacket Sheila was certain had gone out of style soon after disco died, the new arrival backed away from the workmen carrying part of the shelving for the bar, knocked into one of the walls, and did a spin and stumble that had Sheila scrambling forward to avert disaster.
“Can I help you, Mr.—”
“Oh, hello.” He pushed thick-rimmed glasses up his nose as he reached into his pocket for a wrinkled handkerchief seconds before he sneezed into it. “S-sorry. Allergies.” He squinted and peered at her. “I’m Thomas Brosnan. I was asked to come and give a final check to Mr. Oliver’s auction pieces.” He sneezed again, wiped his nose, and shook his head. “Are you Miss Tremayne?” He offered his hand, and Sheila hesitated before taking it. Funny how often beauty pageant poise came in handy. Now all she needed was some hand sanitizer.
“I am, yes. How can I be of assistance? Oh, Chadwick. Excellent. This is the insurance inspector you requested, Mr. Brosnan.”
“Pleasure.” Mr. Brosnan sneezed again and had to push his glasses up. Chadwick ignored his offered hand. “I, uh. I’m happy to get started. Would you like me to examine all of the paintings?” He headed for what Sheila called Alcina’s seascape. “By all means, please join me.”
Sheila couldn’t remember Chadwick looking so put off, but he was trying to cover. “Well, I—”
“Why don’t you let me?” Jackson offered. “After all, I owe you a favor for including some of Catherine’s work in your auction, and I don’t have to be at the office for the rest of the day.”
The look of relief on Chadwick’s face almost broke through Sheila’s mask of professionalism. “I would appreciate that, Jackson, thank you.”
“You’d think he’d been released from a leper colony,” Malcolm muttered, and Sheila elbowed him in the chest. She gave her father a wide-eyed look and smiled when he winked. He really did enjoy the subterfuge of Nemesis.
“If anything is amiss, I’ll let you know,” Sheila offered as she escorted Chadwick out of the gallery. “We’ll be seeing you around three, correct, for the final delivery?”
“Yes, although it won’t be necessary for Mr. Brosnan to inspect those. They’re insured by another company.”
“I understand. We’ll see you in a bit.” Sheila spun back into the gallery as her father joined Mr. Brosnan as he inspected the paintings. So far so good. Or so she hoped. But she wasn’t going to breathe easy again until this was all over and Levia’s painting was back where it belonged.
***
“Good evening, gentlemen. Mrs. Filderbach.” Sheila stood at the gallery door welcoming the guests as they began pouring in. At just after six, she had yet to see Levia’s painting in p
erson, and the itch was getting tougher to ignore. Chadwick had been true to his word when it came to overseeing the installation of the last three works, including escorting his advance bidders into the room himself when they’d arrived a half hour ago, just after the fake Mr. Brosnan had given his approval of the entire collection.
She nodded a polite greeting to Evan Marshall, the district attorney, along with the police chief and a select few other law enforcement officials and politicians. A nice full house for what she hoped would be a scandalous evening. The gossip was already swirling what with word of Oliver Technologies having been bought out by the “oh so impressive” TIN. The press release in this morning’s paper had been pure genius for what it didn’t say.
“Those three buyers Chadwick has in the show room are Antony DeLuca, Benjamin Aiken, and a Yuri Dubrov,” Nathan said in her ear via Bluetooth. “I’m running a check on the last two, but DeLuca is mobbed up and partial to blondes, so watch your back and your backside. What are the chances you’ll get in there anytime soon?”
“The way things are going, I’ll grow wings first,” Sheila murmured.
Her father was doing a bang-up job of keeping Mr. Brosnan entertained after suggesting to an irritated Chadwick they invite the appraiser to stay. They’d need him later.
“Personal service, Sheila.” Nathan said. “That’s what Chadwick’s paid for, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” She shook hands and pointed potential bidders in the right direction and toward the bar when she could. The more they drank, the higher they’d bid. And she wanted the bidding high enough to catch everyone—especially the media’s—attention. “Malcolm, I see your grandmother and Ty heading in. Liza,” she called, and Liza, wearing a slim black dress similar to Sheila’s, scooted over. “Can you take over for me? Just guide them where they want to go, and if they don’t know, the bar is best.”
“Okay.” Liza nodded and turned in time to greet Mrs. Stark, wife of one Senator Alan Stark. Sheila was almost giddy at the prospect of tomorrow’s headlines.
Here Comes Trouble Page 26