“He brought it on himself.”
Some of her previous anger resurfaces, but she has to let him save face. “It’s such a disaster for everyone,” she says. “You’re disappointed. And so am I. But Henri is devastated. He knows it’s his fault. And that makes it even more difficult for him. Not to mention that after he worked so long and so hard, he’s going to have to put it all aside and start over from scratch . . .”
Edwin stands and moves some papers around on the desk in the corner of the sitting room. “I suppose I could foot the bill for some of the materials,” he says grudgingly.
“That’s generous of you.” Another push could backfire, but what he’s offering won’t be enough. “And maybe you could add a few dollars to cover the salaries of his assistants? That way the mural will be finished in the fastest time possible.”
He eyes her with a trace of amusement. “You drive a hard bargain, woman.”
She acknowledges that she does, and that’s that. It won’t undo the hurt his words caused, but it’s better than nothing, and she knows Henri will appreciate the support. She also knows this concession is as close to an apology—both to Henri and to her—as Edwin is going to get.
The next day, Vivienne goes to the Louvre to do some preliminary research on a book about Renoir that she and Edwin are planning to write. It’s a pleasant spring day, the sidewalks filled with the typical Parisian noonday crowd noisily enjoying the fine weather. But she’s impervious to the day’s glories.
She has no idea how Henri actually feels about her, or how she feels about him. She has no idea how she might persuade Edwin to terminate the trust and make the collection his own. And she has no idea how to return the colonnade seven to her father. If only she could see Papa’s eyes light at the sight of his treasured masterpieces, as she did in her dream. The truck driver isn’t the only person who can pull off a robbery. A speakeasy isn’t the only place to find a thief. She gave up too easily.
A man is coming toward her with an expectant smile on his face, as if he knows her, almost as if they had arranged to meet. He doesn’t look familiar with his glasses, long hair, and beard, his face bronzed and rough like a farmer’s. But as he draws closer, she knows exactly who it is. The broad shoulders and strong chin, the sauntering gait, the clump of hair falling over his forehead.
He bows when he reaches her. “Ashton King,” he says with a heavy Australian accent and a roguish grin. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
Vivienne gapes. George is Ashton King. Of course he is.
“You’ve grown into a beautiful woman,” he says, taking her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Vivienne Gregsby.”
It’s as if she’s watching a play: there she stands, her hand limp in his; he, full of confidence, his smile at full wattage. She yanks her hand back.
“I’ve never stopped thinking about you.” His voice is warm and his eyes brim with sincerity. “I’ve thought about you every day for the past four years.”
“And I’ve never stopped thinking about you,” she spits at him, taking a step backward. “I haven’t been able to. Not after you stole everything my family had—not after you stole my life!” How dare he reappear like this? Ambush her in the middle of the street? Pretend nothing happened?
“I’m sorry.” He hangs his head. “More sorry than you can imagine.”
“Right,” she snorts. “Particularly sorry about enjoying all that money that doesn’t belong to you.”
“I’m sorry for hurting you. Sorry for what happened. But I’ve changed. That’s all behind me now. I’ve come to make things up to you. Maybe even—”
She begins to stalk off, but he grabs her arm.
“Please, Paulien—”
“Don’t you dare mention that name. Paulien is dead. And you killed her!”
“No,” he begs. “Please don’t say that. Don’t think it. I’m here because I want to help you. To repay you for at least some of what I’ve taken from you.”
“Then give me back the money you stole. Give my father—and everyone else—everything you stole. That’s the only repayment I’ll accept.”
“I know you won’t believe me, but at the moment there isn’t any money. That’s why I’ve come—to extend a proposal of sorts. Please hear me out.”
“Right. No money. That’s a laugh.” Vivienne tries to shake him off, but his fingers don’t give. “A proposal? Are you out of your mind? A proposal to invest in one of your con games? Or are you perhaps proposing marriage? I accepted proposals like these from you before—and you can be certain I’ll never do anything like that again.” She wants to knee him in the groin and would if she had the leverage. “Let me go!”
“It’s not a proposal as much as an offer. An offer to help you get what you want.”
“What the hell do you know about what I want?” she demands, then calls in her anger. He can get her what she wants. What she wants more than Edwin’s collection or even the colonnade seven: justice, revenge, and her family’s forgiveness.
28
Paulien, 1922
Paulien couldn’t have been more pleased: George did exactly as he promised. Her father’s associates in Italy found George some runners, and business picked up considerably because of it, paying all of Everard Sureties’ clients, including her father, generous profits. And now George was planning to accept a dozen of her father’s friends as investors.
“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s as if your father was the catalyst who turned the tide,” George said as they lay in bed after making love. “As soon as he got involved, got his business associates involved, there was a sea change. Where everything had been stagnating, now everything is booming.”
“That’s wonderful,” Paulien mumbled, drifting off to sleep. “I’m glad.”
“When I offered him his first month’s profits, he said he wanted to reinvest the money—and add to it. I let him triple his initial share. But he’d like to invest even more.”
She pulled into wakefulness. “Are you going to let him?”
“Things are running much more smoothly, and far more transactions have been completed. Profits are skyrocketing, so I suppose . . .”
She snuggled into his side. “I’m so proud of you. Helping him. All his friends . . .”
“I take it that means you’d like me to let them all buy more shares?”
“If you can. I wouldn’t want you to do anything that would be bad for your business.”
“I’d have to cut back on some of my original clients’ requests. Even with the additional runners, there are only so many trades we can process at a time. The early investors wouldn’t be happy about that—especially given their recent gains.”
“He’s going to be your father-in-law,” Paulien reminded him, melting as she said the words. “His friends and business associates will become yours, potential Everard Sureties clients for life.”
“Oh, this isn’t going to last that long. The Italian economy is picking up, and the cost of their IRCs is going to rise and cut into our profits.”
Paulien sat up. “When do you think that’s going to happen?”
“Six months, maybe fewer. But unless something derails the country’s growth, the price isn’t going to stay this low for long.”
“But what about Everard?” she asked, both confused and concerned. “How will you keep going if that happens?”
George pulled her close. “We’ll stop taking in new money, pay all the clients their proceeds, tell them the run is over, and close down the business. They’ll be disappointed, but they’ll also have earned back three or four times their initial investment—and I’m betting every one will be ready to become a part of whatever new venture I come up with. Same with the staff.”
“So this could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?” Paulien asked slowly. “Investing with you? Something to jump on?”
“I’m not sure I’d put it that way,” George protested. “But there are profits to be made now that may not be possi
ble later. So, in that sense, I suppose, yes.”
Paulien knew George always underplayed his potential, particularly when it came to Everard Sureties. He was consistently self-deprecating—about both himself and his business—and never promised what he couldn’t produce. “Can his additional investment be my wedding gift?”
George laughed. “I have a far better wedding gift in mind for you than some investment.”
As much as she wanted to hear more about her wedding gift, Paulien persisted. “I’m serious. Would you consider letting Papa and his friends give you however much they want? And let me invest my trust fund money? Maybe my brothers will want to do the same with theirs. How about my mother and her family?”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, doll.” He frowned. “What if it doesn’t work out? What if I’m wrong and Italy’s economy picks up more quickly than I think? I don’t want my entire new family to be angry with me.”
“Please?” she begged, wanting more than anything to share her good fortune with everyone she cared for. “If it’s not your wedding gift to me, it can be our wedding gift to them.”
“Is that what you really want, my sweet, generous darling?” he asked, nuzzling her neck.
“Yes,” she replied happily. “That’s what I want.”
“Then that’s exactly what you’ll get.”
Part three
29
Vivienne, 1926
Vivienne allows George to lead her down the boulevard to a small café. They sit inside, where there aren’t any other customers; only crazy people or those with secrets would be willing to forgo the splendors of such a spring day. When they’re seated, she looks around for a telephone.
There isn’t one in the dining room, but there must be one in the back room. After an amiable tête-à-tête about how he proposes to procure whatever it is that he believes she wants, she’ll excuse herself to go to the water closet, sneak into the kitchen, and call the police. Then she’ll waltz back to the table and chat him up until they come to arrest him.
She puts her napkin on her lap and tries not to smile as she imagines the expression on his face when he understands what she’s done. The waiter places two menus in front of them and asks if they want anything to drink. Vivienne asks for a glass of water. George does the same. The waiter bows and leaves them alone. She pulls her chair as far away from him as she can. Being this close enrages her. She would happily kill him if she could get away with it. Instead, and perhaps better, she’s going to destroy him.
George smiles with a serene beneficence, as if all he wants in the world is to secure her happiness. Horseshit, as Edwin would say.
“So what exactly is Ashton King up to?” Vivienne asks more sharply than she intends.
“It’s good to see you haven’t lost any of your spunk,” he says, maintaining his thick Australian accent. “I was always partial to that about you.”
“Another scam in which you wreck people’s lives?”
He throws back his head and laughs. She swears his laugh has an Australian accent. He’s such a fake. Such a good fake.
“What is it you want from me?” she demands. “Haven’t you taken enough?”
“My dear Paulien, it’s like I told you before—”
“Vivienne. And I’m not ‘your dear’ anything.”
He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “My proposal is to help you—I don’t want anything in return.”
“I don’t believe you’ve ever done anything without expecting a return.”
He tilts his head to the side, pulls a hangdog expression. “Like I said, I want to make up a little for what happened.”
“There’s no way you can ever make up for what happened. And there’s definitely no ‘little’ way.”
He maintains his wounded countenance. “I heard you were in need of a thief, and I just wanted to offer my services.”
She feels her jaw drop.
“I was in a speakeasy in Philadelphia last fall and overheard you talking with the bartender,” he says smoothly. “Aren’t those Americans ridiculous? Banning alcohol and then allowing the gangsters to take it over? It’s not as if everyone doesn’t know what’s going on.”
Vivienne manages to close her mouth. “You . . . you . . .”
“I was doing some business in Philadelphia and happened to see you at the symphony one night. You looked so stunning, so confident—a woman, not a girl any longer. I was filled with such admiration that I—”
“That you followed me? Listened in on my conversations? How dare you?”
George isn’t the least bothered by her anger. “What does it matter? It worked out for both of us: I discovered what you need and I’m here to help you get it.” He leans in closer. “Now, tell me exactly what you want me to steal.”
By the time Vivienne and Edwin leave for America a week later, she and George have worked out a deal. She’ll leave a back door unlocked, and he’ll find some thieves to fake a break-in. To disguise the purpose of the robbery, the men will grab at least two dozen paintings, including hers. She’ll keep the colonnade seven, and George will dispose of the rest.
What troubles her—obviously there are many things that trouble her—is that it isn’t an actual deal. George refused to accept any of the extra stolen paintings as compensation, claiming he wants to do her a favor, is happy and eager to do so, that he’ll make sure the additional paintings find their way back to Edwin in a manner that casts no suspicion on either of them. Except George Everard doesn’t do favors unless there’s some payoff for him. Nor, she’s sure, does Ashton King.
He explained that he needed to stay in Europe for at least another four or five months to get his latest “business” off the ground. When things are set, he’ll come to Merion to, as he put it, “get the lay of the land.” She’s aware she’s acting like a lunatic, taking a crazy risk, but it all landed in her lap, and she can’t resist the opportunity to return at least a small portion of all she caused her father to lose.
Perhaps she should have called the police from the café, but she can have him arrested in Philadelphia as easily as in Paris. And George is the perfect man for the job, exactly who she was looking for: a risk taker who’s fond of money and holds little regard for the law—and they don’t come any more unsavory. It’s simple and elegant, as the best solutions are. The paintings will be her first gift to her father; George’s arrest will be her second.
As promised, George turns up in July. He’s on her porch, rocking in her rocking chair, when she comes home from work. Although it has to be close to ninety degrees, he appears as cool and comfortable as if it were seventy. He stands and smiles at her, flexing those dimples, and she can’t help but appreciate how handsome his chiseled, perfectly proportioned features are. He no longer has a beard or long hair, and his glasses are gone. He’s shaved and trimmed and clean cut, and now his dark hair is graying at his temples. She guesses he’s no longer Ashton King.
Vivienne swallows her loathing, her desire to grab a kitchen knife and drive it into his heart, and reminds herself that this isn’t about retribution. Yet.
He comes down the steps, takes her hands, and kisses her on both cheeks. A European move. Definitely not Australian anymore.
“So who are you now?” Vivienne demands, again unable to control her visceral reaction to his presence.
“My name is István Bokor,” he says with a faint Slavic accent, bowing. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“A Hungarian count, I presume,” she says. He’s disgusting—and so very proud of it.
“I hadn’t thought of the count angle.” There are those dimples again. “But now that you mention it, that is a nice touch.”
There’s nothing else she can do but invite him in.
He takes a seat on the couch as if it’s his home instead of hers. She sits as far away from him as she can. Unfortunately the room is small.
“I’ve got some bad news,” he says, dropping the accent. “I know we discussed car
rying out our plan this summer, but I need to be in Paris longer than I expected. Business—you know how it is. So I won’t be able to get back here until the fall. Probably September or October. Will that be okay?”
“But you’re coming back? You’ll still do it?”
“Absolutely.” He looks at her fondly. “I’m here, aren’t I? Just like I told you I’d be.”
Vivienne is so relieved that it takes her a moment to realize what he’s said. George Everard is expecting her, of all people, to take him at his word. From the expression on his face, it appears he’s convinced he’s worthy of this trust. And she realizes this is his secret: he actually believes his own lies.
Before she can respond, he comes over and kneels next to her chair. “But mostly I’m here because I love you,” he says, “and I want us to be together. I want what my stupidity took from us.” His face is stricken, his eyes raw with pseudosuffering. “I want to start a new life, just the two of us. I want you back, doll.” He pulls her to him, pressing her close. He kisses her hard, then more gently.
Her lips soften of their own accord, meeting those she knows so well, swept up in the heady wonder that was George and Paulien. Then she recovers herself and breaks out of his arms. “Get away from me!” she yells, horrified by her body’s response. “Get out of here!”
He stands, takes a step back, and looks at her with great tenderness, his smile so magnetic that even with all she knows, with all her bottled-up fury, she feels it in her core. “It’s still there between us,” he says softly. “You felt my love, and I felt yours. You know I’m telling the truth: how sorry I am, how much I want to set things right.”
Telling the truth. His life is such a web of lies that he’s incapable of differentiating fact from falsehood. How many people has he devastated since she last saw him? How very sorry is he for what he did to them?
He looks at her with those dark, liquid eyes. “I’ve changed.”
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