It’s suddenly too much. Revealing so much of myself to him, feeling like he sees me, understands me, after I’ve been all alone for so long. It’s overwhelming.
“I’m sorry, will you excuse me for a minute?” I bolt up from my seat.
“Is everything all right?” he asks, standing as I stand like a perfect gentleman.
“I’m fine, I just need to visit the ladies’ room. Be right back.” I walk away like I’m not having a panic attack inside. What am I doing here? Who do I think I am, out at a fancy restaurant in designer clothes with a gorgeous, smart man – not to mention, worth billions?
But it’s not about the money, it’s about him. He’s kind, and perceptive, and actually cares about what I think. That’s about as rare as a unicorn in this city. There has to be a catch. It’s not insecurity, it’s just plain common sense that makes me wonder what he sees in me.
In the bathroom I run cold water and splash a little on my cheeks and on my neck to calm down. I take a deep breath and see myself in the mirror, eyes still rimmed with kohl pencil, hair still pinned and loosely falling like a prom ‘do, like I’m dressed up for a ball where I don’t really belong.
St. Clair sure seems like Prince Charming, except this is real life and not a fairy tale. Not everyone gets happily ever afters here.
“You can always choose to be happy,” my mom used to say.
“No you can’t,” I retorted once, after a first boyfriend broke my heart. “What if they leave you behind?”
“You can always make the choice to see the bright side, the bright spot that lets you get up tomorrow. Choosing to be happy doesn’t mean you get up and dance whenever things go wrong. It means you refuse to allow the sadness to rule your life, refuse to allow other people’s actions to dictate your emotions.”
She hugged me.
“Do you have to wait for happiness to find you?” I said. “Or can you chase it?”
“You can chase it, baby,” she said, smiling wide. “Chase it your whole life.”
I wish my mom were here, but I know what she would say about this freak out: it’s just fear. And she’d be right. Don’t give up on this happiness because it seems too good to be true.
I head back out to the table determined not to let my insecurities ruin the sparks between St. Clair and me, but my heart sinks when I see him standing by the exit, his phone in his hand. The table’s been cleared, and he has an apologetic look on his face.
“I’m terribly sorry, but I’m going to have to cut our evening short,” he says. “Something urgent has come up at work.”
“I understand,” I lie, forcing a smile. “No worries.”
The waiter comes over with bags of food, packed up in to-go boxes.
“I didn’t want this delicious feast to go to waste,” St. Clair says. “My driver will take you home. It’s the least I can do for disappearing on you.”
As we take the elevator down together, I wonder if there really is a work emergency. But St. Clair seems genuinely regretful for bailing like this. “At least you didn’t spill coffee on me,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m still waiting for you to get even.”
“Damn! That was on the agenda for later.” He grins and moves closer to me. “I guess we’ll just have to do this again sometime.”
I let my body drift closer. “I might be into that.”
St. Clair rests a hand gently on my arm, and then he’s leaning into me, so close I can feel his breath on my lips the moment before his mouth finds mine.
He kisses me slowly, taking his time as if savoring me like a fine wine. His lips roam over mine, and then he grazes my lower lip, biting lightly. My whole body comes alive, demands to touch him, and I press against him, eager for more. He eases my lips open and slides his tongue into my mouth, and I melt at the sensuous feel of him—
Ding! The elevator doors open and I blink back to reality, the spell broken.
St Clair. clears his throat. For a moment he looks dazed, before regaining his composure. “My, uh, driver, will take you home and get your number.” He lands a brief kiss on my forehead. “Sweet dreams, Grace,” he says and then he’s gone.
His driver appears and leads me to the limo, but I barely notice a thing all the way home. I’m lost in the memory of his kiss. Our first kiss.
I only hope it’s the first of many.
CHAPTER 7
Oh, the joys of a day off!
It’s still early when I awake to the familiar sounds of the restaurant downstairs. I make myself coffee and get back in bed. I roll under the covers and replay pieces of last night’s date over and over in my mind: when we talked about art, when he understood and took my hand across the table, when he kissed me in the elevator.
God, that kiss knocked me for a loop. Talk about hot. I mean, I don’t have a ton of experience, but I could barely walk after a ten-second kiss. Imagine what he can do with the rest of his body…
My phone pings. It’s him.
Apologies again for ending our date so abruptly. I had a great time and hope you did as well.
He had a great time! I feel like doing cartwheels, like I’m back in middle school.
Be cool, Grace, be cool.
I did, I text back. Paige would be proud.
It’s a beautiful sunny Sunday morning, a rarity for North Beach, so I throw back the covers and get out of bed. I’m feeling good, basking in the warm glow of this week. Even if things didn’t go exactly as I’d planned, I feel happy and hopeful about my new opportunities, Carringer’s and St. Clair too. After feeling trapped under a dark cloud for so long, it finally feels like there are blue skies ahead.
He texts again as I’m getting out of the shower. Looking forward to seeing you again.
“I want to see so much more of you next time, preferably out of your clothes” is not an appropriate response, so instead I write back, Can’t wait. I give up on removing the sappy grin from my face, and decide to use this positive energy for more good.
I get dressed and pack my sketchbook as well as some of the leftover dim sum from last night and take the bus up to the Legion of Honor Museum, one of my favorite places in the city. The bus takes a winding dirt road up a steep hill overlooking the San Francisco Bay and drops me off in front of the gorgeous museum building, done in the French neoclassic style. There’s a big white stone archway with intricate carvings, huge stone lion heads with majestic carved manes on the pillars as guards, columns ringing a courtyard with Rodin’s The Thinker poised atop a pedestal in the center.
The other tourists all head into the museum, but I wander through the archway that leads out back to the lawn. Here, the cliffs overlook the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge: one of the best views in the city. I stop as soon as I see the blue expanse of the ocean. It takes my breath away every time—and today is a rare treat, shimmering sunlight dancing on top of the cerulean water, sparking like fireworks under the massive orange bridge.
It was winter when I scattered mom’s ashes in this exact same spot. Mom didn’t want to be buried. She always said she didn’t want to be put in some grave in the middle of nowhere that I would feel obligated to visit, so she left instructions in her will to be cremated, and for me to scatter her ashes in a place I loved. I could almost hear the unspoken suggestion: someplace we both loved, somewhere we loved going together.
I deliberated for months after the cancer finally took her. It happened so fast, Mom didn’t even tell me about the diagnosis at first, she thought she’d have more time. I was already away at college on the East Coast, settling in to the demanding schedule and trying to keep up with my classes and my part time job. Mom didn’t want to ruin my college experience, so she kept quiet about it during our phone calls, delaying the inevitable as long as she could.
But she couldn’t put it off forever. Near the end of my freshman year, a neighbor called me and said Mom had collapsed while out grocery shopping, that she was too weak to keep taking care of herself alone. I was so confused. “What do you m
ean?” I asked.
“With the cancer, dear,” she said.
I couldn’t even say the word out loud. “She’s sick?”
I was on the next plane back to Oakland that same day. But the cancer was already advanced too far to treat. “There’s nothing the doctors can do,” Mom told me, looking so pale and weak, laying on the sofa. “There’s nothing you can do.”
But she was wrong. I could be with her for the time she had left, so she wouldn’t go through it alone. I came home, giving up my summer abroad in Italy. I did my best to care for her body and keep her spirits up. I would drive us up the Oakland hills to vista points so she could see the view from the car windows when she was too weak to walk, and take her on trips into the city for architecture tours. I fed her clam chowder in bread bowls at the pier, and listened to the bark of the piles of sea lions, let the sun warm our faces while the wind cooled our fingers. We sat for long stretches, just watching the world: the beauty, the art in the everyday movement of light on water, of birds in flight, of love on people’s faces – all the way to the end.
Now, I look out at the ocean, and know she’s somewhere there, a part of her at least, forming the beauty that we all enjoy every day. “I love you, Mom,” I whisper and blow a kiss to the air I like to imagine is still swirling her ashes along in beautiful faraway places.
I almost imagine I hear her say she loves me back. Even if it’s just a trick of the wind, it makes me smile.
“You’re it!” a kid behind me yells, pulling me out of my painful memories. Several more children run by, laughing and calling “not it!”
I’m reminded that the past is resting now; that it’s a beautiful day, and I can’t let a moment of it go to waste. So I head back inside to immerse myself in the gorgeous art, revisiting each room like old friends: the Monets and Cezannes, the mottled brushstrokes and bright vivid colors, the flowers and garden scenes like something out of a fairy tale, and of course, the sculpture garden. I have a seat under Rodin’s masterfully emotive sculptures, faces that look like real people. He manages to evoke the feelings in his subjects, the expressions frozen in place in a way that is only possible with the utmost attention to detail and skill with his hands.
I unpack my picnic, which thanks to St. Clair is a cut above my usual sandwiches. The leftovers from dinner are still moist and delicious, and as I eat, I find myself thinking about St. Clair again. He was thoughtful to have the wait staff wrap this food up for me, but that’s him to a T: always the gentleman, even texting today despite his busy lifestyle.
I can’t imagine what goes into running a massive successful corporation like he does. How can a person ever feel settled with his hectic schedule? Always traveling, hardly ever sleeping in his own bed, never able to just veg in his pajamas and watch TV or have dinner with a girl without getting called out for a work emergency.
I can still feel his lips on mine.
I wonder what he’s doing now, if he’s thinking of me. He’s probably handling some financial transaction worth millions of dollars, but I’m glad to have the opposite of that lifestyle right now: a free day with my sketchbook and yummy dim sum, salty ocean air and vista views, and art all around. What more could a girl ask for?
I lick some plum sauce off my fingers and pull out my pencils, and soon I’m busy shading and sketching the statues, the white stone columns of the Legion of Honor building, the iconic golden bridge above the shining blue bay. The world melts away, and for a moment at least, I’m totally at peace.
CHAPTER 8
Monday morning, I arrive at Carringer’s to find police cars parked out front, their red and blue lights still flashing. The huge doors are propped open and police officers are milling about on the front steps.
“You can’t go in,” one of them says as he blocks my path.
“I work here!” I protest, digging out a security badge. He studies it suspiciously, then finally stands aside and lets me pass.
Inside, the scene is even more chaotic. There are at least a dozen more cops in here, speaking into walkie talkies, standing around looking official. There’s even a German Shepherd cop dog sniffing around.
What the hell happened?
I see Chelsea rush by, a panicked look on her face. “Hey!” I catch her arm. “What’s going on?”
“You didn’t hear?” She blinks. “There was a robbery, Saturday night, they think.”
“Oh my God,” I gasp. “What was stolen?”
“The Judgment of Paris,” she says as two cops pass us, carrying boxes of files.
“But what about security?” I ask, confused. “This place is like Fort Knox.”
“I know, right?” Chelsea leans in, whispering, “There’s no sign of forced entry, nothing suspicious on the tapes. It’s a total mystery.”
“The police must know something.”
“They have no idea what happened,” she says, looking around. “Everybody’s being interviewed, they were quizzing me for like, an hour.” She suddenly seems to realize who she’s talking to. “But they probably won’t bother with janitorial staff,” she adds with a smug smile. “It’s not like you’d know anything.”
We’re interrupted by Stanford, looking stressed.
“Chelsea,” he says. “Get back upstairs, now. Those papers need to be dealt with. And Grace, there is still filing to be done.”
“But…” I gesture at the police presence. Everyone is whispering, but the voices and footsteps echo through the big rooms and columned lobby. “Are you going to just pretend all these guys aren’t here investigating?”
“We are going to work as long as we can,” he says, shaking his head at me. “Now, get!”
I head downstairs. The basement is crawling with cops, too, and I have to squeeze through four different uniforms and show each of them my badge to get to the giant filing room. To my surprise, Lydia is here, directing the traffic flow of file boxes being carried in and out by policemen and Carringer’s employees. I’m about to ask if she needs help when a tall, rugged-looking man walks in. He’s wearing dark jeans and a crisp shirt, and although he looks casual, he’s clearly in charge. “Nick Lennox,” he says to Lydia, flashing some kind of badge. “Interpol, special projects.”
She doesn’t hide her impatience. “How can I help you?”
He clears his throat and plants his feet wider on the floor. “I need all your security footage from the last month as well as blueprints for the buildings. Plus a list of all employees and delivery drivers, and anyone else who had contact with this building in the last thirty days.”
Lydia looks stricken, and under better circumstances, I might enjoy her squirming. “Is that all necessary?” she asks. “I, uh, well, we’d like to keep this as quiet as possible.”
“Your company’s reputation isn’t my concern.” He stares her down. “The only thing I care about is finding that painting. Are we going to have a problem here? Because if I need to call your boss…”
I brace for Lydia’s rampage, but instead she backs off. “No, that’s fine. I’ll do whatever is necessary to help the investigation.”
“Good. You can start by providing a client list of who bid on the painting at the auction. Who had the winning bid, in the end?” Lennox asks.
“That would be Charles St. Clair.”
Lennox quirks an eyebrow. “Interesting. I’ll need to speak with him.”
“You, and our insurance agents too.” Lydia looks pale. “The deed transfer hasn’t gone through. We’ll take the full hit for the value of the painting.”
“Like I said, not my problem.” Lennox shrugs. “Let me know when you have the information I need.”
He turns and catches me watching them, so I quickly slink away back to work. I find a corner to avoid everyone’s frayed nerves and get into the groove of filing again until Stanford finds me amid the dust motes. “Where have you been!?” he demands.
“Where you told me to be,” I say. “I live to serve you.”
“Save the humor for a
day when we don’t all face total ruin.” Stanford sighs. “Come on, it’s your turn to face the inquisition.”
He leads me upstairs to Lydia’s office. I notice three cop dogs sniffing around the lobby and hallways now. People are still on edge, jumpy, and when I enter the office, I find the agent from the basement looking comfortable behind Lydia’s desk.
“Umm, hi. They said you wanted to speak with me?” I hover, uncertain. I don’t know what I can offer to help with the investigation.
“Thanks, take a seat.” Lennox flips his little leather notebook open and skims a few pages. “I’m the lead agent on these cases, so I just have a few questions.”
Cases? As in more than this one? “Have there been other robberies?” I ask, sitting across from him.
He looks up, eyebrows raised. “That’s confidential for now.”
“Sorry.” I flush.
He smiles suddenly, and I realize he looks way more handsome when he’s not scowling. “There’s nothing you need to worry about. Now Miss…” he glances at his notebook, “Bennett. Some routine questions. How long have you been employed by Carringer’s?”
“I just started last week, so I’m not sure how much help I’ll be.”
He looks at his notes again and seems to get focused. “I heard that you were the one who bid on the stolen painting?”
“Yes,” I answer, suddenly a bit anxious. “Mr. St. Clair had to take a call and asked me to bid in his place.”
“Were there other high bidders who seemed upset to lose?”
“Just one. This guy Andrew Tate. He seemed angry, but more about losing,” I say, remembering his sexist jokes. “Maybe about losing to a woman. But he didn’t actually care about the painting.”
Lennox jots a few things down. “Did you have access to the storage area?”
“No.”
“You were seen down there on Friday before the auction.”
“Oh, that!” Crap. God, interrogations are definitely harder than they look on TV. Who remembers every detail of their days? “I was sent back there to get chairs.” I shrug. “I’m the help. I do what I’m told.”
The Art of Stealing Hearts Page 6