Blake nodded. “The Huntslee clan is as pompous as they come. They rose through the ranks of society thanks to Henry Huntslee’s great, great grandfather’s gritty, if not questionable real estate ventures. They’re completely caught up in outdoing everyone around them and will glue themselves to your ass if they think you’re somebody who can further their interests. Yet, they never question anything I tell them. This is your coming out party. Tomorrow, you will be introduced to the players of my world. Are you ready?”
“Charlotte Canteberry is very ready.”
And so was I.
Chapter Seven
Yacht Party. The last thought drifting across my mind as I fell asleep last night was the exact same nugget nagging me upon waking up today: how on earth was I going to select an appropriate nautical themed outfit?
When I had practically nothing to wear, the choices were few and far between and usually completely inadequate. However, I’m learning that when you have way too much to choose from, minus the knowledge of how to put any of it together, you suffocate under the options. This was me…suffocating…until I turned on my phone and had no less than eight text messages and three voicemails from Ivy, instructing me on precisely what to wear. Despite her colorful language and numerous put-downs, I was more than grateful for her help…especially now that I was standing before the Huntslee family yacht—a gargantuan, ostentatious vessel with a welcome sign reading: ‘Welcome to our humble rowboat.’ Gag.
With my red silk boat neck top draping perfectly atop my cream-colored sailor pants, I adjusted the buckle of my navy and cream striped espadrilles and slowly boarded the ‘rowboat’. Walking aboard the Vires was like boarding a battleship headed for war. Bit dramatic, yes, but amazingly accurate.
Deciding a fully sober approach to my first farce fest would be a bad idea, I promptly grabbed a champagne flute from a passing server’s tray. Shrimp, beluga caviar, and tall glasses of bubbly adorned serving trays. Men, many with cliché sweaters tied around their necks, chatted up equally pretentious women. I spotted Ivy on the starboard side working her sultry magic on a handsomely rugged gray-headed gentleman—one of the few not sporting the sweater-around-the-neck look. Sometimes I wondered if I was too harsh on this sect of society; I did tend to generalize far too much, which my gut recognized as being entirely unfair. Unfortunately, every time those guilty twinges begin to take hold, something happens to reestablish my intense dislike and broad generalization of them. Today, that ‘something’ was shallow and embarrassingly immature: Blake, looking sexy in a light blue shirt and khakis, walking towards me…with Blair attached to him like a witch’s wart. I wanted to fry, freeze, or cut her off of him.
“Hello,” said Blair, her tone as fake as her smile. “I just had to come over and introduce myself.” She appeared flustered, as though she had to work overtime to pull words out of her uptight buttocks. My calm, unchanging expression and bs smirk probably unnerved her a little. “I was just asking Blake who you were! You seem vaguely familiar, but we’re having a terrible time placing a name to your…face.”
“That’s quite all right. Charlotte Canteberry. It’s nice to meet you—”
“Blair. Blair Huntslee.”
Okay, damn. Blake conveniently omitted that rancid tidbit. “Huntslee? As in the proud owners of the Huntslee rowboat, I presume?”
Ah, insert the prototypical fake laugh. “Yes, yes. It’s our little tongue-in-cheek nickname. The Vires is actually the fifth largest in the marina.”
“You don’t say! My, that is impressive.”
She bought the sarcasm; Blake suppressed a knowing grin. Honestly, why were super rich people so gullible when presented with sarcastic compliments?
“Only the fifth largest? Weren’t you third just last year? Losing ground, Blair,” said Ivy passing us. “You’ve made decent use of the limited space, though.” She paused behind Blair, patted her on the shoulder, and kept on going.
“Riffraff,” muttered Blair before returning her attention to me. “Now then, I honestly thought I knew all of Daddy’s guests, but your name doesn’t ring a bell.” Now her tone adopted a subtly venomous edge, as if to say I, too, may be unwanted riffraff…which, of course, I was and damn proud of it.
“Wait a second,” Blake interjected. “We have met before. My charity auction over the summer, right?”
Nodding, I said, “Spot on.”
I could almost see the neon warning sign flashing in Blair’s brain. “Ah. Red dress, black heels.”
“Good memory.” I sneaked a sizeable sip of champagne.
Tightening her grip on Blake, she sneered, “You’ve certainly improved your fashion since then.”
“What can I say? I embrace my inner chameleon.”
Behind her smile, Blair’s glare was nothing short of condemning.
Blake must have noticed as well because he very quickly and convincingly said, “Hang on. Charlotte Canteberry—famed antiques aficionado?” I bowed my head slightly in affirmation.
Blair’s eyes sparkled with intrigue. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of—”
“You wouldn’t, Blair,” Blake added. “She’s somewhat of a living myth, much like that thief fellow you like to go on about.”
Huh. So, not-quite-girlfriend had a fascination with the Manx. That revelation did not sit well with me. At all.
“The Manx, you mean,” Blair eagerly supplied.
Blake grinned. “Yes. That one.”
“The one and only,” I added. Sipping some champagne with Blake’s eyes swimming in my own, I couldn’t help but wonder if we were having eye-sex right about now.
“You know of him, assuming it’s a ‘he’ of course?” asked Blair.
Shooting her a watered-down, incredulous glance, I said, “Everyone in the world of art, antiques, and jewels is aware of the Manx. I’d have to be a fool not to know of his notorious status, assuming it’s a ‘him’, as you said.”
Blake lightly licked his bottom lip. “Notorious, eh? I’ve heard the Manx called many things, but notorious was rarely one of them. Bit too generic a term, isn’t it?”
“Maybe it’s a rare description in your circles, but in mine, Mr. Traverz, the Manx is barely a step above a scoundrel.”
“I suppose it’s fortunate that scoundrels are known to possess other hidden, less common talents to help raise them from the depths of notorious and into the world of…desired.”
I grinned. “Oh, I think it’s safe to say the Manx is very much desired, Mr. Traverz.”
How delicious it was to find a mind capable of using words as a form of mental foreplay. Even more thrilling was engaging in said foreplay directly in front of someone whose brain was absolutely lost.
Blair stared blankly between us. “Whatever you call the Manx, I always wonder how the artists must feel when they see their work stolen.”
Shrugging, I said, “Grateful.”
“I beg your pardon?” questioned Blair.
“Think about it. If the artisan is still living, and the Manx steals her work, the value of said work has just skyrocketed. Same goes for the beneficiaries of an artist’s estate or owners of an artist’s work—when the Manx deems your work desirable enough to pursue, you can guarantee you have just been made into a legend. So, yeah, I think grateful is the accurate word.”
Blair narrowed her eyes on me. “Don’t you think some artists find it appalling?”
“Since most of them are dead, I guess we’ll never know.”
Blake burst out laughing.
“Right,” said Blair, staring up at Blake, the wheels in her mind clearly turning. “Charlotte, have you met Colt Krane?” She cupped my elbow in her hand.
“I…don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” I said, glancing down at her hand on me, fairly amused by her apparent desire to get me the hell away from Blake.
“Oh, he’s a doll! Hard-working fellow, chipping away at life, one job at a time. Come, you’ll love him.”
With a small glance at Blake, Blair
gently, yet determinedly tugging on my elbow, I said, “It was nice seeing you again, Mr. Traverz.”
Blake clenched his jaw. “Blake, please.”
I smirked over my shoulder and allowed Blair to walk me toward the back of the yacht.
Leaning over the railing, downing a glass of champagne, was a tall blond man. He slipped off his navy blue blazer, revealing broad shoulders and a muscular frame beneath his white shirt.
As the man slumped back over the railing, Blair called out prissily, “Colt! Oh, Colt!”
The blond man turned around. “Ah. Blair,” he replied with less than zero enthusiasm.
“I’ve brought you a brain to pick, Colt!” she trilled. “Colt, this is Charlotte Canteberry, art expert extraordinaire, or so I’m told. Charlotte, this is Colt Krane, aspiring gallery owner and current curator of Daddy’s Huntslee Museum of Art. Talk, drink, enjoy!” Flipping her hair, Blair twiddled off.
For a second, Colt and I just stared at one another. Finally, Colt said, “Was that whole thing as disjointed to you as it was to me?”
I laughed, relieved. “Yes! Thank God it wasn’t just me.”
“Not just you.” Colt grabbed two more champagne flutes off a passing tray and handed me one. “Welcome to the back of the boat with the rest of the misfits.”
“So, I’ve been exiled. Figured as much.”
“You’ll get used to the wonderfully classless ways of Blair Huntslee, the consummate bitch of New York City. Cheers.”
We clinked glasses and drank a few sips. “I take it she has too heavy a hand in your role of curator at her daddy’s museum.”
“Oh yeah,” he said, widening his green eyes. “I really need to open up my own gallery, and fast, otherwise I might end up in prison. She’s slowly turning me into a would-be murderer.”
I smiled. “Something tells me you’re not the first one to envision offing her, nor the last. At this point, I’d just like to ask her if there’ll be any actual sailing at this sailing party.”
Colt chuckled heartily. “I’ve been working for the Huntslee lot for over a year now—they never take the boat out during parties. Funny thing is, no one ever seems to notice, except me and apparently you. You really some kind of art expert? You seem awfully young to hold that title,” he said, his lip curling into a sarcastic grin.
“Some might call me a prodigy.”
“I’m impressed. Maybe you could help me at my horrible job.”
“You want my help providing Blair and her Daddy’s museum with front page worthy treasures, wherein you’ll get little-to-no credit?”
Colt cocked his head. “When you put it that way…”
We shared a laugh before Henry Huntslee’s voice summoned all of his guests to the front of the yacht.
“To the ‘in-crowd’ side we go,” said Colt. “After you.”
Once we reached the rest of the guests, we pushed our way through the group to stand just opposite an oak stand covered with a dark red sheet. Blair, her father Henry, and her mother, a twig-like creature with doe eyes and pencil thin lips set in a permanent grimace, stood beside the oak stand. Blake stood on the edge of the crowd, closest to Blair. I could feel his eyes on me as I stood beside Colt. Ivy positioned herself directly across from our boss with yet another older, stately gentleman, this one whispering in her ear.
Leaning down, Colt whispered, “Whose head do you think is under that sheet—the cook that overdid their filet mignon Saturday night or the maid who forgot to add bubbles to Blair’s bath?”
I coughed, trying to muffle what would be an ill-timed fit of laughter. “Better be careful—it could be the head of their former curator.”
Colt cleared his throat, also attempting to stifle a chuckle.
I glanced up at him and winked. As I turned back to the Huntslee clan, my gaze momentarily stopped on Blake. He studied Colt, his jaw clenching. When he shifted his eyes to me, a tiny, forced smile appeared.
“Friends,” began Henry Huntslee, “not only do we celebrate the fifth anniversary of our annual Champagne Sail, but today also marks another very special anniversary.”
Mrs. Huntslee bowed her head.
“My wife June and I are celebrating our thirtieth wedding anniversary,” continued Henry Huntslee. Everyone applauded…except Ivy; she raised her glass, downed it, and summoned a server for more, drawing Blair’s evil eye. “Because this is such a momentous anniversary for us, I wanted to do something special—to show my wife how much she means to me.”
“Yeah, because nothing says ‘sincerity’ like a boat full of ass-kissing colleagues and strangers,” muttered Colt.
“No kidding,” I replied.
“On our honeymoon thirty years ago, we traveled all around the world. On one particular stop, we joined some friends in Rome for their royal ball—yes, yes, our Rome friends are indeed royals! I don’t want to name drop!” Mr. Huntslee held his hands up, belly-laughing.
“Wow. This is really happening,” I grumbled.
Colt nodded. “If you think his pompousness is stomach-churning here, try having to sit through meetings with him.”
“At the royal ball, my beautiful new bride and I danced the night away. While we danced, I heard a tiny, overwhelmed gasp escape her. Being a young lad, I had hoped I had done something right, if you get my meaning,” bellowed Henry Huntslee, laughing.
“I hate that man’s laugh,” growled Colt.
“It’s a politician’s laugh,” I mused.
“Oh, good call,” said Colt, clinking his champagne flute with mine.
Blair’s father rattled on. “June’s gaze was fixed on an extraordinary piece of art—a sculpture so spectacular, you would swear the gods made it themselves. Come to find out from our royal friends, a designer by the name of Vireslanz was the god behind the sculpture. As some of our closest friends may know, my wife June and I have had a love of this famed artist ever since, hence the name of our rowboat, Vires. However, finding any of his work has been near to impossible.”
“Yeah, ya think,” I muttered. “Are you familiar with the artist?”
Colt shrugged. “A little.”
“There are only seven known sculptures currently in existence.”
“Whoa. I knew his work was rare, but not to that extent.”
Nodding, I said, “His career was relatively short, making his work incredibly scarce.”
“For years, I’ve had people searching the globe for his work to make my lovely June happy, but I’ve come up empty…” said Mr. Huntslee, turning to face his wife. June Huntslee’s face popped up, her expression surprisingly empty. “…Until now, thanks to the talents of my daughter. She has quite a way with people—I believe most of you have fallen for her charms a time or two,” he added with a wink.
A sudden chuckle pierced the stale air; Colt apparently couldn’t hold it back. With all eyes on him, he held up his glass to Blair. “And I am one such victim. I, uh, can’t seem to say ‘no’ to your daughter when she’s at the museum, wagging that finger.”
I snickered, Blake smiled slyly at me, and Ivy downed another glass of champagne. Blair, however, beamed. Recognizing sarcasm from men clearly wasn’t Blair’s forte.
“Indeed, indeed,” mumbled Mr. Huntslee. “Well, thanks to Blair…June, I am delighted to present to you the very thing you fell so deeply in love with on our honeymoon, besides myself, that is. I love you, my dear. Happy Anniversary.”
With a dramatic sweep of his arm, Henry Huntslee removed the cranberry cover, revealing the statue beneath. This time, the guests released a collective gasp, though I would bet many were either appalled or frightened by what they saw. No doubt the rarity of the sculpture sent many hearts racing, yet very few would see the beauty in Vireslanz’s profoundly sad, slightly warped work. Vireslanz had a way of capturing the conflict between actual truth and superficial truth. This piece was no exception. Here, Vireslanz crafted a large flower entirely out of pearl, one side of which was wilting, sagging, dying. In the middle of the flo
wer was an obscure woman’s face made of gold, one side beautiful, happy, the other deformed and angry.
The longer I stared at the piece, the worse I felt for Blair’s mom. It seems to have escaped the notice of both her husband and daughter that she felt such a strong connection to a piece such as this on her honeymoon, a time where she was supposed to feel nothing but pure joy. I glanced at June; her lips remained pulled in a straight line, and her eyes were devoid of life, masking a hurt no one saw…except me. Maybe it was because her eyes reminded me of the ones I see in the mirror every morning. Regardless, I knew I was looking at a woman who was profoundly unhappy. Here, you had a woman who lived in a world that seemed perfect—money, marriage, daughter. It just goes to show you, no matter how ideal someone’s life may appear, it could be drastically different behind closed doors. I had no doubt the walls of the Huntslee home had stories to tell.
“Am I missing something?” said Colt. “Because all I see is depression carved from pearl and gold.”
“That was the purpose of his work—not everything that’s beautiful truly is. It’s supposed to be more revealing than sad. Vireslanz always sought to emphasize the numerous facets to every thing, every being.”
Colt glanced at the piece again. “Yeah, still depresses the hell out of me.”
Smiling, I said, “Would knowing it was worth anywhere in the neighborhood of fifteen to twenty million brighten things up?”
“Jesus!” cried Colt. “Fifteen million?”
“Although—” I began when Blair’s father shouted above the crowd.
“Quiet down, everyone! Quiet down! I believe I just overheard the young lady right there tell her suitor the estimated value of this little treasure. Come up here with us, please,” said Mr. Huntslee, waving for me to join them.
Moving to stand between the Vireslanz and Blair, I took the opportunity to observe the piece more closely.
“What is your name, dear?” asked Mr. Huntslee.
“This is Charlotte Canteberry, Daddy. A self-professed expert in the arts,” supplied Blair.
Blair delivered verbal daggers quite effectively, I must admit.
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