by Amanda Rose
“Please, wait! Here us out!” Vince shouted. I owe him an ear, for everything he’s done for us over the years. I stop and turn around, facing all of them.
“It was my fault. He was trying to step in and help me out of a bad situation, and he was killed for it.” The usual jovial man looks down at the floor, tears in his eyes. My heart breaks for him, but at the same time I’m so angry. Angry at him. Angry at Killian, and his father. Maybe Simon was right.
“I wasn’t sure how to tell you, Cadence. I didn’t realize who your father was, until you told me his name in the car, or I would have stayed away from you. My family has caused you enough grief.” Killian adds. I’m numb. I can’t process any of this.
“We’ll go. We’ll be here tomorrow with food and some clothes for you. You can let us know if you want to stay with us, or Vince, or figure something else out.” Forrest says. I just nod.
“It’s probably for the best.” I say.
“I’d like to stay with you, if that’s okay.” Vince says. I just nod, and walk past everyone back the hospital room with my mom. She’s awake.
“What’s going on with the serious faces from you two?” She asks. I can’t say anything, so I lean against the wall, while Vince sits next to my mom.
“She knows.” Vince says, taking her hand in his, careful not to disturb her IV. They look at each other so longingly. It’s heartbreaking. I can’t stand it anymore.
“I’m going to go see if Lucy and Lyric got lost coming back from the cafeteria.” I say, wanting to give them some space. I leave and wander the halls, looking for my lost sister and best friend.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I open my eyes to the harsh light streaming in from the lobby windows. I’ve moved positions at least ten times, trying to avoid having to get up. I barely slept, strewn across three armless chairs, my jacket bundled up as a pillow. I sit up and roll my neck, trying to get the ache out of it. All it does it pop and hurt more. Ugh. Coffee. I need coffee. As if I summoned it, the door opens up and in walks Will and Warren, dressed in hideously ugly Christmas sweaters, each holding two cups of coffee. Oh thank God. Coffee delivered to me by two gods. I smile, briefly forgetting I’m mad at them all.
“Nice sweaters.” I say and accept the coffee that Will holds out for me. He walks over and shakes Lucy awake, who has fallen asleep sitting up against the wall, leaning her head back and snoring. How did I manage to get any sleep with that going on all night? I look around and see a few more people scattered about. After a few tries, Will finally convinces Lucy to wake up and take her coffee. I look around but don’t see Vince or Lyric. They must have stayed in the room with my mom all night.
“Rise and shine you two. We have a surprise for you.” Will says, clapping his hands loudly in front of Lucy, making her jump. She gives him brutal stare down and sips her coffee, wincing when the swill enters her mouth.
“A surprise? Guys, I just woke up. I’m not in the mood for this. I want to see my mom and start making plans to move us all into Vince’s place.” Both of their faces fall when I say “us”.
“It’s Christmas. Can you please just let us do this one thing for you? Then we’ll leave you alone.” Will says and smiles; his brows pursed in the middle giving him such a pitiful look.
“Just go, already.” Lucy says. Giving me a playful shove. I filled her in last night. On everything. The guys, Vince, my dad...Maya. She handled it a lot better than I did.
“Okay, fine.” I say and reluctantly get up. Will has to pull Lucy out of the chair and practically drag her out of the lobby. Warren takes my hand and leads us down the hall to the elevators. I’m too tired to pull my hand away.
When the elevator door opens, we’re being herded out by the guys. I’m sure my red hair looks like a demon nested in it, and I’m still wearing the same clothes from yesterday. Merry Freaking Christmas. I’m grumbling to myself, not even paying attention to where we’re going. Next thing I know, we’re entering through double doors that lead into the children’s ward. My heart sinks. I’m complaining about my hair and lack of a toothbrush, and the guys led me right into a floor full of people who have it a lot worse than I do right now. Lucy looks at me confused, and I just shrug. Before we go any farther, the guys stop us at the nurse station and give us masks. Masks and...sweaters? Lucy and I put them on, and smile at each other, in spite of our somber moods. Hers has giant kittens in Santa hats, and mine has a giant Nutcracker, of all things.
“Come on you two, they’re waiting.” Will says, and we head into a big common area full of kids and their families. They’re laughing and singing along with...my heart freezes. Sitting in the middle of the room with a guitar, leading a boisterous sing along of Frosty the Snowman, with a bunch of sick kids, is Killian. A rare smile lights up his face. Will ushers us to a couch in the corner, and it’s then I see my mom in a wheelchair; a vibrant smile plastered on her face, and Vince standing behind her.
We sit down close to her, and then, sleigh bells start to sound over the intercom. All of the children burst with excitement as a loud, “HO HO HO!” sounds from the hallway. In walks Santa Claus and two elves, named Lyric and Forrest. They are decked out in full elven gear: striped tights and pointy shoes included. Then I look to Santa Claus himself, and see Magnus’s bright blue eyes staring out from behind the horrible white wig and beard. That’s it, I can’t take anymore, and I laugh.
I sit back and watch as they pass out gifts to the kids and their families. These dangerous men, who are anything but dangerous right now in this moment. I still have a lot of questions, and I’m still angry, but I’m willing to let them explain. I’ve made my decision. I’ll move in with the guys. I’ll also help get Maya back. I take Lucy’s hand and squeeze, and she looks at me confused.
“We’re going to find Maya.” I whisper.
“Damn right we are.” She whispers back and squeezes my hand in return.
Suddenly, my phone buzzes, and I let go of Lucy to fish it out of my pocket. It’s a voicemail from the collection agency I’m working with to pay back medical bills. They can’t even leave me alone on Christmas? How’d they get this number, anyway?” I put the phone to my ear to hear the message.
“Merry Christmas, Miss King. We just wanted to say thank you for paying off your debt in full, and wish you a Happy Holiday. If you have any questions or would like a copy of your receipt, please call us back at -” I hang up the phone and look around, catching Killian’s eye as a little girl climbs in his lap trying to get him to help open her toy. He must know, because he just smiles and mouths, “Merry Christmas” at me. I don’t know what to feel or think, so I just take a deep breath and enjoy Christmas morning with my family. Tomorrow, we’ll begin to sort through this mess, together.
CB Morrigan
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Description
Shira Rose knew something was suspicious about the last minute artwork her director added to Lohse and Gottleib Gallery auction. Dropped in front of her days before her very first auction, she's tasked with proving each piece is what the director claims. Determined to prove her ability, Shira tries to authenticate the priceless paintings and sculptures.
But things aren't as simple as they should be.
One painting after another proves untraceable, and as the gallery director becomes more and more irate with her, she wonders if the problem is her, or the paintings themselves.
After working late one evening, Shira is mugged and tries to outruns her attacker. In the moment before she's caught, four brothers rescue her. The Hasmone brothers are in New York City for Hanukkah, taking care of their grandmother in the final days of her illness. They didn't plan on the complication of an attractive, smart girl.
As Shira struggles to meet her boss's expectations, one plan after another crumbles. The only thing she can rely on are the mysterious brothers
who seem to have come out of nowhere.
With the shadow of past evils closer than ever, can Shira and the Hasmones overcome the darkness haunting them?
Dedicated to Annie For support, editing, and explosive ordinance disposal.
FIRST NIGHT
Director Lohse ignored Shira’s knock. Even through the thick wood, she could hear him, yelling at the person on the other end of the phone line. Shira laid her ear against the wood to hear better.
“—I need the goddamned papers, Gottleib!”
Shira jerked her head back and stepped away from the door. She wasn’t sure what it was Director Lohse wanted, but she had every suspicion it had to do with the upcoming auction at the Lohse and Gottleib House.
A ball of nerves squeezed her stomach tight, and made the coffee she’d been drinking all day bubble warningly. This auction was Shira’s first, and what she’d been working toward since graduating with a Master’s of Fine Arts more years ago than she cared to count.
Shira had painstakingly hand selected each piece going into this exhibit and auction. For the first time, her name would be identified as curator.
Lohse and Gottleib House was a relatively new establishment, though the owners and co-directors, Bruno Lohse and Hermann Gottleib, were powerhouse brokers in the art world.
When this curator job was advertised, the opportunity made her giddy with excitement. Still, she’d done her research about the owners before applying.
Oh, she’d heard their names before, but she didn’t really know anything about them. A brief investigation into their backgrounds showed her this could be the break into the art world she was waiting for.
The list of galleries where Lohse and Gottleib had worked, or negotiated art deals, blew Shira away. Some of the galleries were places she dreamed of visiting. While the artists for whom they brokered deals had sold out shows, results in commissions Shira couldn’t fathom.
She backed down the hallway, her gaze on the director’s door. A breath of relief huffed out of her as she turned the corner.
Had she thought being a docent at the Museum of Modern Art, and an assistant educational staff had prepared her for a job as curator? If so, she was a fool. What she’d observed hadn’t prepared her for the pressure of being solely responsible for a multimillion dollar art collection.
“Forbidden.” The sign she’d helped design glared at her as she passed through the gallery on her way to her office. She’d been so excited about this collection.
And then today had happened.
Five wooden crates appeared at the gallery earlier in the day. Five crates of pieces she hadn’t prepared for, promoted, or researched.
“Galleries need a gimmick, Ms. Rose,” Director Lohse had sneered. How had she overlooked the sneering during her interview? “Ours will be the surprise appearance of art.”
Shira sat on her rolling chair and pulled herself to her desk to stare at the file folders.
There were seven days left until the auction, and Lohse expected her to seamlessly integrate the pieces he’d procured into her catalogue.
Her cell phone blazed to life, ring tone blaring so it could be heard over trucks, and drills, and construction sounds that could drown it out in the gallery.
“Shit!” Shira clapped her hand over her heart. As the name appeared on the screen, her stomach sank. Nerves that had already been strung tight vibrated and snapped. Her fingers trembled as they hovered over the phone, but she forced herself to answer. “Hello?”
“Shira? Where are you? You don’t like my latkes anymore?”
A throb began behind her left eye and she pressed her thumb against her temple. “Hi, Grandma.”
“The sun is down, the table is set, and you’re not here. Is my granddaughter, the girl I’m so proud of, on her way to light the menorah with her aging grandparents? ‘No,’ my daughter tells me. ‘She’s working late. Too busy at her job.’” In the background, Shira heard a groan, clearly her mother’s.
“I’m sorry, Grandma. I have so much to do. This is my first—”
“Yes, yes. So important. I understand, but I’d hoped your mother was wrong. ‘Somehow,’ I said to myself, ‘my granddaughter will find a way.’ I even saved a place for you at the table.”
Shira dropped her head to her desk, rolling her forehead against the wooden end. She had a feeling when she lifted it, she’d have a line imprinted into her skin, but she didn’t care. “I’m so sorry, Grandma. I’ll try to be there tomorrow.”
“Oh, it’s fine, my love. I don’t want you to get in trouble. Work is important. We’ll be here when you’re not too busy for us anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, stupidly. There was nothing else for it. She deserved every bit of guilt her grandma was heaping onto her head. Though, in less exhausted and anxious moments, she’d probably recognize the woman was pushing some of the limits on the guilt tonight. Yes, it was the first night of Hanukkah, and yes, she usually gathered with all of her family to light the menorah, but even her mother hadn’t balked when she’d explained the situation.
“I love you, sweetie. Happy Hanukkah.”
“Happy Hanukkah, Grandma,” Shira replied tiredly.
Her grandmother hung up, and she blinked. In front of her, the file folders containing the provenances of the artwork Lohse had delivered seemed to pulse. Deal with me, they said. You know you have to.
Provenance papers came with every piece of artwork Shira had ever encountered. She’d spent much of her time in graduate school poring over them, tracing the chronology from artist to owner, to gallery, to museum—all to establish that the piece was what people claimed.
In seven days, every piece of art the director had laid at her door would go up for auction. And its provenance would need to be airtight.
The theme of the auction was “Forbidden.” Shira’s catalogue contained pieces of artwork that had all been censored at one time or another.
She’d been so proud of it.
Not only had she managed to acquire paintings, but she’d had some unique pieces as well—a handwoven prayer shawl hidden by a Jewish family as they fled from Russian pogroms. An original photograph of Diego Rivera in front of his mural Man at the Crossroads, before it was taken down by Nelson Rockefeller because it included an image of Lenin.
But these? The pieces Lohse had laid at her feet and told her to include? She had no idea what they were or where they came from. She didn’t know how they would integrate into her theme, or if they did at all.
With a groan, she dropped her head to the desk again, lifted it once, and let it fall.
“Ms. Rose!” Her door swung open, hitting the back wall.
“Yes?” Shira spun to face Director Lohse. “Yes, Sir?”
“You have five of eight provenances on your desk, correct?”
Without looking, she nodded. She’d counted the files, but hadn’t opened them. “Yes, Director.”
“Have you opened them?” Director Lohse was a tall, imposing man. His gray hair was short, cut and styled perfectly, and his broad shoulders stretched the seams of his suit. He was an aging cover model, a prime example of how wealth translated into health.
He made her feel dumpy and awkward, even though she’d long ago accepted her looks and was pleased with what she saw in the mirror before leaving every day. Yes, she may be short, but she could edge around people without them noticing her when she got on the subway every morning. And no, her nose was not pert or buttony, but it was her father’s nose, and no one loved her or cared for her the way Dad did.
Without thinking, Shira ran her hand through her straight, black hair before smoothing her palms over her black skirt. “Not yet,” she finally answered.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Make sure everything is organized. Those pieces I brought in could be the difference between this collection selling or flopping.”
It took all of Shira’s strength not to lash out at the man. Her collection was
already getting good word of mouth. Just this morning she’d sat down with a Times reporter to talk about the catalogue, and the excitement it had generated. The reporter had questioned, rightly, the connection she’d made between the country’s current political unease and censorship.
Shira had no doubt that even without the added pieces, the gallery would pull in plenty of money.
Director Lohse had nothing to worry about.
Peering at him closer, she considered the man in front of her. A bead of sweat dripped down his temple, and onto the collar of his shirt, and his chest rose and fell rapidly, as if he’d run to her office.
“Are you all right, sir?” she asked.
“Of course.” He narrowed his steely gray eyes and turned on his heel. “Get that work done, Shira. Or I’ll find someone else who will.”
He didn’t bother closing the door. Spinning on the heel of his expensive-as-hell shoes, Lohse didn’t waste another moment on her, merely strode down the hall and out of sight.
Asshole. But Shira shook her head. It didn’t matter whether or not she liked her boss.
The art world was fickle and sensitive. She’d had plenty of practice dealing with temperamental artists and anxious owners who wanted to make sure the piece they had to sell ended up in the right hands. Why then, did Director Lohse’s attitude bother her so much?
Perhaps Hermann Gottleib, the owner she’d only met once, at her interview, would put her at ease. Lohse had yelled at him over the phone. Maybe it was just the sort of person Lohse became when he was under pressure.
Reaching for the cup of coffee on her desk, Shira sighed. The mouthful of dark roast was cold, but she made herself swallow. She was going to be here late, even later than she thought, with these new files to go through.