The Thief of Hearts

by Ripley Proserpina

  Shira huffed. “You would have been disappointed soon enough.”

  “Don’t.” He squeezed her hand. “Don’t put yourself down like that. I’m not my brothers. I’m not impulsive like Pascal, or insightful like Yaphet. I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve like Ravi, but I’m telling you the truth. I would have liked to know you, Shira.”

  Shutting her eyes against the pain she knew he’d see if she looked at him, she turned away. “I’d have liked to know you too, Dov.”

  He stood. “Have a nice life, Shira. I’m sorry for everything my brothers and I put you through.” Without another word he left her. The door shut behind him with a final sounding click.

  For a long time, Shira sat there, staring after him. She imagined him driving through the quiet city streets in the early morning hours towards his brothers and grandmother.

  She imagined him hours from now, days from now, and the things that would come to pass. Would she learn of Sarah’s death? Would she be able to pay her respects?

  Tears dripped down her chin and she wiped them away angrily. She had lost something tonight. Not only had she lost the very beginnings of something magical and unnamable with four men, but she’d lost the blinders she’d worn to the world.

  Dov was wrong. She had had a part in this evil. Blindly, she’d trusted Director Lohse. If she’d done what she was supposed to, if she’d examined the initial provenances he’d given her, the ones with the gaps of ownership between the years of nineteen thirty-three and nineteen forty-five, she could have stopped this. Why had she accepted Director Lohse at his word when he’d said he’d given her the wrong files?

  She wasn’t stupid.

  Shira walked to the living room window and stared out over the city. The sky was dark blue, and she couldn’t see the stars, but the snow fluttering to the ground caught the street lights like a star shower.

  Leaning her forehead on the cool glass, Shira shut her eyes and prayed for the strength to do what needed to be done.

  Jeremy Prince, the lawyer friend Ravi had sent to help her, groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “Ravi owes me so big.”

  “I’m sorry.” Shira apologized to the man for the thousandth time in the past hour. He’d come when she’d called, even though it wasn’t yet daylight. Now, he sat across from her and banged his head on the small square kitchen table.

  She’d signed paperwork making him her lawyer, written a check as a retainer, and poured out her story.

  The first thing Jeremy had done was flip the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and bury his face in his arms. Then, as she’d gone on, he’d taken to groaning aloud. “I don’t want to know this. Shit. I don’t want to know this.”

  “So that’s it,” she said. “Can you help?”

  He laughed humorlessly. “I’m going to have to if I’m keeping you and my boys out of jail.”

  “I have everything here that proves what Director Lohse has done,” she said, sliding the provenances toward him. She’d spent hours poring over them before she called Jeremy. She couldn’t authenticate them, but, upon first glance, they seemed solid. “All the police need are the files he initially gave me, the ones that show when the pieces went missing.”

  “This isn’t my area of expertise, Shira,” Jeremy said, glancing up at her bleary eyed. “But I know the people who can help. Fuck!” He pushed back from the table and paced across the room.

  “Do this for me. The right way.” Shira could hear Sarah’s voice like she was standing right next to her.

  “Can we do this?” she asked Jeremy. “This is their legacy. It belongs to them. Do you think we can get it for them?”

  Jeremy pushed the hood back from his head. Crossing his arms, he blew out a breath and stared up at the ceiling. As she watched, he straightened and dropped his hands to his sides. “Yeah.” He nodded. “Yeah. I got this.”

  8

  The Eighth Day

  Jeremy was true to his word, but more hours of being awake than asleep were making it difficult for Shira to understand what was happening.

  Luckily, the FBI agents didn’t seem to need much from her. They’d already been watching Director Lohse and his partner.

  It turned out, Lohse and Gottleib weren’t such super stars in the art world. Unknown to Shira, they’d started their gallery because their reputations were tainted, and no one else would hire them.

  This wasn’t the first auction they’d put together with stolen art. Individually, they’d offered twenty suspected Nazi-confiscated pieces in questionable sales.

  But because of their connections, the former galleries where Gottleib and Lohse were employed had been careful not to make their suspicions widely known. After all, as facilitators of the sales, the galleries’ reputations were on the line as well.

  Quietly, the galleries contacted Interpol, who had in turn, contacted the appropriate investigative units in the cities where the directors lived. For months, these agencies had been watching and waiting.

  And the directors of Shira’s gallery had no idea.

  Shira had no idea.

  Still, the men had panicked when the pieces for their auction, the ones that promised a huge commission that would set them up for life, came with chronological gaps in their provenances.

  There was no need, as Shira thought, for the FBI, or CIA, or Mossad, or MI5, or any other spy agency she could remember, to break into the gallery in the dead of night to pilfer the provenances Director Lohse hadn’t meant for her to see.

  The FBI already had them.

  To Shira’s amazement, it had been the simplest of problems that had proved Lohse and Gottleib’s downfall: shipping.

  The fake provenances were late coming, as were the pieces Lohse wanted included in the auction. If it hadn’t been for the delay in shipping, their auction wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow.

  Shira had helped a little. Her attempts to authenticate the fake provenances had alerted all the right people in all the right galleries. So while the trap had been set well before Shira came to work at the gallery, it was her thoroughness that had sprung it.

  The door to the conference room where Shira and Jeremy had met with the FBI agents opened, and a man Shira’d never seen before entered.

  “Ms. Rose.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Aaron Galante. I’m a representative from the Israeli government.”

  Shira shot a panicked glance at Jeremy. This was her fear—she’d done her best to keep the Hasmone’s names out of the explanations, but the real provenances had come from their grandmother. And the fact of the matter was, the stolen artwork belonged to their family.

  “I work with Yaphet,” he continued significantly, dropping Shira’s hand.

  “What can you do for us?” Jeremy asked.

  “Well…” Aaron stuck his hands in his pockets and Shira studied him. He wore jeans and a black jacket, the kind college kids wore. He appeared relaxed, nondescript, but he had an air of power that even his Joe Schmoe clothes couldn’t hide. “I’m actually here because of what you can do for me.” He turned his attention to Shira. “I need you to authenticate the provenances. There’s no way I can keep the artwork from being confiscated, but it belongs to the Hasmones. It was stolen from a Jewish family during the Holocaust, and it belongs with its rightful owners. With your help, Shira, we can make sure it’s returned to them.”

  A sigh holding the weight of all her guilt and fear burst out of her. “Yes,” she answered quickly. “I’ll start now. I need a phone and a computer.”

  “Do you know where the artwork is?” Aaron asked her.

  “Some of it is still in the gallery,” she hedged.

  Aaron smiled as if he knew what she was doing. And he probably did. Shira wasn’t made for subterfuge; she didn’t know how to lie.

  “The rest of it.” Aaron yanked a chair away from the conference table and collapsed in it. “Look. I’ve been on a plane for more hours than I can count. Like I said, I can’t stop the shit from being confiscated, but I may
be able to get it back. Either the cops find it, and my friend lands in hot water, or you tell me where it is, and I get it found without it leading to him. Your choice.”

  “You can do that?” she asked. She’d be betraying Dov’s confidence.

  But maybe someday they’d understand.

  “I can.” Aaron appeared utterly sure of himself.

  “Queens,” she told him. “It’s all in Queens, except for the lamp. Sarah has it. Can you leave it with her? Please?”

  “I’ll try.” He stood and was already leaving when he called over his shoulder. “But no promises.”

  Hours later, Shira was back in her apartment. Alone.

  She’d done the best she could with the time she had, but her exhaustion finally caught up to her. She’d gone cross-eyed studying the handwriting on Sarah’s provenances.

  The good news was she’d authenticated four of them. If she could do that for the rest, there was every chance Dov, Ravi, Yaphet, and Pascal would get their family legacy. The artwork would be returned to them.

  As she showered, washing the fatigue of days off her body, she thought about the guys. Though she’d lost them, things had turned out the way they were supposed to.

  What did she think would happen? She’d date all the brothers?

  This way, they got what they came to New York for and she didn’t mess up their lives anymore than she already had. Hopefully, Ravi would forgive Pascal, and things would return to normal for them.

  But her heart didn’t agree with her.

  Shira shut off the water and stepped out of the shower. Scrubbing herself dry, she tried to quiet her heart. If she could keep her thoughts trained on the work she had ahead of her, she had a chance.

  Anytime her mind strayed to one of the guys, she mercilessly buried the thought.

  Her bedroom was dark, blackout curtains already drawn. Normally, Shira was neat about her space. But this week, her room was a reflection of her chaotic state of mind. Her bed was a nest of blankets, all kicked toward the end of the bed. Eyes already closing, she groped blindly for the comforter, pulled it up over her head and fell asleep.

  It felt like she’d only just closed her eyes when a pounding on the door made her startle awake. She lay there, heart pounding, straining to listen when it came again: bam, bam, bam.

  It was the kind of knock she expected would be accompanied by a SWAT team with a battering ram. She stumbled out of bed, but stared at the door when she got there.

  Part of her wanted to peek through the hole, while the other was afraid the door would land on her when it was battered down.

  “Shira?”

  The voice decided it for her.

  “Pascal?”

  “Open the door, Shira.” But she was already sliding the chain aside.

  The four brothers burst inside as soon as she’d turned the knob. She tripped over her feet trying to get out of their way, but before she could fall, Dov grasped her arms and helped her to the couch.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “The storage unit,” Yaphet told her. He threw himself onto her small armchair. Pascal perched next to him while Ravi took a seat on the other side of her.

  She was surrounded.

  “They raided it.” She didn’t need to ask the question; she knew what Aaron had planned.

  “Someone did,” Yaphet answered. “Though I’ve been assured by an old friend of mine that we will get the pieces back.”

  “Thanks to you,” Dov stated. He took her hand, but she was too shocked to do more than let it lay in his hands, limp as a dead fish.

  Her shoulders sagged. “Thank goodness.”

  “Director Lohse was arrested,” Yaphet went on, “though Gottleib’s in the wind. For now.”

  “He’ll turn up.” The way Pascal spoke, it sounded like a threat. Wherever Gottleib was, he wouldn’t stay undiscovered for long.

  “I’m glad.” She tried to meet each of their gazes and smile, but she was too heartsore. “So you’re good then. You’ll get your legacy, and Sarah will know everything is as it should be.”

  “Actually.” Ravi spoke for the first time. “She’s why we’re here.”

  Was he going to tell her Sarah had passed? Shira braced herself for the news.

  “Grandma has always been good at reality checks,” Dov added.

  “Yes,” Ravi agreed. “She told us…” He glanced up, toward his brothers who were nodding encouragingly. “First—she told us we needed to apologize. I’ve been trying to do that since the beginning, but this is different. Now you’ll know why I’m sorry. It was all my idea. I’m who made you think you were going to be shot. I’m the one who made you run and get hurt.”

  Poor Ravi. His guilt had been riding him hard.

  “I forgive you,” she said, quickly.

  Ravi gave a half-hearted smile before he went on. “That’s not all, though.” Again, he glanced toward his brothers before continuing. “Grandma told us that love won’t always look the way we expect it to. So we need to give it a chance before we decide to deny it.”

  Shira’s chest tightened, and she peered at Pascal. “What do you mean?”

  “We want to see where these feelings go, Shira,” Pascal explained. “We hope you’ll let us.”

  She wanted that. More than anything she wanted to see more of Ravi and Pascal. She wanted to explore the tenuous connection she felt with Dov, and hash out the mystery that was Yaphet. Each one of these men intrigued and fascinated her, exemplifying everything she thought made someone a good person.

  Honor. Loyalty. Compassion.

  “Yes,” she answered, hoping she was just the right amount of eager. “Yes. I’d like that.”

  As one, the guys seemed to relax, bodies sagging with relief into their seats.

  “We’ve got it all worked out,” Dov said, excitedly. “Yaphet claims none of the times he’s been with you could qualify as a date so—”

  Shira held up a hand. This time her smile came easily. “I’d love to go on a date with you,” she said, facing Yaphet. “But I don’t know the last time I slept. If I’m going to function and not fall asleep in my soup, I need a nap.”

  Dov glanced at his watch. “You haven’t slept?” He frowned. “I thought we woke you up.”

  “It’s the last day of Hanukkah, isn’t it?” Shira asked.

  “For five more minutes,” Pascal answered. “I can’t think of a better way to spend the last night than in bed.”

  Shira lifted her eyebrow and then giggled. “I can fit one, maybe two of you.”

  Ravi and Dov jumped to their feet. “Bed,” they said at the same time.

  Yaphet and Pascal frowned. “Don’t worry,” she told them. “The couch pulls out. You can share it.”

  She stood to go to the bathroom where she kept the clean sheets but Yaphet stopped her. “Thank you, Shira. For what you did. And for giving us a chance. For giving me a chance.”

  Pausing, Shira smiled. Each one of these men were good men. “This is the easiest decision I’ve ever made,” she told them. “I just never thought I’d get to make it.”

  Soon, Yaphet and Pascal were grumpily tucked into their sofa bed, and Shira was wedged between Ravi and Dov. Despite the cramped spaces, her body was boneless and her mind calm. Even if she was about to embark on a journey she never imagined, she was at peace with her decision.

  “Hey,” Pascal whispered from her door.

  Ravi groaned. “What?”

  “Happy Hanukkah,” he answered.

  “Happy Hanukkah,” Shira whispered.

  “Happy Hanukkah!” Yaphet yelled from the living room.

  “Happy Hanukkah, everyone,” Dov grumbled. “Now go away.”

  In the quiet that followed, Shira smiled. No matter what had happened, these men were a gift, and with a silent prayer of gratitude, she fell asleep.

  Epilogue

  “Mama! Mamamamamama!” An angry voice yelled at Shira from outside. Dropping her work bag on the cool tiled flo
or of her home, she grinned. Not one second through the door, and she was going to have to break up an argument.

  Shira passed through the quiet house, past the living room with its bright, comfortable furniture and Camille Pissarro’s painting in a place of honor into the bright backyard.

  “Mama!” Angry blue eyes clashed with hers as her little boy dropped out of a lemon tree and ran toward her. “Tell her! Tell her I can go in the big tractor!” Shira leaned over, lifting her boy into her arms. Five years old, with his father’s bright blue eyes and his uncle’s dimple, Samuel had a very keen, and very loud, sense of justice. “It’s not fair!”

  Before she could make heads or tails of his demands, Pascal came striding out of the barn, their daughter, Sarah, in his arms.

  Samuel pointed angrily at his twin. “Tell her.”

  Pascal laughed and threw their daughter into the air. Behind him, Yaphet carried a huge basket of olives. It was a new crop they were trying on their family farm in Upper Galilee.

  When, a month after they’d all been dating, the four brothers had proposed to her, and informed her of their wish to take her to Israel for the rest of their lives, Shira had been worried. She was a city girl. What could she possibly do on a farm?

  It turned out, not much.

  But she could commute to Tel Aviv Museum of Art where she was offered a job as curator in the Department of Modern and Contemporary Art.

  Now she couldn’t imagine life away from the farm and orchards, surrounded by her husbands and their family.

  “It’s not fair,” Samuel repeated. But his anger hid his hurt and he buried his face in Shira’s neck.

  “I have a feeling Papa has a solution,” she whispered in her little boy’s ear. She breathed in his scent. He smelled like soil and sunshine, and hay. He’d probably been rolling around in the barn, looking for kittens.

  “Why does Papa have all the solutions?” Ravi asked from behind her. He kissed her cheek and blew a raspberry on Samuel’s neck. “Maybe Uncle Ravi has the solution?”