His verbal vomit reminded her of Finn, and the pain of losing him washed over her again.
“Thanks, Lee,” she said, her voice tight. “That means more than you could possibly know.”
“I’d like to see what you’re working on,” he said, “if you’re willing to show me. Georgie tells me you’re keeping it hidden from the world.”
So they had talked about her, not that she could really blame them. It wasn’t a huge surprise, and considering that Georgie and Lee rarely spoke at all, this was a good thing. She wanted her siblings to be close again. Even if they were discussing her.
“I’m not letting anyone see them yet,” she said, “but I’m getting closer. And I promise to let you be one of the first.” She’d even kept them hidden from Blue.
“Are you planning to come visit?” Georgie asked in a hopeful tone.
Lee’s face went blank, although she thought she caught a glimmer of disappointment. “No. I’m much too busy here, and Victoria never wants to go to Asheville again.”
“Come without her,” Georgie said.
“Yes,” Adalia added a little too quickly. “Please leave her at home.”
He hesitated. “We’ll see.” He glanced at his phone. “I’ve got to get back to the office, but rest assured, Dad hasn’t caught wind of any of this. Your secret is safe.”
Adalia threw her arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. “I love you, Lee. Thank you.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Love you too. Now stay out of trouble.”
She knew he was teasing by the gleam in his eye. “I’ll try,” she said with a laugh. “No promises.”
Georgie gave him an awkward hug goodbye, and he hailed a cab and left. The sisters were silent for a moment. Then Georgie said, “We have a few hours to kill before we need to catch our flight. Do you want to go shopping or visit a museum?”
While normally she’d love to do either of those things, her stomach twisted.
“Can I take a rain check? There’s something I need to do first.”
An hour later, Adalia was sitting at a table at the same coffee shop, alone now—Georgie had left to go shopping. Already buzzed from her fourth cup of coffee for the day, Adalia waited anxiously, clutching cup number five.
The atmosphere in the room seemed to change the minute he walked through the door with an air of self-importance that she’d once mistaken as confidence. With thick salt-and-pepper hair and intense eyes, he was still handsome in a striking way, only it struck her as cold now. His gaze landed on her, scrutinizing her as he made his approach.
“Adalia,” he said as he reached her table. “You always had a way of making things difficult. Couldn’t you have picked a place closer to the art school?”
“I flew in from North Carolina,” she said in a dry tone. “The least you could do was take the subway to meet me.”
His nose wrinkled. “Subway?”
She’d purposely made the subway remark, knowing full well he refused to ride in anything so plebeian and full of germs.
He took the seat opposite her and gave her a once-over, his eyes filling with lust. Maybe he liked the businesswoman look she had going on. He’d always been after her to adopt a more “mature” style. “I’ve missed you, Adalia, and I’ve decided to be the bigger person and forgive you.”
Her eyes flew wide.
“You’re willing to forgive me?” she asked, keeping her voice neutral, not an easy task.
“I’m willing to put aside this misunderstanding and move forward,” he continued. “Of course, there would have to be changes.”
“Changes?” she asked, beyond curious what this delusional fool had in mind.
“Yes. We’d need to rebuild trust, of course, so there would be some harsh restrictions.”
“Of course,” she said in a reasonable tone. “First, you wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near my work.”
He blinked, confusion covering his face. “What? No.” He pushed out a sigh. “Adalia, I can see there has been a huge misunderstanding about the gallery incident, so I propose that we use both of our names next time so there will be no hurt feelings.”
“I’m sorry?” she said, fighting the urge to blast him. “You think I’m going to let you claim ownership of more of my work? There was no misunderstanding.”
“Adalia,” he said, his tone condescending. “We both know you couldn’t have created those pieces without me. Me putting my name on them was no different than Michelangelo putting his name on work his apprentices had done.”
“Only, Michelangelo actually did work on those pieces,” she said, shaking her head as she reached for her purse. “Thank you for that. I needed to hear how you’d justified what you did, and now that I know, I look forward to never hearing from you again. We’re done.”
Panic filled his eyes. “You can’t go.” When she got up and started to walk toward the door, he grabbed her wrist and held her in place. “You’re nothing without me, Adalia. Just a two-bit hack who didn’t even have the talent to finish art school. Don’t you even think of walking out on me.”
He wasn’t saying anything new, but this time she saw his words for what they were—a desperate attempt to control and use her. To bleed the talent from her so his own well wouldn’t run dry.
“You know,” she said evenly, “I almost feel sorry for you. You must really be scraping the bottom of the barrel to be threatening an art school dropout and a hack to create your art. Worried the world will figure out that I have more talent in my pinky fingernail than you have in your entire body? You know what they say—those who can, do, and those who can’t, teach.”
Anger flashed in Alan’s eyes, and his hand tightened around her wrist, painfully twisting the skin. “You’re just jealous of my talent and deluded enough to think you can be something without me. You’ll be sorry, Adalia.”
“I already am sorry, Alan, but I’m rectifying that now.” She wrenched her arm free and took a few steps before turning back to face him. “Oh, and if you ever contact me again, I’ll slap you with a restraining order so fast it will make your head spin.”
She left him sputtering about her ingratitude while several customers clapped and cheered loudly. At the door, she turned back and bowed. Then she walked out.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Turned out it was hard work, ruining a man, even if he was the sort who’d left a long trail of destruction in his wake.
Sean had been all too willing to put Finn in touch with his sister, Sorcha.
Alan had put the moves on her while she was a student, plus she knew someone who claimed Alan had stolen his idea for a sculpture.
He’d followed those threads, with help from River and Maisie…and found more and more. Some of the people they’d spoken to had attempted to turn Alan in, only they’d encountered resistance from the school. Which made this an even bigger story.
In the meantime, Finn had gotten in touch with a reporter for The New York Times, a favor he had somewhat shamefacedly called in with the Fortune reporter who’d written about him. He hadn’t given any names, but he’d explained that he knew of a prominent art professor in New York who had a long history of seducing students and stealing from them, and the reporter was on the hook. She wanted what he had.
The question was whether he should give it to her.
“No,” Maisie said. It was their second Tuesday meeting since the revival of the Bro Club in Dottie’s kitchen. This time they’d returned to the Taco Tuesday restaurant. Being there reminded him almost viscerally of Adalia, but then again, most things did. Besides, it actually was Taco Tuesday, and it felt good to be there with his friends, almost like old times.
“You can’t just out him on your own. That’s like mansplaining to the tenth degree. You’ve put together a pretty slick portfolio on the dude. Enough for that reporter to take it and run with it. I say you give it to Adalia and let her make the call. Show her you care about what she thinks.”
He glanced at River, who sh
rugged. “My impression is that Adalia does want Alan to suffer consequences. Things went really well with the gallery, but they’re not going to take any action against Alan. It would be the opposite of good publicity to admit they almost exhibited stolen pieces. Which is fine since they believe Addy, but I don’t know…it’s still not right. Apparently Adalia met up with Alan when she was in New York—”
Finn bristled, and River held up a hand. “Just for closure. He was totally unremorseful. She’d like to stick it to him, but she doesn’t want to relive everything, or to get Buchanan Luxury rolled up in the mess. She and Georgie hate dealing with their father more than they have to. You’ve come up with a way to ensure Alan pays without mentioning her name. I think she’ll go for it.”
“Sure,” Maisie said hotly. “But it needs to be her choice.”
“You’re right,” Finn said. “I mean, Mr. Darcy just went for it, but then again, it was the nineteenth century. It wasn’t exactly a banner time for women’s rights.”
“Man, you are taking this Pride and Prejudice thing way too far,” Maisie said.
She had no idea. He’d actually read the book, something Adalia’s mother had read to her when she was a kid, but he wasn’t about to admit to that.
River just shook his head a little, a smile playing on his lips. “I never thought I’d see you like this over a woman. I have to say, it’s kind of refreshing.”
“You’re only saying that because you’ve gone all cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs too,” Maisie said. “Both of you have officially lost it.” She said it almost fondly, though, without any noticeable strain of bitterness.
“It’ll happen to you too,” River said. Finn wanted to swat him, although he doubted Maisie would thank him for it.
Something flashed in her eyes, but she just said, “No, thanks. I’ve made a conscious decision to stay single. Two saps are enough for this group. Especially when this one”—she pointed at Finn—“is stuck in overdrive mode.”
“Well, if you think I’ve already gone too far, wait until you hear my other idea,” he said.
So he told them. Maisie thought he was nuts. River piled on and said he had more peanuts than a Snickers bar, to which Finn replied that he’d never thought they had quite enough. This led to a semiserious discussion about ranking candy bars, broken up when the server arrived with another round of margaritas. It was the same woman who’d waited on Finn during his last two visits, and she’d been eyeing him with trepidation, as if she feared he’d start dancing on the table, wearing the chip basket as a hat.
“Maybe I am nuts,” he declared.
“Aha!” Maisie said, lifting her margarita up for a toast. “He finally admits it.”
He clinked glasses with her and then with River, who added, “If it’s nuts to love PayDays, then I’m nuts too. To being nuts!”
Finn took a sip and then shrugged. “Nuts or not, I’m doing it anyway.”
“So when is this going down?” Maisie said. “I only ask because I want to hide from the shrapnel.”
She said it glibly, and he was reasonably sure it was a joke.
“This weekend. I need to go to Charlotte first.”
“Good luck,” River said. They all knew he’d need it. Talking to his parents was almost always a recipe for frustration.
He went up to Charlotte on Friday, by which time he had even more ammo in his Alan takedown portfolio. Part of the reason his plan had taken so long to execute was because he was also working on his business. He’d managed to secure an office on the South Slope starting next month—an open, bright, loft-style space with a conference room—and he’d even interviewed a few candidates to join his team. One of them was probably going to work out—a recent business school graduate who’d already sold the idea for an app allowing people to trade their fresh garden produce. Another of the candidates had spent nearly his entire interview talking about how magnets could be used to communicate with the aliens. Finn had bitten his tongue, but he tried it on his fridge as soon as he got home. Nothing.
The Summer in January Beerfest he’d conceptualized for Bev Corp was also moving full steam ahead. Most of the other local brewers had agreed to participate, thanks in part to Buchanan Brewery’s inclusion and, Finn suspected, some kind intervention on River’s part.
Charlotte Robotics had already begun implementing some of the ideas from his launch plan. Sean and Mo were over-the-moon excited, and so was he.
According to Dottie, she and Adalia had finalized the lineup for the Asheville Art Display. She’d had an almost mischievous look on her face when she told him, as if she knew something he didn’t. Which, to be fair, she usually knew plenty of things he didn’t. She’d also mentioned that Blue was knitting Tyrion as a surprise for Adalia. God, she would love that.
Professionally speaking, it was the most exciting time in his life, but something was missing…or more accurately, someone. It gave everything a strangely hollow feel.
He spent the morning in back-to-back meetings with Sean and Mo and the rest of the staff at the Charlotte Robotics office. The work was both exhausting and invigorating. It helped that he liked them so much, that he was invested in their success.
At the end of the day, Sean asked if he could have a private word with him, and they stuck around the conference room to talk.
“Sorcha says you’re looking to take that guy down,” Sean said. “The pervy professor guy, I mean.”
“I hope so,” Finn said. “He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it. The art school either.”
“Good. Sorch doesn’t like to admit it, but the whole thing disturbed her. After going to Lanier she even talked about leaving art, doing something else entirely. But it didn’t take.” He smirked. “Art’s in the blood, my parents say. You can’t deny it because you are it.”
“Yeah, I think that’s how my friend feels,” Finn said.
“Must be some friend,” Sean said, clapping him on the back.
“She sure is.”
Between what Dottie had said about the show and some cryptic hints from River, Finn suspected Adalia might have finally started working on her art again. He hoped so. He wanted that for her, as much as he wanted Hamilton Consulting for him. (He could already hear her teasing him—you would use your own name—which, in all honesty, was part of the reason he’d done it.)
He took his leave and headed back to his parents’ house for dinner. It was already early evening, and his mother had suggested that he arrive by six o’clock for pre-dinner drinks and appetizers. Honestly. It was just three of them. What were they, the Vanderbilts?
But he needed to talk to his parents—to be straight with them about his intentions—and it would be best if he made a timely appearance. He’d texted his father beforehand to warn him, in no uncertain terms, that if there was another unscheduled guest, particularly if that guest was Charlotte, he’d speak in verse throughout dinner.
I’m pretty sure even Charlotte will notice that.
Grow up, Finn, his father had answered.
I’m working on that. Truth is, I need to talk to you about a woman. Might not go well if we have this conversation in front of someone you’re trying to set me up with.
His father hadn’t responded, which either meant that he had been planning another setup and would, hopefully, cancel it, or that he didn’t wish to dignify the message with a response.
There were no unfamiliar cars in the drive, which he took as a hopeful sign.
His mother opened the door for him, like she usually did.
“Your dad says you’re still seeing that woman you mentioned on your last visit,” she said after he kissed her cheek. She led him into the living room, which was conspicuously empty except for a platter of various appetizers, some fizzy-looking drink and a tumbler filled with what appeared to be bourbon. “I know you care for bourbon, so I took the liberty of ordering for you,” his mother explained. “Now, can you tell me about your friend?”
“Where’s Dad?” he asked, surpr
ised.
“At work,” she said. “He’s going to be there until at least six thirty. I figured it would give us some time to talk privately.”
“Oh,” he said, caught off guard. When had they ever had a private chat? His father was the sort who had an opinion about everything and never shied away from expressing it. It seemed unlikely that he was aware of this arrangement—unless his parents had decided together that his mother had a better chance of gently discouraging him. Neither of them would get very far if that was their aim, but he’d listen to what she had to say and hope for the best.
“Well?” she asked. “I’d like to hear more about this woman who’s made such an impression on you.”
He took a hefty sip of the bourbon, trying to find words for what Adalia meant to him.
“Her name’s Adalia,” he started, savoring the sound of it. “She’s incredibly brave. She doesn’t see it, but it’s apparent in everything she does. In who she is. Most people try to hide their emotions, their worries and fears, but she pours herself into everything she does. She puts it into her art, for everyone to see. She’s more herself than anyone I’ve ever known.”
“So she’s an artist,” his mother said with a furrowed brow, as if he’d said she were an exotic dancer. “What about her family?”
A smile twitched on his lips. “Dad would approve of her father, I bet. He runs a luxury real estate company in New York. He’s also a huge dick.”
“Language, Finn,” his mother said, but it lacked any heat.
“I’m in love with her,” he said.
He’d expected surprise or maybe an objection—something along the lines of: You don’t know what love is until you’ve met someone with a solid investment portfolio and an heirloom set of pearls. But she simply nodded. “I thought as much.”
Better Luck Next Time Page 32