Page 40 of Ungodly Rich

Surprise had flickered in Harry’s eyes—and also something bright and eager, something that Julia thought was hope. “Really? Are you sure?”

As hard as it was to admit, Tara had been right. Harry needed some time near his family, to rebuild all the bridges he had burned threeyears ago. Julia couldn’t fix his relationships for him; only Harry could do that. But she could make things easier for him, by agreeing to come to New York. At least then he’d have the space and time he needed to make things right.

“If New York is where you need to be, then it’s where I need to be, too,” she’d assured him.

It had taken a depressingly short time to dismantle the life they had built in Queenstown. Within days they had broken their lease, quit their jobs, packed their clothes into suitcases, and given away everything else: the mismatched flatware and battered coffee table; the dresser that Harry had assembled himself, losing screws under the bed, making silly jokes about needing to screw. All of it was wiped away within days, as if their life in New Zealand had been nothing but a dream. Then they had boarded a first-class flight to JFK and come to stay with Harry’s parents on the Upper East Side.

Julia knew it was only temporary. She and Harry would start looking for an apartment as soon as they settled on a neighborhood, and—at least in her case—on a budget. And she knew she had no grounds to complain, given that they were staying in a penthouse. But it frustrated her that she and Harry were still in separate rooms, even now that they were engaged.

Her uncle Daniel squeezed into the frame. “Julia! Congratulations again on the engagement. We’re so thrilled for you and Harry.”

“I hope you’ll visit soon, and a lot more, now that you’re so close!” Aunt Jess jostled her husband to the side, trying to get a good look at Julia. “You should bring Harry’s parents, too, of course. I just redid the guest bedroom. It has the loveliest new quilt, and we cleaned out all those books in the closet.”

Julia couldn’t picture Bruce and Tara Ellene in her aunt and uncle’s guest bedroom.

“I’m not sure they’d be able to join,” she said swiftly, “but why don’t Harry and I send you a couple of weekends that work for us?”

Her aunt frowned. “Daniel and I really should meet them, now that you’re planning a wedding. We’re happy to come to New York, of course. But don’t the Ellenes want to visit Marietta so we can startwedding planning? There’s a new venue outside of town, an old barn that’s turned into an event space. Mary Beth’s daughter just got married there, and it was—what do they say on Instagram?—veryrustic chic.”

As if Tara would go anywhere that prided itself on beingrustic chic,let alone plan a wedding in Marietta. “Harry and I haven’t gotten a chance to discuss location just yet,” Julia said evasively.

Her aunt and uncle exchanged a glance. “Weddings are supposed to be in the bride’s hometown,” Aunt Jess sniffed.

Daniel put a warning hand on his wife’s shoulder, then looked back through the phone screen at Julia. “As long as you’re happy. I just don’t want Harry’s family thinking they can hijack the wedding because they’re rich.”

Of course, Tara would hijack the wedding; Julia had already resigned herself to it. The very day she and Harry had announced the engagement, the Ellenes had quietly assured her that they would be paying for everything. If the Dodds were footing the bill, the wedding would have been a modest affair, in their backyard or perhaps this new country-chic barn. But Julia knew the Ellenes would have been appalled by that, and she wanted them to approve of this marriage, even if her family couldn’t afford the type of party they were used to.

“You know, we may not be millionaires, but we do have some money set aside for your wedding,” Aunt Jess remarked, after a beat. “We can’t let the Ellenes cover everything. We plan to contribute.”

“Can you put me in touch with Harry’s father? I’ll send him a check,” Daniel chimed in.

Julia’s heart swelled with love for her aunt and uncle. They had never intended to have children, and yet here they were, acting like an overprotective mom and dad.

“That’s very generous of you,” Julia told her uncle, though she suspected that the sum total of her “wedding fund” was a rounding error for the Ellenes.

“I have to get going. I have a meeting,” she told them. “I’ll call again soon, all right?”

Once they’d said their goodbyes, Julia rose and turned ontoNineteenth Street, checking the numbers as she passed. There was a deli, a dry cleaner, an old brownstone with a sign that Julia thought was a literary agency, or perhaps an independent publishing house. Julia felt her mood lifting as she walked down the block. It was hard to feel worried about anything in New York in June. The city felt warm with the heady first rush of summer, everyone wearing sundresses and rushing eagerly to internships or happy hours, to parties or the park.

She’d briefly lived in New York, the summer before senior year. She and Abby had shared Abby’s old high school room on the Upper East Side, in exchange for taking care of the family’s cats all summer. Abby’s parents kept inviting the girls to come to Nantucket for a weekend, but Abby and Julia were happy in the city, Julia working at a nonprofit, Abby at a tech startup. On the weekends they met up with friends from school, flashing their fake IDs at one of the bars on the Lower East Side, where they would drink too many beers and sing woefully off-key karaoke before coming back to collapse in their twin beds, surrounded by the paraphernalia of Abby’s high school life.

At the corner, Julia drew to a halt. A sign above gleaming floor-to-ceiling windows readLM Gallery.

Inside, the white walls were covered with a delightfully eclectic mix of art. Julia was immediately drawn to the works of German expressionism—she saw a Kirchner, and was that a Kandinsky?—but the rest of the gallery was filled with more modern pieces. A few paintings in oil on canvas, some giclée prints, various small-scale statues on pedestals. She kept wandering about, studying the art, checking her watch every thirty seconds.

“Julia? You’re early.” A middle-aged woman with long red hair emerged from the back of the gallery, her heels clicking over the polished floor.

Dr. Lucy Marshall had spent several years as a guest lecturer at Harvard, teaching a graduate seminar that met once a week on Friday afternoons. She didn’t hold traditional office hours; she was far too busy with her real job. She’d spent over a decade running European Art at Sotheby’s, until a few years ago, when she’d opened this gallery.

“Professor Marshall.” Julia stepped forward with a tentative smile.

Her former professor waved away the title. “Please, you’re not a student anymore! Call me Lucy, I insist.” She eyed Julia’s blazer and the way she clutched tight to her handbag, which contained her printed résumé. Something softened in her expression. “I was excited to see your name in my inbox. Why don’t you step into my office?”

Julia followed her to a cluttered room at the back of the gallery. Papers were scattered over the desk and bookshelves, spilling out of manila envelopes, squashed in defeat beneath abandoned coffee mugs. Lucy plucked a stack of books from a chair and gestured for Julia to sit.

“Thank you again for agreeing to see me.” Julia swallowed, not wanting to begin by asking for a favor. “The gallery is wonderful. I love how you placed the black-and-white prints across from the Richter.”

“It was time for me to leave Sotheby’s,” Lucy said easily. “But what about you? How have you been since our last seminar? Was that five years ago?”