Page 77 of Ungodly Rich

Now that they were back in the city, Julia had started to stand up for herself, little by little. Just this morning, when the wedding planner had emailed a rundown of the ceremony, Julia had noticed that she was walking down the aisle to something called “Trumpet Voluntary.”I would like an acoustic version of “Here Comes the Sun” for my entrance music,Julia had responded.

She could practically hear the sniff of disdain in Tara’s reply.We can play the Beatles at the reception, but Ellene brides always process to “Trumpet Voluntary.” I’ve already hired six trumpeters.

Then cancel them,Julia insisted, and hire a guitar player.So what if Ellene brides had “always” done things a certain way? They were about to learn that she was a different sort of Ellene, one who wasn’t cowed by tradition or money.

The jangle of keys at the gallery’s back entrance interrupted her thoughts. “Julia?” Lucy called out, surprised. “I forgot what day you were coming back. How was London?”

“London was great.” Julia hurried to change the subject. “Did I miss anything while I was gone?” When she’d asked Lucy for a week off, she hadn’t been completely forthcoming about the reason. She’d said she was going abroad to visit her friend Abby, completely leaving out the engagement party. Or the fact that she was getting married at all.

“It’s always slow in August. Everyone’s in the Hamptons, or Europe.” Lucy started to say more, only to pause at the jingle of a bell. They had a customer.

“I’ve got it,” Julia promised, but she felt Lucy following her into the gallery’s main space. Maybe she wanted to watch Julia at work, offer feedback on her sales techniques.

It took a moment for Julia to recognize the woman striding throughthe door, wearing a tailored skirt and silk blouse. Allison Gordon, the woman she’d met at the Met event.

“That’s Allison Gordon,” Lucy said under her breath. “Knock our prices down twenty-five percent for her.”

Lucy adjusted prices based on the buyer, which apparently was common practice. So-called good clients, usually renowned collectors or famous people—“actuallyfamous, not from reality TV or, God forbid, TikTok,” Lucy had explained—were given discounts to encourage a purchase. Conversely, “undesirable” clients were saddled with sales premiums and freight fees meant to deter them from associating with the gallery.

Mrs. Gordon strolled along the wall of German expressionism, pausing before the painting of the naked woman with the white bow in her hair.

“Twenty-five percent, really? You only gave ten to Emilia Clarke when she came in,” Julia murmured in reply.

“That show isn’t on the air anymore. She’s no longer the Mother of Dragons; now she’s an out-of-work actress. The Gordons are tastemakers in high society, and worth billions.”

That was exactly the point, Julia thought. Someone worth billions didn’t need a discount. But she bit back her protests and started across the gallery.

“Good morning. Can I bring you an espresso or a Perrier while you browse?”

Allison ignored Julia’s offer. “Good, it’s you,” she said briskly. “You’re the one marrying Tara’s son, right?”

Julia was surprised that she’d left an impression. She hoped that Lucy wasn’t listening but didn’t dare glance over her shoulder to check.

“I’m Julia Dodds. Harry is my fiancé,” she replied, determined to mention her own name before his.

“Of course. As I said, I was sorry to miss your engagement party.” Allison moved past a series of mixed-media prints in bold colors.

“You were in Carmel, right?” Julia recalled. “How was it?”

“Rainy!” Allison exclaimed. “I hope you had better weather foryour party in London. Though come to think of it, I’ve never seen it rain for a party of Tara’s. She has such luck when it comes to weather.”

Julia wasn’t sure what to say, so she nodded in agreement. Allison sighed and turned to face her. “Arthur was impressed by you at the Curator’s Circle event. His birthday is coming up, and I thought I might surprise him with a new piece for his home office. What can you show me?”

A home office for a billionaire. Julia scrambled to think.

“Perhaps an abstract piece? Emily Wilford is one of my favorites.” Julia gestured to an acrylic painting, composed of green and blue dots against a white background.

The woman sniffed. “It looks like something a toddler could make with a box of crayons.”

Okay, nothing abstract. Julia hesitated, then decided, why not? She crossed the gallery to the opposite side, and Allison followed.

“Have you heard of Lantern? He’s an American artist—well, everyone thinks he’s a man, but no one is certain.Lanternis a pseudonym,” Julia began.

“Like Banksy?”

“Lantern’s works are nothing like Banksy’s,” Julia assured her. “They are poetic and thoughtful representations of nature. See this one? It could be perfect for an office.” She gestured toward her favorite work in the gallery, composed of muted greens and golds with rough crosshatched lines. “It looks like it’s abstract, until you study it for a moment longer and realize that it’s a close-up study of tree bark.”

The bark was actually that of a water oak, a tree that reminded Julia of her childhood in Georgia. Looking at this work always made her oddly nostalgic.