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James Tremlin. It’s not an ideal time to talk, but I need to connect with him sooner rather than later.
“Thanks for returning my call,” I say.
“What can I do for you?” He sounds as aloof as when we met in person.
“You mentioned you might stop by the gallery this week, and I wanted to let you know that my collages won’t be there. They got—Well, they got damaged, and my part of the show is being postponed.”
“Damaged? How terrible. Was the gallery itself damaged?”
“No, um, just my pieces. It’s not the gallery’s fault, though.”
“What in the world happened?”
I’m about to say that the story is too long to bore him with, but I realize how evasive that might sound, that he might suspect that Josh canceled the show at the last minute because of a problem with my work. I’m overwhelmed with an urge to be totally honest.
“Can this be between the two of us?” I ask.
“Of course.”
“A person apparently came into the gallery yesterday morning and... defaced them when no one was looking.”
“My god. Have you contacted the police?”
“Yes. And since the pieces are all down, I wanted to make sure you didn’t go to the trouble of stopping by.”
Josh might be annoyed if he gets wind of the fact that I’ve shared the truth, but at least this way the writer won’t imagine I’m on the outs with the gallery.
“Anyway, since my show is going to be postponed,” I add, “I thought maybe I could email you photos of the collages. Photos from before they were damaged.”
“Sure, of course. But text them to me, okay? That will be easier for me.”
“Will do.”
“Can they be salvaged?”
“I’m going to try.”
I have no clue whether I mean that, but it seems best to stay positive with a journalist.
“Well, good luck. And I’ll look out for a text from you.”
The cabs have all been commandeered by the time I sign off, so I order an Uber and text Caroline to say I’ll be a few minutes late. A gray Nissan pulls up ten minutes later and I climb in, verifying my name with the driver. Within a short while, the village of Scarsdale falls away, and we’re on a road featuring huge homes, many behind black, wrought iron gates.
Before long my phone pings, indicating we’ve arrived at the address she’s sent me, and the driver makes a left onto a long tree-lined drive. Based on the Tudors and jumbo-size colonials I glimpsed on the way, I assumed Caroline’s house will be in a similar vein, but I’min for a surprise. The house is clearly as pricey as anything else in the neighborhood but much different in style, more modern in design and built of stone and white clapboard. Though the rooms all appear to be on one level, there’s a pitched roof in the center and one at each end of the house, perhaps as a design feature or to accommodate a very high ceiling.
The driver drops me at the end of the gravel driveway, near the attached three-car garage, and from there I follow a flagstone path that runs parallel to the house until I reach the entrance, a set of double doors. This is it, the one clear chance I have left of finding out more about C.J. Taking a ragged breath, I press the bell, and after a short wait, Caroline Whaley swings open one of the doors.
“Good evening,” she says, in her deep, husky voice.
Though she’d made it sound as if she’d be home alone tonight, she’s dressed like a woman expecting a small crowd for cocktails. A crisp white shirt—with the collar confidently popped—has been paired with flowy black slacks and accented with a black crocodile belt, like Barbara Stanwyck in a 1940s movie. Her hair’s slicked back again, and though the day’s makeup has faded a bit, it’s obvious she recently retouched her bold red lipstick.
She ushers me into a simple, stone-floored foyer, which could almost be the entrance to a horse barn. But moments later I’m trailing behind her into in a jaw-dropper of a great room with floor-to-ceiling windows. The ceiling is vaulted, with two wrought iron chandeliers hanging halfway down, and the room has been decorated in various shades of gray. Clearly, no expense has been spared.
“What an amazing place,” I say, trying not to sound as nervous as I feel.
“Thank you.” She extends an arm toward one of the two couches. They’re directly in front of a fireplace with a two-story-high stonehearth. As I take my seat, she turns and strides toward the other side of the room.
“Wine?” she asks, using the tips of her fingers to press against a dove-gray wooden panel of the wall, which pops open to reveal a mirrored bar. “I have a very nice California white chilling, but also red or rosé if you prefer.”
