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Hauling a dozen of my favorite works, along with the piece I was actually down here to unload, had taken a bit of maneuvering, but I managed it, tucking the smaller canvases into the padding of the massive fake modern art disaster and pretending the extra suitcase full of my bigger pieces was for clothes.
My mother always overpacked everywhere she went; she didn’t blink an eye when I dragged out enough luggage for a six week stay instead of a mere weekend. In fact, I think she was proud of me for finally realizing that what I wore mattered.
Snickering at my deception, I smoothed the front of my sundress, already a bit wrinkled from the Miami humidity. Of course I’d wear the sleek designer dress, black and body hugging, for the meeting with the oil magnate later that evening. But for now, I wanted my show to really represent the real me. To sell my art based on its merits, not batting my eyelashes and flashing cleavage to make sure we got the amount we set. No one ever haggled me down in one of my little black dresses and sky high heels. I only hoped I was as successful in slightly wrinkled white linen and a ponytail.
Looking over the art I’d just hung, I got my self-doubt under control. The paintings were good. This wasn’t a waste of time, no matter what my mother thought.
My phone jangled from my purse on the table, and I sighed, not wanting anything to interrupt my inner pep talk. But thinking about Giana Lorenzo had somehow alerted her that I needed to be put in my place and, if I didn’t answer now, she’d keep calling until I did.
“Yes, Mother,” I sighed, smirking at the grumpy teen tone to my voice. I was twenty now and had been traveling the world selling art to the rich and powerful for two years. How could she still make me feel so small?
“Theresa, love, that awful man is going to bring some sort of expert with him to view the Basket piece.”
“It’s Basquiat,” I calmly corrected.
Not that it mattered, since it wasn’t, not really. The Lorenzos really did have strong connections in the underground art world, and my mother could get her hands on anything for the right price and the ability for a buyer to be a little bit patient. But the new rich were often anything but patient and my shrewd mother learned that they could also be easily fooled. Enter a new line of business to add to the family coffers—forgery.
“Should we cancel the deal?” she asked.
That sounded lovely since it would give me more time for my show, but I was a gambler at heart and the idea of putting one of my best forgeries to the test got my heart racing in a way it rarely did.
“It’ll stand up,” I promised.
And if it didn’t, I’d feign shock and horror and just offer to find the oil magnate something else for a discount instead. If that didn’t work and they wanted to get noisy about it, well then, they’d find out what happened to people who made trouble for the Lorenzos.
“Good,” she said, and I heard the smile in her voice, like a cat who’d cornered the mouse it was about to devour. A clink of glasses and a deep male chuckle in the background told me she wasn’t alone, not that it was surprising. My mother didn’t like to be alone and breaking in a new man was one of her favorite hobbies. “Listen, Theresa, I have some wonderful news. I met up with an old friend of your father’s.”
“Okay,” I said slowly, barely feeling a pang at the hazy memory of my dad.
He passed away when I was so young I only knew what he looked like from pictures. Any sadness I had about him dying all those years ago was only during the brief moments that I wondered how my life might be different if he hadn’t left my flighty, materialistic mother to her own devices with far too much money and power. Was I the mouse she had backed into a corner? Realizing I was holding my breath during her pause, I silently let it out. An old family friend showing up out of the blue certainly wasn’t a bad thing, right?
“Turns out he has a son who’s only a bit older than you, lovie,” she finally said.
I burst out laughing. “You want to set me up on a date?”
The click of her heels in the background told me she was changing locations. For privacy? When she spoke again, her voice no longer had the cajoling charm she reserved for anyone but me.
“Much more than a date,” she snapped. “This man wants his son to get married, and soon. He’s highly motivated to get a foot into Boston, and we’d be lucky to be aligned with the Rossis.”
The name meant nothing to me, except for being a fairly common Italian last name. There was no way they didn’t have something my mother wanted if she was considering something so ridiculous, though. We were rich and powerful, but there was always more power and riches to be gained, no matter the cost. I laughed again, but this time it was forced. The claws were out in my mom’s voice, and I could feel the price tag hanging over my head like a guillotine blade.
“You can’t be serious.” Was she honestly entertaining the notion of selling me off to the highest bidder like the showpiece of one of our private auctions?
“They bring a lot to the table,” she said. “And his son’s a doll, I’m sure you’ll adore him.”
I stared at the paintings I’d already hung, shifting my eyes to the ones that were still on the table. If I sold each and every one, would I have enough to flee to Mexico? It was only a joke, a harmless fantasy I sometimes indulged in, wanting to completely divorce myself from my family and spend the rest of my life painting on a beach. The panic that welled up inside me was making me actually consider it now. But, no, surely not. She wasn’t serious.
“You’re being ridiculous, Mother,” I snapped, ending the call, but not before I heard her snap right back that we’d be discussing it further.
My hopeful mood, weak as it was before the phone call, was shattered. My first real art show, arranged with a month of secret phone calls and the source of all my excitement and hope lately, was ruined.
Knock it off, Theresa. It’s not ruined. Get it together, hang the rest of the paintings, and show your real worth.
Yes, I was worth more than my name, or my looks. I did have talent, and I would sell something here and by God, I certainly wouldn’t end up married to some random mafia kingpin’s son just because my mother said so.
At least, that’s what I tried to believe, as I grabbed another painting to hang, this one part of an abstract watercolor set. My stomach was in knots, though; not even thinking about the underground poker game I’d wrangled an invitation to after I unloaded the Basquiat fake could get it to settle down. My fun freedom weekend in Miami Beach seemed over before it started, thanks to one little phone call.
With one of my precious works of art in my hands and a scowl on my face, I turned to see someone had come into the small conference room. I nearly lost my grip on the canvas at the sight of the tall, blond man. He almost,almostrestored my good mood with his broad shoulders encased in a perfectly tailored, dark gray suit. That alone would have made him stand out among the rest of the casual Miami tourist crowd at this boutique hotel I was staying at, but I was used to seeing men in expensive suits. Not men like this, though. His chiseled features might have cut diamonds, his hair a riot of golden wheat hues, and his eyes such a sparkling blue I could tell their color all the way across the room. My fingers flexed as if reaching for a charcoal pencil, eager to sketch his perfect face.
