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And I have no intention of changing that. Ernest would not want that.
“Sounds ominous,” I comment as Alex holds the elevator open for me.
“Oh, ha. No, nothing like that. Just a little joke.”
There’s a reason neither of us are known for our jokes.
I follow him into his office, once Ernest’s.
He’s already made some small changes, but it’s enough to not feel like it’s Ernest’s anymore.
“You moved the Boccioni into here,” I say, referring to the painting behind his desk.
Alex spins in his chair and looks up at it for a moment, a smile on his lips. “I have.”
“I’m surprised. I would’ve thought you’d have kept the Degas there. I always thought you liked it.”
He blinks, as if he’s not quite sure what to make of what I said, but then he leans forward and says, “I loved it. But it wasn’t really my choice.”
“Oh?”
He presses a button on his phone console. A few seconds later, his door opens and his assistant comes in, carrying a large flat wooden box.
“Kingsley. Ernest left the Degas to you.”
What?“I’m sorry?”
“Yes, he left it to you. I thought… I, um, I assumed you had asked for it.”
I would never. Everyone knew how much Alex, the art lover, adored that painting. “No. I had absolutely no idea.” The lump in my throat made breathing suddenly more difficult.
“Well, your grandfather gifted it to him—”
“When Ernest bought this office building,” I finish. “Outbidding my grandfather for it. I remember them both telling the story over and over whenever they were together.”
“So, I just thought that you had wanted a memory of your grandfather and asked him for it.” There’s no mistaking the tinge of resentment in Alex’s voice.
“Um, no. I had no idea. But I’m surprised Ernest didn’t think you’d like it, Alex.”
He gives me a flat smile. “I have my Boccioni. Ernest gave it to me for my twenty-fifth birthday.”
I know.
Ernest had bought it frommyprivate collection. I’m not sure Alex knows that, though, and I’m not about to be the one to tell him. While we’ve existed in the same circles since he started living with Ernest, we’ve hardly been best friends. Warm acquaintances at most, probably to Ernest’s frustration after all the efforts to get us to be closer.
We’re just not compatible people. The way we live, our values, our ambitions, our way of working and communication, just don’t mesh, and we found the occasional handshake and small talk every few months was the best way for us to co-exist to make Ernest happy. And now that he’s gone, I’m not really sure there are going to be that many reasons for us to see each other except at the occasional society or business event.
We make some more small talk for a few more minutes. He asks after some of the bigger public deals Baxter has in the works, and I tell him enough so that he feels like I’m sharing with him, but not enough for him to know anything I wouldn’t want my inner circle to know.
I don’t know what plans he has for Hamilton, and until I know that he can be trusted, there isn’t a single confidentiality I’m going to share with Alex about my family’s business.
When there’s a lull in the conversation, the strap of my Longines clinks as I turn my wrist, glancing at the time. Alex catches the movement, as I wanted him to.
“So, er, Kingsley, I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you to come here today.”
I gesture at the painting.
He nods. “Yes, and Ernest also left you a few other pieces. As well as some of his wine and cognac collection. I’m sure you know he has a bottle your grandfather spent years eyeing.” He slides a folder across the table. “Here is the list of everything he left you. I’ll have everything sent to the house.”
