Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance (37 page)

“Oh my gosh,” I breathed, wandering closer to the wall, hushed as if I had suddenly found myself in a church. There were paintings from the last 400 years, all together. Baroque masterpieces hung alongside modern Spanish masters, next to German post-impressionists. It was profound and complexly varied, yet somehow it all sort of made sense when seen together.

“A true collector is
ruthless
 for their collection, selective and uncompromising, whereas Jackson is more of an… evangelist. He’s more of a
populist
.”

“That’s funny,” I breathed, distracted and overwhelmed by the desire to see and touch everything. The grasping hand in a painting by some nameless icon painter seem to reach toward the spiral of exultant cherubs in the Bouguereau next to it.

“Now, Declan,” she continued, “there’s a man after my own heart. He can be absolutely unmerciful, if you know what I mean.”

“What?” I said, startled out of my trance. “Unmerciful?”

Her eyes sparkled as she nodded. “He’s an inspiration, truly. You see, a collector is an artist too. Just as you make critical decisions about what belongs and what has to be eliminated for the sake of a painting, we do the same thing for the whole collection. To make it sing, together.” She ended with her hand floating in the air, gesturing toward the whole room as though to illustrate what a successful collection looked like. And she was right; I could barely begin to fathom what it would take to acquire, arrange, and hang all these pieces. The fact that it had taken decades made the process even more impressive, like a slow motion painting on a grand....
impossibly
 grand scale. It left me breathless to even consider. How would you begin?

“And Declan?” I stammered, trying to find something stable to talk about as my mind reeled. “What does he collect?”

Please don’t say human skins,
I begged her silently.
 Please don’t say the hearts of his enemies.

“Oh, this and that,” she replied unhelpfully. “Companies… investments… talent…”

Her words trailed away as she cocked her head in concentration and began to walk toward the far side where Jackson had set my uncrated paintings against the wall. I bit the inside of my cheek as I realized they were directly underneath an early Rothko and what looked like a Courbet. The colors sang together with my smaller, detailed still lifes and I hoped she thought the same.

I walked carefully behind her, trying not to interrupt but aching to hear her thoughts. As I tried to see what she saw, I was satisfied: the frames were perfect for each piece and seemed to coordinate with the frames around them. The glossy, lush varnish corresponded to the rock-candy-hard surface of the small Dutch still lifes nearby. My lemons, orange blossoms, and humble silver vessels seemed to fit perfectly with various paintings around this section of wall as though they were the repetition of a musical phrase in a song.

She slowly advanced from painting to painting, her right hand knuckling her chin in concentration as she took them in for longer and longer periods of time. I waited eagerly at the other end of the line of them, giving her a respectful amount of space as my blood rushed like a tidal wave in my ears.

Finally she turned back to me, a triumphant smile playing at her lips.

“This one, I think, don’t you agree?”

My breath caught in my throat. Slowly I walked to stand beside her and looked at the painting: a collection of purple-black plums and tangerines spilling from a silver charger on a white tablecloth.

“Thank you,” I said, unsure what else to say. She looked up at me and I realized I was a good five inches taller.

“That’s wonderful,” she said eagerly, bouncing up a little on her toes. I could see her pulse fluttering in the space between her collarbones. Her excitement was palpable, but…

“And… the others?” I choked out, trying to control my voice.

She looked at me, confused, as though my question didn’t make any sense.

“Well they don’t fit at all, do they,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“They don’t?”

She shrugged, her gesture laced with something like impatience. I had the feeling my time here was done and she did not appreciate the extension I was asking for.

“You’re a fine painter, of course,” she explained. “But this painting is all I need. It says everything about you. The others would be… superfluous.”

“Oh,” I said, commanding my voice to sound controlled. I tried to smile but only managed a jerky twitch of one corner of my mouth.

“Oh, don’t be disappointed, please,” she said, clearly conveying that I was supposed to be honored to be included at all.

“You’re just like your mother, really. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

My breath caught in my throat all ragged and I barely stopped my jaw from going slack.

“I-- I didn’t know you knew my mother too.”

“Not for very long,” she said vaguely, beginning to walk away. I followed, trying not to look too far in any direction. The walls felt like they were closing in on me just a little, and I could feel the panic rising again. A whole montage of catastrophes flickered through my brain in fast-forward: floods, bridges collapsing, brushfires, tidal waves.

“You’re her spitting image. Beautiful girl. Brilliant, like you. But a little… reserved, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“No of course not,” I muttered as she led me toward the staircase again. Our time was apparently done.

“I saw her play many, many times. She was simply ravishing. Technically unmatched… Unassailable in her musical choices… Yet, somehow cold.”

“I’m sorry?” I choked as we reached the library again. I could hardly command my lungs to breathe. Though I barely remembered her, the mother in my memory did not match up at all with the woman Edna described. She was warm, eager, excitable…

“No, what am I saying?” she said quickly, her hand reaching out sympathetically to my arm. I saw myself reflected in her eyes. I probably looked like a shock victim.

“She was a beautiful woman, your mother,” she continued, her posture softening. “I’m sorry, I can be a bit of a brash speaker at times. I only mean that she was so
controlled
, so unwilling to show us her heart… Everything had to be perfect. And in that perfection, some kind of, oh I don’t know… Some kind of connection was left out. Do you know what I mean?”

“You mean my paintings are… cold?”

“No, no, not cold… I’m sorry that came out that way. But I can see you’re an extremely technical and precise painter, which I commend you on. Too many self-declared ‘artists’ these days can barely hold a brush.”

“I agree,” I said defensively.
Just what is it you want from me, lady?
 I thought.

“But painting is still a method of communication, you see. And if you’re unwilling to really
expose
 yourself, to
share
 yourself, then you’re leaving something out, don’t you think?”

“I think I know what you’re saying,” I answered mechanically, irritated that she was forcing me to agree with her.

“Leave some blood on the canvas!” she declared, raising a fist as though in triumph.

“Right, OK,” I replied.

She stepped forward and took both my hands, giving them a squeeze. I wanted desperately to be away from her, to go somewhere and lick my wounds, but she was staring up into my face with her bright, keen eyes.

“I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to finally meet you,” she said earnestly. “We will see each other again soon, yes? Raul will get your payment and show you out.”

I swallowed the hard pebble that had lodged itself in my throat. “Thank you very much for seeing me,” I said with as much sincerity as I could.

She patted my hands. “It was my pleasure, Margot. Truly it was. Have a beautiful day!”

As she turned away in a swirl of blue and green, I half-expected her to vanish like a genie. Instead I listened to her kitten heels clack across the marble tiles as she withdrew into the house, leaving me to find my way back to the foyer. I walked back the way I had come, shell-shocked and numb.

I looked for Raul by the front door and stopped, unsure what to do. Should I wait for him? It felt like I was missing a set of instructions on how to proceed. I knew I should retrieve the other paintings, but part of me wanted to burn them where they sat.

“Are you busy this afternoon?” came a voice.

I turned around. Jackson walked into the foyer with a cocky grin that seemed to dismantle as soon as he saw my face. “Hey… are you OK? What happened in there?”

In a flash he had crossed the foyer to me and somehow folded me in his arms before I crumpled. I felt myself fall against him as though falling in a dream.

“Hey, it’s OK, it’s OK,” he murmured into my hair, holding me tightly as I simply shook. A thousand voices in my mind gave me long lists of what I had done wrong simultaneously and I wanted to shrink, to fall into a pit, to turn into ashes and be blown away by a hot wind. Everything was ruined. Really ruined this time, and there was nothing else I could do about it.

“Shhhh,” he breathed, holding me up as solidly as anything I had ever felt. I commanded myself to breathe and get a grip for chrissakes.

For a long time I stood there with my ear pressed against his chest, counting his heartbeat and every breath to settle the irrational storm that had turned my thoughts to white noise. Slowly I came back to myself, gradually becoming aware that his arms were a very, very nice place to be. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had held me like that, if ever. Maybe never.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, pulling away. “It’s been such a week,” I added lamely.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, letting me go but not really. “I was sort of enjoying that.”

Me too,
I admitted to myself.
Gosh, he’s just rock hard all over, isn’t he?

His sky blue eyes searched mine. I could feel him gathering information.

“Let’s go somewhere,” he said.

My heart pulsed with gratitude, happy that he wasn’t going to ask me to recount the entire meeting with Edna. I didn’t think I could, anyway. Not without totally losing it.

Well, you’re pretty much free as a bird,
 I reminded myself.
In a few days, he can pick you up under the Santa Monica Pier.

“I have to get the paintings back to the gallery,” I objected.

He shrugged. “Raul can have someone do that.”

“But my car is in the driveway…”

“Your car will be fine. I’ll get it home for you. Did I overhear you live close?”

I nodded.

“Great. That’s settled.”

“I should change..”

“No, you’re beautiful.”

“Traffic will be horrible…”

“How do you feel about rope ladders?”

I stopped. “What? To climb?”

He nodded seriously. “There’s no place to land the chopper but I can have it here in twenty minutes. We’ll just have to take a more vertical path to get inside it.”

Squinting, I said, “You’re teasing me.”

“Just a little, Margot,” he said gently. “I’m just telling you that everything you think is a problem has a solution. Everything.”

“Everything?”

He nodded. “Absolutely. Now where do you want to go?”

Oh, dancing while Rome burns
, I thought bitterly.
That is just so me.

“How about the Getty?” he persisted. “That’s got to be like church for you arty types, right?”

I nodded uncertainly, not sure if that would make me feel better or worse.

“Great,” he answered. “Can I order the helicopter then?”

I scowled thoughtfully. “A car would be better I think. I didn’t bring my ladder shoes.”

“Good point, good point,” he agreed, finally releasing me from his arms. I let my fingers trail along his knit silk sleeve as he retreated, wishing already to be back in his strong embrace.

“All right then,” he declared formally. “I’ll be here to pick you up in thirty-eight seconds.”

I chuckled in spite of myself. “OK,” I sighed. “I will be right here.”

He pushed his hair back from his forehead and it all settled right back into place. Then he gave me a curt nod and dashed from the foyer without another word. True to his promise, in about thirty seconds I heard the low purr of a motor on the other side of the door and the muffled sound of a car door.

The doorbell gonged. Man, I was seriously sad I was not going to get a gong of my own.

I looked around uncertainly, not sure if Raul was about to appear or something. Then I opened the door and grinned in spite of myself. He stood there politely with his hands clasped in front of his waist.

“Oh, good, you’re ready,” he said with a quirky grin.

“You rang the bell?” I asked, slightly dazzled and a little overwhelmed by his rambunctious charm.

“Well I wasn’t going to honk at you like some teenage punk, now was I?”

I didn’t know what to say and just shrug-nodded as though that was some kind of appropriate answer. He stood aside to let me pass and I walked down the bricked path to the tawny Mercedes that idled in the drive. Smoothly, he touched my waist as he passed behind me, maneuvering me to the left so he could open the car door just before I got there.