“God only knows. . . . Maybe there is no book. Maybe he was lying about it, using it as a ruse to keep flying around the world to the Picasso Museum in Barcelona, to Provence, where Picasso lived for such a long time, and God knows where else. Announcing that he was researching Picasso’s life was a wonderful front, wasn’t it? Perhaps it was a cover for him . . . to see Elizabeth Lang.”
“Or to visit his secret Spanish partner, Rafael Lopez, who I just recently found out about through the security firm I use. Kroll Associates are the best. Marius and Rafael had been in business for years, apparently, but I never knew it, nor did I ever meet Rafael Lopez. He usually does business out of an art gallery in Madrid, but I discovered he also has an office in Barcelona.”
“Are you planning to go and see him?”
Annette shook her head. “No, I don’t want to know any more than I already do. Who knows what those two got up to? It seems the relationship was an old one. They’d been partners for years. I’m better off if I stay far away.”
Malcolm agreed with her and she never mentioned Lopez again.
By the middle of June, Annette knew she finally had things under control as far as Marius’s art business was concerned. She breathed a sigh of relief. Then almost before she could blink, it was the day of the wedding, the happiest event for them all in recent months.
Laurie and Malcolm were married at Malcolm’s family home, where his parents, Andrew and Alicia Stevens, were the hosts. Laverly Court was a lovely Georgian manor house in Suffolk, with beautiful gardens and an ornamental lake. The local vicar came to officiate at the old manor, which was a local stately home full of mellow antiques and a collection of superb art.
On this July Saturday the house brimmed with urns of roses and other cut flowers, their varied scents filling the air with their mingled fragrances.
Later, whenever Annette thought of their marriage on that glorious summer’s day, she smiled with genuine happiness for her sister and Malcolm, knowing they were true soul mates.
Laurie’s face was full of radiance, and she had never looked so lovely. She was wearing a cream satin wedding gown with a headband of orange blossoms in her red hair; Malcolm was a handsome bridegroom in his morning suit, with a gray silk tie, and a white rose pinned on his lapel.
Malcolm had asked Jack to be his best man, and it was Annette who gave her sister away. Walking next to Laurie in her wheelchair, Annette accompanied her through the living room, where their guests were seated, and down to the fireplace. It was here that the Reverend Sturges stood with the bridegroom and best man. Annette felt her heart clench when she stepped aside for Malcolm, who reached for Laurie’s hand and held it tightly in his, a loving smile on his face.
All of their mutual friends had come to the wedding. Jack’s brother, Kyle, with his assistant, Carole, to whom he had just become engaged. Jack’s aunt Helen, Carlton and Marguerite, and Ted Underwood, that other great restorer. Annette’s assistant, Esther, and Laurie’s caregiver, Angie, were also present, along with Mrs. Groome, Laurie’s housekeeper. Margaret Mellor from ART magazine mingled with Christopher Delaware, James Pollard, and countless others from the art world.
On this day, when she saw Laurie married to a most honorable and devoted man, Annette understood that this was the fulfillment of a childhood dream for her. Her little sister was truly safe at last and would be always.
After their honeymoon in Italy, the newlyweds came back to settle in Malcolm’s handsome flat in Cadogan Square, to await the birth of a baby. They already knew it was going to be a girl, and it was the most anticipated event, with everyone’s excitement running high for weeks.
Annette and Malcolm were on tenterhooks until after the delivery early in November. The child was born by Caesarean section, and she was absolutely perfect, and Laurie was not only well, but ecstatic.
“We’re going to call her Josephine,” Laurie told Annette a few days after the birth, smiling at her sister. “Actually, her full name is Josephine Annette Alicia Stevens. Alicia in honor of Malcolm’s mother.”
Annette, overflowing with gratitude and happiness, instantly choked up, unable to say a word as she hugged her sister tightly in her arms.
But she made up for this on the day of the christening later in November, at the reception afterward. This was held at the Dorchester Hotel in Mayfair. Asking Laurie and Malcolm if she could hold the baby, she walked around the Orchid Room, showing her happily gurgling niece to everyone. She was as proud as if the child were her own.
“Look at her little puff of red hair,” she said to Carlton and Marguerite. “And her eyes are exactly the same color as Laurie’s,” she pointed out to Kyle. “But she has Malcolm’s mouth and broad brow, don’t you think?” she murmured to Malcolm’s mother, and everyone agreed with her.
Jack, who stood watching her on the other side of the room, was thrilled that Annette was so outgoing on this happy afternoon, more like herself at last. It was as if she had finally managed to put the difficult months behind her. She looked especially beautiful in a delphinium-blue silk suit, a string of large South Sea pearls lustrous against her creamy skin.
Striding over to join her, putting his arm around her, he said, “Everybody’s thrilled to see you looking so happy today. And most especially me.”
“I am happy, Jack,” she responded as they slowly walked toward Laurie and Malcolm seated across the room.
Once she had handed the baby back to her doting father, Jack led Annette over to a quiet corner. He took two flutes of Dom Pérignon from a passing waiter and handed her one. Touching his glass to hers, he said, “Your pain is finally fading, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she murmured, and took a sip of the champagne. “But sometimes I get an unexpected little jolt and remember all those years. I don’t know why he was so cruel, holding me captive with such a wicked lie.”
“That was the past, and the past is behind you,” Jack said. “It’s gone.” He looked into her heart-stopping blue eyes, now filling with tears, and shook his head. “Hey,” he whispered gently. “No tears today.” Taking hold of her arm, he turned her slightly. “Look over there at your little niece. She’s a brand-new person on this planet. She has no past, only a future.”
Annette nodded. “And she has her whole life ahead of her.”
“And so do you, Annette,” Jack answered. “A wonderful life, a life you never even dreamed was possible.”
Epilogue
LONDON,
DECEMBER 2007
Annette Remmington stood in front of the long mirror in her dressing room, considering her dress, not certain if it worked for her.
It was made of black velvet and was a short, straight sheath with a V neckline and long sleeves. Very severe, she thought, perhaps too somber. No, she suddenly decided, it’s exactly right for tonight. Proper but chic. She reached for the pearl earrings with a small diamond drop and put them on. They were exactly right.
She wore no other jewelry except for an antique Cartier watch. Her hands were ringless. She had discarded her wedding ring long ago, had simply dropped it down a drain on Bond Street one day, in a moment of anger and disgust.
Stepping back, she regarded herself full length, liking the sheer, dusty-black hose and the high-heeled black silk pumps.
I’ll do, she muttered under her breath, and went into the drawing room. She still lived in the same flat in Eaton Square, although it looked different now. She had changed everything, removed all traces of Marius. It was hers and reflected her taste in colors and in the art on the walls.
She glanced around, thinking how tranquil the drawing room was with its mixture of creams and whites, touches of deep pink and green in the cream-and-black Savonnerie carpet and the cushions on the sofas. The paintings were shown to perfection on the cream-silk-covered walls. Pink silk shades on the porcelain lamps and a fire burning brightly in the hearth added a lovely roseate glow.
Standing in front of the fire, Annette marveled that this day had actually arrive
d. In May she had asked Sotheby’s to postpone her auction of Impressionist paintings and The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer from the Delaware collection. The company was understanding of her many problems and agreed to hold it in December. It was now December 4, and in a short while the auction would begin. Expectations were high.
Tonight she was facing the world . . . the art world in particular. The publicity about the auction had been extraordinary, and she prayed that everything would go well. She could not afford to fail.
The ringing of the doorbell told her it was almost time to leave, and she hurried to open it, a smile already on her face.
Jack was standing there, looking impossibly handsome, smiling broadly. “Don’t you look smashing!” he said, smiling at her, kissing her lightly on the cheek.
They walked into the drawing room, and he glanced around, spotted the pink roses on a table, and nodded to himself. She noticed this, and said, “Thank you again, Jack. The flowers are lovely.”
“To wish you luck,” he said. “Although you don’t need it.”
“Don’t say that, I’m superstitious!”
He merely smiled and walked over to the drinks table, where a bottle of red wine had been opened. “Is this for me?”
“Just for you. I’m not having anything to drink before the auction,” she said.
“Just a sip,” he said. “I want to toast you.”
“Oh, all right then.”
Jack and she clinked glasses. “May this be the greatest auction ever.” He grinned at her. “Until the next one.”
Annette put her glass down and went over to the desk, took an old leather box out of a drawer, and came back to the fireplace where Jack was standing. She showed the box to him, opened the lid. “I’m ready to wear this now, Jack. If you still want me to, that is.”
He took the box from her and looked at the diamond engagement ring, shook his head. “No, I don’t.”
Taken aback, she stared at him. “Oh,” was all she said, her smile slipping.
Jack placed the old box on the coffee table, put his hand in his pocket, brought out a much newer red leather box. He opened it and took out a ring. “I would prefer you to wear this, Annette,” he said quietly. “My mother’s marriage didn’t last, and maybe her ring is unlucky. For us. Because of its history. Please wear mine. And be mine, will you?”
Annette nodded, swallowing her tears. She found it hard to speak for a moment and simply put out her left hand. Jack took hold of it, slipped the ring on her third finger, and said, “This is your color, darling. I hope you like it.”
She looked down at her hand and saw a square-cut aquamarine surrounded by diamonds glittering on her engagement finger. “Oh, Jack, it’s beautiful. Thank you, thank you.”
“It’s the exact color of your eyes,” he said, and kissed her cheek. “So put that other ring away, and keep it for another girl, a little girl who might come along one day, and who will grow up to treasure her grandmother’s ring, perhaps.”
“Oh, Jack, darling,” was all she could say, touched by these words.
He took her arm, walked across the room with her. When they reached the door, he released her, took a velvet shawl from a chair, put it around her shoulders, and handed her the black evening bag.
“It’s your big night, darling,” he said. “Are you ready to go to the auction?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Excited?”
“Yes.”
“Afraid?”
“No, I’m not, Jack.”
He smiled at her. “That’s my girl,” he said with pride.
She looked back at him and thought: Yes, that’s me. I am his girl. And I always will be.
Author’s Note
The long-lost Rembrandt, a portrait of a woman, which is featured in this novel does not exist in reality. I took literary license and invented it for the dramatic purpose of the story. In the novel, Annette Remmington, on behalf of the owner, consigns the painting to Sotheby’s in London to be auctioned. It fetches $33.2 million.
This is by no means an exaggerated price and is based on my research on prices reached for great art between the years 2000 and 2010. Here are some of the most recent prices paid for masterpieces.
In December 2009, a similar painting by Rembrandt did sell for $33.2 million at an auction held by Christie’s in London. In February 2010, Sotheby’s in London auctioned a Giacometti sculpture which went for the staggering price of $104.3 million. A few months later, in May 2010, Christie’s in New York sold a Picasso for $106.5 million, making it one of the most expensive artworks ever sold at a public auction. Not long after this huge sale, in June 2010, a Manet auctioned by Sotheby’s in London brought $33 million.
Most art experts believe that art by the great master painters of the seventeenth, eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth centuries are the most tangible of assets, even when there are dramatic shifts in the economy. But of course the works of art must be by the great masters if they are to reach these enormous prices.
Bibliography
Gordon, Dillian. 100 Great Paintings: Duccio to Picasso. London: National Gallery, 1981.
Gordon, Robert, and Andrew Forge. Monet. New York: Harry Abrams Inc., 1983.
Huffington, Arianna Stassinopoulos. Picasso: Creator and Destroyer. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1988.
Irving, Clifford. Fake! The Story of Elmyr de Hory: The Greatest Art Forger of Our Time. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1969.
Lévy, Lorraine. Picasso. Introduction by Pierre Daix. Translation from the French by Barbara Beaumont. New York: Henry Holt, 1991.
O’Neill, John, editor in chief. Degas: Catalogue of the Degas Retrospective at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1989.
Pach, Walter. Renoir. London: Thames and Hudson, 1984.
Rewald, John. Cézanne. New York: Harry Abrams Inc., 1986.
———. The History of Impressionism. New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 1973.
Richardson, John. A Life of Picasso. Volume 1: New York: Random House, 1991. Volumes 2 and 3: New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1996, 2007.
Salisbury, Laney, and Sujo Aly. Provence: How a Con Man and a Forger Rewrote the History of Modern Art. New York: Penguin, 2009.
White, Barbara Ehrlich, editor. Impressionism in Perspective. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1978.
———. Impressionists Side by Side: Their Friendships, Rivalries and Artistic Exchanges. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1996.
———. Renoir: His Life, Art and Letters. New York: Abradale Press, Harry Abrams Inc., 1988.
Barbara Taylor Bradford, Playing the Game
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends