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FORTY

W hen I get back to the office, Wyatt calls. “Good or bad?” I ask instead of saying hello.

“Depends. If you’re interested in racking in twenty-nine million dollars, it’s good.”

“And if I’m not?”

“More good.” He chuckles. “The Paris judge’s original decision was overruled, so you don’t have to send Party over there—at least not right now.”

I crumple into my chair. “Wow. Thanks. You’re the best.” I’ve been so caught up with this mental health business, I almost forgot about the appeal.

“That’s got to be why Damien upped his offer to twenty-nine mil,” he adds.

“He must be so pissed off. Frothing at the mouth with fury.” I rub my hands together gleefully. “Can’t you see him huddling in the foundation’s war room, licking his wounds and brainstorming with his generals on their next offensive?”

“Don’t forget this is just a short reprieve. The trial’s coming up fast.”

“Sure, but the Louvre reversal gives me confidence that we’re going to win there too.”

“This decision was based on a much narrower issue in a completely different venue. The New York suit has very little in common with it.”

“I just want to enjoy the moment. No bursting my bubble.”

“Sure, but we have to look ahead. The trial is a little over five weeks away, and I’ve still got plenty of prep work to do. Which means I’m going to have to add on more hours to replace the ones the appeal gobbled up. Even with the girlfriend discount, it’s going to get expensive.”

“It’s an investment.”

“A risky one. Like those financial disclaimers always remind you: Past performance is no guarantee of future success.”

IT’S BEEN ALMOST a week, and I haven’t heard from Ruth about the tests, like Dr. Zafón said I would.

Well, really he said it could be up to two weeks before he got the results to her, but I’m incredibly edgy.

I’d initially expected that he’d be the one to give me his findings, but as Ruth referred me to him, I guess she’s the one who gets that privilege.

It may be inflated to claim this will be a defining moment in my life, but in some ways it will.

No matter what the tests ultimately show, this kind of anxiety cannot be good for my mental health.

I’m home on a Saturday afternoon when there’s a knock at the door. It’s Wyatt, and when he walks in he cries, “Hey, birthday girl!”

Our plan is for a celebratory dinner at No. 9 Park, one of the best restaurants in Boston, but he’s hours early for that. Plus, he’s got a suitcase and an impish expression on his face.

“I’ve got a birthday surprise for you, but first you need to pack a bag. For two nights. Include something fancy, something comfortable, and an outrageously sexy negligee.”

I’m not all that fond of surprises, nor do I like making a big deal out of my birthday, but the handsomest man I’ve ever known is beaming at me with boyish pleasure. “I can’t go anywhere,” I protest. “I’ve got to work this weekend.”

He pulls me up from my chair and kisses me deeply. “No, you don’t.”

“I don’t?” Boy, am I easy.

“There’s a limo waiting outside to take us to the Big Apple. To the Lotte New York Palace. Champagne and culinary delights on board.”

“But I—”

He gives me a playful push toward my bedroom. “Go. It’s all set. We’re going to celebrate your birthday like you’ve never celebrated it before. And you’re going to love it.”

I DO LOVE it, although there’s no denying it’s way, way over the top.

The limo could easily hold a dozen people and is stocked with enough alcohol and food—including caviar and foie gras—to sate all of them.

The hotel is in an elegant nineteenth-century building with wide sweeping staircases and gleaming marble floors.

Our suite—of course it’s a suite—is the most luxurious I’ve ever been in, hugging the corner of the fiftieth floor, windows everywhere bursting with the spires of brightly lit skyscrapers.

Not to mention there’s a living room, a dining room, and two bathrooms. It’s much bigger than my apartment.

We down some gummies and make love on a bed with sheets that must be two thousand count, in the soaking tub almost as big as the bed, and, later, on the living room couch. A champagne bottle cools in its bucket, and around midnight we call down for fruit parfaits and chocolate-covered strawberries.

“This has to be the most decadent evening I’ve ever spent,” I tell him as we lie sprawled on the bed, finally exhausted.

“Happy birthday.” He nuzzles my neck. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It was okay…”

“Only okay?” He grabs me in a bear hug. “Take that back, woman!”

Instead, I kiss him. Then we both fall into a heavy sleep.

In the morning, we battle our hangovers with coffee and Tylenol and head out to MoMA, where Wyatt arranged for a private guide to show us their Impressionist collection. Renee, the guide, leads us to the fifth floor, where light and color fling themselves from canvases on every wall.

I swear I recognize a few of them from my waltzing dream.

The only piece by Berthe is a drawing called A Standing Girl .

Muted, almost a sketch, it draws no attention to itself—just as Berthe currently draws little attention to herself.

This is no surprise, nor is the fact that there are many paintings by her more well-known cronies: Manet, Degas, Monet, Renoir.

I don’t remark on this, as Wyatt has gone out of his way to let Renee know of my interest in Manet.

And there are many Manets, including Two Roses , Raven Head , and another version of Execution of the Emperor Maximilian , which I don’t like any more than the one I disliked at the MFA.

But there is one, Argenteuil , of a couple in colorful clothes with a blue sea behind them, that’s more Impressionist-like—looser brushstrokes and more light. Still, it’s no Party .

“None of these paintings are nearly as good as yours,” Wyatt tells me.

“Just thinking the same thing.”

“Yours?” Renee asks, eyebrows raised.

“Only a copy,” I clarify. “ Party on the Seine .”

“Oh, absolutely. That’s supposed to be one of his best. Maybe even his best, one of my professors said. So horrible the Nazis destroyed it. Criminal.” Obviously, Renee doesn’t read Boston news reports, but I find it odd that someone in the art world is unaware the painting has resurfaced.

I nod and feign interest in Raven Head , avoiding her eyes.

When she turns away, Wyatt whispers, “Can’t imagine how much you’re going to be able to get for it.” He throws an arm around my shoulder. “Maybe we should get married so I can be as rich as you.”

“I’m not planning to sell it anytime soon,” I tell him, “so you should probably stick to law as your avenue to riches.”

He looks hurt and pulls away.

Renee is beckoning us over to Degas’s At the Milliner’s . I hold up a finger and lean into Wyatt. “Sorry, this hangover’s a bitch. Don’t listen to me.”

“You can’t just keep it in your apartment forever,” he says. “Beyond the huge risk you’re taking, you know how insane it makes you.”

“It doesn’t make me insane. It soothes me.”

“Soothes you?” His voice begins to rise. “How about those nightmares? The ones that send you running into the living room, where you cower before it?”

“They’re just dreams. You’re making a big deal about nothing.”

“It’s not healthy for you. You have to get rid of it.”

“Actually, I don’t have to get rid of anything. I can do whatever I want with her .” I emphasize the ‘her’ because I know this annoys him.

The remainder of the weekend doesn’t go nearly as well as the first part.

ON MONDAY AFTERNOON, Wyatt sends me a dozen red roses. Enclosed is a note: Sorry I was such a jerk. Of course you can do whatever you want with your painting. Can you forgive me?

He was a jerk, but I sense the apology is sincere and tell him all is forgiven. This isn’t completely true.

It’s now been two weeks and I still haven’t heard from Ruth, so I text her. She tells me Dr. Zafón promised to deliver the results in a few days, and that she’ll let me know so we can schedule an appointment. I’m both annoyed at the delay and pleased I have a momentary reprieve.

I haven’t had any Berthe nightmares recently, although there have been a few dreams in which I’m being pushed, or pushing myself, to do something I’ve been procrastinating.

In one, I was standing at a podium describing to a large audience the findings of a project I haven’t finished.

Another was just a huge monitor with hundreds of unanswered texts streaming endlessly down the screen.

And last night it was my mother yelling at me because I hadn’t gone to the grocery store when I promised her I would. Gee, what could these be about?

There’s no denying that I’ve been slacking off on job #2, as my subconscious seems to be pointing out.

Even though I understand the real trial isn’t the same, I have to confess that winning the appeal has lessened my frenzy.

And then there’s everything else, including my conversation with Holly, which came a little too close to echoing what I’ve experienced, as well as providing a semiplausible explanation for Berthe’s motive and behavior. Strike that. Not plausible at all.

Alternately, if I did open my mind to the possibility—sorry, Dad—it would suggest Berthe did paint Party , and if I can prove it, despite Wyatt and Jonathan’s admonitions to the contrary, Damien would have no case.

A huge blow to my dear cousin, for he’d not only lose the suit but have to admit that his illustrious ancestor didn’t paint the masterpiece attributed to him.

Wouldn’t that just be the most fitting revenge?

And then there’s giving Berthe her due as a celebrated artist. Letting the world know of her accomplishments, restoring her rightful place in the Impressionist canon.