Faking It (d-2) (30 page)

Clea drifted up, her face grim, as she linked her arm through Mason’s. “You know, every time I go looking for you,” she told him, smiling tightly, “I find you over here.”

Mason disentangled his arm from hers, and Thomas, his face pale under his bruises, said to Gwen, “I’ll talk to you later.”

“
I
need to talk to you later,” Mason said to Gwen as Thomas turned away. “In the office. Privately.”

Clea’s face went stormy, and Gwen said brightly, “Oh, good. I’ll look forward to that Now if you could move, there’s a lady with an armadillo footstool behind you.”

By the end of the evening, Gwen had a raging headache, due in equal parts to Mason revolving by every fifteen minutes to pat her arm, Clea sending her death looks every five, Michael selling Finsters with outrageous promises (“Is she really going to be the next Wyeth?” one woman whispered to Gwen, and Gwen thought,
Oh, hell, Michael
, and smiled), and Ford looking bored and temporary as he hauled furniture out to waiting cars.
Always on your way out the door
, she thought as she watched him carry a ferret chair.
Which is good because you’re a doughnut. Not to mention the hit man thing
. Across the room, Louise, back early from the Double Take, looked at Simon as though he was the answer to her prayers, which was very Eve-like of her, and over by the butterfly chairs with the big sold tag, Davy kissed Tilda’s cheek and made her blush.
No good
, Gwen thought,
neither one of these guys is going to stay. Why can’t my daughters see that? Doughnuts. They’re all doughnuts
. By the time Thomas went AWOL around ten-thirty, she really didn’t care.

“Do you know where Thomas is?” Jeff said. “We’re out of potstickers. I asked Mason, and he said the last he saw of him, he was talking to Clea Lewis, and now she’s gone, too.”

“Maybe they’re having sex in the basement,” Gwen said, watching Tilda lean into Davy. “That’s popular lately.” Then she shook her head. Enough whining and negativity. Her family had been amazing all night, especially Nadine, back in full form from the night before, and Tilda, wonderfully gracious and efficient, the center that held things together.

Davy, though, was the real revelation.

“That Davy,” Andrew said to her at the end of the show. “The last person I knew who could con people into buying like that was-”

“Tony,” Gwen said.

Davy smiled and people nodded. He leaned forward and spoke, and they considered the furniture. He leaned back and spread his hands and they bought, clearly delighted with their purchases, themselves, and him.

But there was no tension in Davy when he approached people. And when Tilda talked to someone, calm and knowledgeable, he stepped back and smiled at her, listening to every word. Tony would have shouldered her aside, but Davy brought people to her. “You have to talk to Matilda,” she heard him say to one buyer. “She knows everything.” He revolved around the room all night, selling everything in his path, but Tilda was his sun, the one he kept turning to.

He’s not Tony
, Gwen thought, and felt relieved and wistful at the same time. Thinking about the past could do that to a woman. She turned the cash register over to Nadine and said, “I think we’re almost done. Check with Tilda, and if she says yes, we’ll start closing up.”

“Cool,” Nadine said, surveying the money.

“Was that Kyle I saw earlier?”

“Michael scared him off,” Nadine said. “Those Dempseys.”

“Good for Michael,” Gwen said. “Don’t let him near the cash drawer.”

Back inside the office, she was pouring vodka into her pineapple-orange, when Mason came in.

“This was great,” he said, rubbing his hands together nervously. “Gwen, honey, this was really
good
.”

“I know,” she said, toasting him with her glass. Mason had spent the evening reinforcing her suspicions that he was the most abysmal salesman she’d ever met in her life. On the other hand, the last thing she wanted was another salesman, and he’d paid off her mortgage, and he was a muffin. And he’d gotten “peccable” right Clearly that was a sign.

“The only thing is,” Mason said now, darting a glance over his shoulder, “we’re going to have to watch that Davy.”

“Davy?” Gwen said, her glass at her lips.

“He doesn’t understand gallery etiquette,” Mason said. “He kept laughing and talking like he was just anybody. He doesn’t realize how
serious
a gallery is. He has to go, Gwen.”

He’s jealous
, Gwen thought.

“I mean it,” Mason said, trying to sound stronger and only sounding weaker. “He has to go.”

“That’s pretty much up to him and Tilda,” Gwen said. “So where’s Clea?”

“She went home a while ago,” Mason said. “I saw her talking to Thomas, and then she said she was going home and that’s the last I saw of either of them.” Mason took a deep breath. “I didn’t want to tell you this, I was hoping Davy would just move on.”

I’m going to hate this.

“He’s a con man, Gwen,” Mason said, and he said it gently enough that she knew he wasn’t lying, wasn’t trying to sabotage Davy, not that Mason would. He wasn’t that kind of man. “Clea knew him in L.A. He scammed everybody out there with these bogus land deals and movie deals. She said the last she saw of him, he was working for a porn producer, kind of his right-hand man. He’s not the right guy for Tilda.”

Oh, hell
, Gwen thought.
And he was so good tonight
. Of course, if he was a con man, he would be good. And poor Tilda, so happy. “Maybe he’ll leave on his own,” Gwen said. “Don’t tell Tilda.”

“Of course not,” Mason said. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it to you except…” He trailed off, clearly upset, and she moved over to him, putting her hand on his sleeve.

“I appreciate it that you told me,” she said. “It’s right that I know that.”

“Thank you,” he said, moving closer. “I really didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”

“You’re very sweet,” she said, and he bent and kissed her again, and it was nice. He was such a nice guy, not a con man or a hit man or anything but a good man, and it was time she stopped falling for the flashy cowboy doughnuts and grew up.

Then he said, “I was going to wait for this, but…” and pulled out a ring box.

“Oh,” Gwen said, and she said it again when he opened it and showed her a rock that lit the room, at least ten carats.

“We can run the gallery together, Gwennie. It’ll still be the Goodnight Gallery. Everything will be the same as it always was. It’ll just be with me instead of Tony. Marry me, Gwennie.”

Mason’s voice shook a little when he said it, and Gwen said, “Did you pay off the gallery?”

“What?”

“I know it’s rude to ask, but somebody paid off the mortgage,” Gwen said, “and I know it must be you.”

“Oh,” Mason said, looking taken aback. “Uh, well, yes.”

That’s it then
, Gwen thought. It was a good offer. It wasn’t as if she was ever getting out of here anyway. Mason was very sweet, he wasn’t bragging about the mortgage at all. Tilda would be free. Nadine could go to college. She leaned forward and kissed him again, grateful but depressed.

“Is that a yes?” he said, and she nodded, and he slid the ring on her finger, and put his arms around her. “We’re going to be so happy,” he told her as he held her, and she crooked her finger to keep the ring on because it was too large.

“Yes,” Gwen said into his shoulder. “Can we go scuba diving for our honeymoon?”

“Of course,” Mason said. “Anything you want.”

“Just not to Aruba,” Gwen said.

Nadine opened the door and said, “Uh, Aunt Tilda says it’s time to close,” and Gwen pulled back. “Also, we can’t find Thomas the Caterer. Did he leave? Because all his stuff is here.”

“I’ll be right there,” Gwen said, and straightened her dress, which didn’t need straightening. “I have to go-”

“I understand,” Mason said.

“So, tomorrow,” Gwen said, smiling at him as brightly as she could.

“Oh,” he said, and looked up at the ceiling, toward her apartment.

“Because we have to… you know… shut down the gallery,” Gwen said, trying to think of a reason not to invite her fiancé upstairs. “For the night. Clean up. You know.”

“Of course,” Mason said, looking confused. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He kissed her again, and over his shoulder, Gwen could see Nadine scowling.

Yeah, I kind of feel that way, too
, she thought.

OUT IN the gallery, Davy had come up behind Tilda, put his arms around her, and whispered in her ear, “I have plans for you, Vilma.”

Oh, good
, Tilda thought. “There’s one last woman over there thinking about buying that awful wombat chest.” She snuggled in closer. “Don’t you think you should go sell it to her?”

“No,” Davy said. “I’m tired, the show’s over, and I want to clean this place up and then see how easy this dress is to get off.”

“Extremely easy.” Tilda shoved her shoulder strap up again. “The trick all evening has been to keep it on. I don’t know how Louise manages this stuff.”

Back in the office, Nadine started the jukebox, and some woman began to sing about saving the last dance.

Davy frowned. “What is this song? And why do I have good feelings about it?”

Tilda laughed. “You were winning a bet the last time you heard it.” Her shoulder strap fell down again.

“We can clean tomorrow.” Davy took her hand and pulled her toward the office door.

“You were great tonight,” Tilda said, following him.

“You haven’t seen anything yet, Celeste.”

Tilda stopped at the door for one last look around the gallery. About half of the furniture was gone, and the rest would go in the next couple of weeks as word spread. She wasn’t going to set the art world on fire, or even the furniture world, but people had liked the things they bought, the Finsters notwithstanding. And they’d bought them because of Davy. The basement was empty because of Davy.

No
, she thought.
Only half-empty
.

“Okay, long silences make me nervous,” Davy said from the office doorway. “Also, you have that look on your face again.”

She turned back to him. “You’re solving all my problems.”

“I can do it all,” he said, not really listening as he tugged at her hand. “Come upstairs and I’ll show you.”

“Come downstairs first,” she said.

Davy shook his head. “The bed’s packed in the van. And that concrete floor is cold.”

“I have something to show you.” She pulled her hand out of his and headed for the basement.

“Can’t you show it to me in the attic?” he said, but he followed her down the stairs and stopped behind her as she punched in the code for the studio.

“Til, you don’t have to,” he said, his voice serious.

“Yeah,” she said. “I do. Here’s the last of my secrets, Dempsey. Let’s see how good you are with a big problem.”

And then she opened the door.

U
PSTAIRS
, the last customer left with her wombats, and Nadine and Ethan walked around picking up cups. “We’ll clean up the office and then head upstairs,” Nadine told Gwen. “We have things to talk about.”

“You didn’t bug anybody else, did you?” Gwen said, alarmed.

“No,” Ethan said. “But the investigation is ongoing.”

“What things, then?” Gwen said, looking at Nadine with narrowed eyes.

“We’re going to discuss the future of Matilda Veronica furniture,” Nadine said. “We’re going to run out pretty soon, and we were thinking that if we went around to dumps and collected stuff on trash day, that Tilda could draw the lines and we could paint them.”

“I don’t know if Tilda wants to.” Gwen looked around the depleted gallery. Mason wouldn’t be happy about more furniture. He’d want to sell paintings. Her head throbbed harder. “I don’t even know when Tilda is leaving again on her next mural.”

“That’s why we need to talk about this first,” Nadine said. “It’s still fuzzy, but once Ethan and I work out the details, I don’t think she’ll say no. After all, we’ll be doing most of the work. Right?” She nudged Ethan and grinned up at him affectionately. “It’s not like Ethan has anything else to do.”

“And how do you feel about that, Ethan?” Gwen said, exasperated with them both.

Ethan shrugged. “It’s summer.”

No, it isn’t
, Gwen thought,
It’s Nadine
.

“You look tired, Grandma,” Nadine said. “Go to bed. Ethan and I will take care of everything down here.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Gwen said and then someone banged on the street door to the gallery. “Who could that be? It’s after midnight.”

“Want me to get it?” Ethan said.

“No.” Gwen went toward the door. “You stay here and clean.”

When she lifted the shade on the street door, Mason was standing there. “Hey, we’re closed,” she said, opening the door for him.

“Thought you might be able to spare another drink,” Mason said, a little sheepishly, as he came in.

“Hello, Mr. Phipps,” Nadine said politely, when they came into the office. “Come on, Ethan, let’s do the gallery.” She picked up the sweeper and went into the gallery, Ethan following her with a trash bag and a pained expression.

“Cute kids,” Mason said, while Gwen got out the orange juice and vodka.

“Good kids,” Gwen said, failing to see how anybody could call either Nadine or Ethan cute. She glanced through the glass into the gallery. Nadine was attacking the floors with the sweeper while Ethan gathered up miscellaneous cups and plates, keeping one eye on Nadine’s rear end. Maybe it was time to send Ethan home.

“I thought maybe,” Mason began and hesitated. “I don’t want to go home to Clea tonight, Gwen,” he blurted finally. “Let me stay with you.”

“Oh,” Gwen said.

“I don’t want to rush you,” Mason said, moving closer. “I know you’re tired.”

Oh, good, I look tired
. Gwen stood up. “You’re a very generous man, Mason.”

“I’m not generous,” Mason said. “I get a lot, too. It’s lonely back at the house.”

Gwen thought,
I know. It’s lonely where I am, too. And sooner or later
… “Would you like to see my apartment?” she said.

“Yes,” he said solemnly. “I would like to very much.”

“Great,” she said and stood up. “It’s this way.”

THE BASEMENT ROOM was big when Tilda turned on the light. Davy saw three walls lined with expensive-looking metal cabinets and the fourth with shelves full of tools and equipment, some of it standard artist’s supplies but a lot of it unfamiliar. The whole place was white, just like everything else in the basement.

Tilda pulled out a bentwood side chair that had seen better days, and said, “Sit,” and Davy sat, facing the longest wall of cabinets. She opened the first cabinet and pulled out a painting, cornfields under a heavily painted, swirling blue sky.

“Do you know what this is?” she said.

“A van Gogh?” Davy said, not caring. “You have great legs.”

“A Goodnight,” Tilda said. “My great-grandpa painted it. Of course, he signed it van Gogh.”

Davy squinted at it. “Why didn’t Great-grandpa sell it?”

“Because it was lousy,” Tilda said and began to open more cabinets, her body moving under the slippery fabric of her dress. Davy watched as she pulled out painting after painting, her body tensing with each canvas until she had dozens of them propped against the walls and lying at her feet, and he wanted her so much he was dizzy with it.

“All Goodnights,” she said, looking at them. “They’ve been down here for decades, in the family for centuries. Our great secret. We should burn them, but we can’t. They’re history. They’re part of us.”

“Burn them?” Davy said, not caring. “Why didn’t you sell them?”

Tilda put her hands on her hips and looked at him sternly, which made him stop thinking about the paintings entirely. “They’re forgeries. That’s illegal.”

“Really, Scarlet?” Davy said. “Come here and tell me about it.”

“Okay, because most of them are really bad,” Tilda said, dropping her hands. “And because some of them were intended for future generations. We pass them down.”

“Why?” Davy said, trying to gauge how much longer he had to talk to her before he could get that dress off.

“I told you,” Tilda said, “the hardest forgeries to break are the contemporaries, the ones painted during the time the real artist worked. Science can’t touch them. So every generation of Goodnights paints for the next generation.”

“Because once the artist is dead, nobody can tell,” Davy said, gaining new respect for the Goodnights. “How many of these do you have?” A small part of him was interested from a purely financial point, but most of him was praying she wasn’t going to make him look at all of them. It would take hours and there was very little blood left in his brain.

“Over two hundred if you include the drawings and prints,” Tilda said. “We have some that go all the way back to Antonio Giordano, who is supposed to be the first of us. We switched to Goodnight when we came to America.”

“To fit in?”

“To cover up the fact that we were related to my great-uncle Paolo Giordano,” Tilda said. “He sold a Leonardo off the wall and got caught.”

“Off the wall,” Davy said, interested in spite of his lack of blood. “He just pointed to it and said-”

“No,” Tilda said. “He lined up a client and said, ‘I’ll steal the Leonardo for you.’ And he did. And he told the client he was painting a copy for the police to find so that they’d stop looking for it and they’d all be safe.”

“Who got the copy?” Davy said.

“The client,” Tilda said. “Well, clients. He told the same story to four different collectors. My great-uncle would never keep a national treasure. Borrow, yes, steal, no. And the clients deserved it because they were stealing a national treasure. Greed.”

“Classic con,” Davy said. “As long as the mark is crooked, he can’t go to the cops. Come over here and discuss this with me.”

“And if he’s crooked, he deserved to be taken,” Tilda said. “I know this part. My dad used to drill it into me.” She went over to the last of the cabinets and pulled out another painting.

“What if they buy it because they like it?” Davy said, wishing she’d come back to him.

“Then they’re getting what they paid for, aren’t they?” Tilda said, turning the painting so he could see it. It was of a woman with protruding eyes hovering over a well-fed mother and her disturbing-looking baby. “This is our prize, a Durer Saint Anne,” she said. “A Goodnight Durer, of course, but still.”

“Okay,” Davy said.

“Antonio painted it in 1553,” Tilda said. “But it wasn’t his usual good work, so the family kept it. For four hundred years. If it was good and we sold this as a Durer, analysis of the paint and canvas would show that it was real. It would go for millions at auction, and nobody would ever catch on.”

“But it’s bad?” Davy said, tilting his head to look at it. “It looks okay to me. Old.”

“It’s not bad,” Tilda said, “but it’s not good enough. There are half a dozen paintings down here, any one of which would solve all our problems if we could sell it. But we can’t.”

“Your morals do you justice,” Davy said. “Give them a vacation and come upstairs with me.”

“It’s not my morals,” Tilda said. “We can’t afford to get caught. Nobody has ever tied the Goodnights to fraud, if you don’t count Great-uncle Paolo. If a fake turns up, everybody starts looking at everything they’ve ever bought from us. And we can’t afford to give decades of dissatisfied customers their money back.” She put the Durer back. “And I’m not good enough to stonewall them on it. I’m just not the wheeler-dealer my dad was. The guilt…” She shook her head. “I get upset. So this stuff stays down here, and it drives me crazy. I’d burn it all if I could, I really would, but I can’t. My family made these.” She picked up another canvas to put it back. “And a lot of them are good. They’re not good forgeries, but they’re good paintings. They should be on people’s walls.”

“Sell them as fakes.”

“Right,” Tilda said. “Nobody will notice that.” She bent over to slide another painting away.

“You have a great butt,” Davy said.

She straightened, and he waited for her to snap at him.

“Thank you,” she said, and picked up another painting. “But I also have this problem here.”

“Sell them,” Davy said again, waiting for her to bend over again. “Publicize the sale as all the paintings that Goodnights bought thinking they were real and then couldn’t sell when they found out they were fakes. That’s why there are so many of them, because the Goodnights are such honest dealers.” He looked around at the riot of color.

“Yeah,” Tilda said. “I could bring that off. Because honesty is so easy to fake.”

She looked down at the forgeries, so much pain on her face that Davy forgot he wanted her. “Okay, there’s something else going on here. This is the thing that got you last night, isn’t it? I’m not getting why this is so awful, or how the Scarlets fit into it.”

“What?” Tilda looked up from the Durer. “Oh. They don’t. I wasn’t trained to paint the Scarlets, I was trained for this.”

Davy shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

“My dad trained me as a classical painter,” Tilda said. “The same way his dad trained him and his dad before that. But then one day Dad showed up with a Homer Hodge and said, ‘Paint like this,’ and they were so simple that-” She broke off. “I painted six of them and left.” She shrugged. “No big deal.”

“Why did you leave?” Davy said.

Tilda bit her lip. “It was a bad time,” she said offhand, but her voice shook a little. “I was a kid. It doesn’t matter. Long time ago, all over now.” She started to put the paintings away.

“How old a kid?”

“Seventeen.”

Davy straightened. “What the hell happened?”

“You know, it really isn’t-”

“Tilda, stop lying and tell me.”

Tilda pressed her lips together in a caricature of a smile. “I wasn’t lying. It doesn’t matter. Eve and Andrew found out they were pregnant, that’s all. He was my best friend, we were the way Nadine and Ethan are now, but he was Eve’s friend, too, and she was so beautiful, and he took her to the prom, and…” She waved her hand. “No big deal.”

“That’s why you left?” Davy said back. “No. It’s something else. What happened with your dad?”

Tilda turned her back on him and put another painting in the cabinet.

“We’re not going upstairs until you tell me,” Davy said. “Spill it.”

“It wasn’t anything,” Tilda said. “We found out Nadine was on the way, and I came down here to work on the last Scarlet.” She forged a smile for him. “The one you scammed from Colby. The dancers.”

“The lovers,” Davy said.

Her smile disappeared and she nodded. “I was working on it, down here, crying, and Dad came in and said…” She swallowed. “He said, ‘When will you learn you were born to paint and not to love?’”

“I hate your father,” Davy said, rage slicing through him.

“No,” Tilda said. “He was trying to… make me see my destiny. And, really, he was pretty much right. I mean, I’ve been loved. Scott loved me.”

Davy felt that spurt of jealousy again.

“But Dad was right,” Tilda went on, trying to smile. “I was happier painting than I was with people. I loved painting the furniture and the Scarlets, even the forgeries I was doing were more interesting than people. I just…” She sighed. “I just really loved Andrew. And I loved Eve. There weren’t any bad guys. It just didn’t work out for me, I’m just not… But I didn’t want to hear it then.”

She gave Davy a wobbly smile. “My dad had really bad timing.”

“He was an exploitive son of a bitch,” Davy said.

Tilda took a deep breath. “So I scrubbed the paintbrush through the faces in the painting and threw it at him and walked out. I took the bus to Cincinnati, and found a job waitressing there and let Eve know, and she told Gwennie, and Gwennie sent money, every week, and never told Dad where I was, and it turned out okay. I’d graduated from high school the year before because he’d had me test out of a bunch of stuff so I could paint, and that meant I could work if I lied about my age. Eventually he found out and called and yelled and disowned me, but by then, the scary part of being on my own was over.” Tilda’s face eased a little. “And one day, the guy who owned the restaurant was talking about fixing up the place, and I said, ‘I can paint a mural for you,’ and I did, and one of the people who came into the restaurant saw it and wanted one, and the mural business just sort of evolved. And there I was, painting forgeries for a living just like all the other Goodnights.” She looked down at the paintings at her feet “Just like my dad said I would. He was right.”

“He was wrong,” Davy said grimly.

“The bad thing,” Tilda swallowed. “The bad thing was that the Scarlets… were… the way…” She swallowed again. “The way I really paint. So when he sold them, I couldn’t paint that way anymore unless I was Scarlet for him, so I couldn’t paint.”

“How could he
do that
?” Davy said. “He was an artist. He knew what that meant. How could he do that to
his own kid
?”