Cooking for Picasso (46 page)

M
Y FLIGHT WAS HALFWAY ACROSS
the Atlantic Ocean when I overheard two women in a row behind me, high on champagne, having an animated conversation about what a bad idea it was to trust men.

“You did
what
?” one of them asked the other incredulously. “You let him manage your finances
before
the wedding? So what if he's a hedge fund genius? Don't
ever
give a guy control of your money! Okay, don't cry. My brother's a lawyer. He'll help you.”

I closed my eyes, willing them to shut up. But their loud chatter continued unabated, making it clear that a boyfriend had run off with his fiancée's money
and
his secretary, and the gullible woman here on the plane was left with some terrible financial “exposure” to his shady dealings.

Thanks to those chatterboxes I suddenly imagined how horrified Sam, my lawyer, would be if he learned that the minute I got my hands on a Picasso I turned it over to a man I hardly knew. I'd left Mougins in such a blur. Aunt Matilda helped me pack my bags; then she wisely took Martin away for a two-day visit to one of Gil's friends in Cannes, so Gil could deal with the painting—and his loan shark.

Just leave it to me,
Gil had said. But now, I pictured him running off with my painting, making a quick, dirty deal with his art-collector friend, pocketing the change, paying off his loan shark, and never looking back. I had no proof of ownership. I wouldn't be able to do a thing. I recalled the night at the restaurant when the tipsy lady-in-red—the one he'd had an affair with—said,
Once he gets his chef's fingers on your money, well, honey, he's gone, baby, gone…

“Oh, God,” I said now. Well, I had no choice but to hope for the best. I determinedly tore open a packet from the airline containing an eyeshade and slipper-socks, and earplugs that I quickly stuck in my ears. I drank the glass of wine the stewardess offered, hoping that it would blot out my fears about my mother, too. I put my seat back, pulled up my blanket and shut my eyes.

When I arrived in the States I needed to change planes in New York, with an hour's layover, which was bad enough, but then came the news that my flight to Nevada was delayed because of “a weather event”. I sat in a café in the terminal anxiously fiddling with my phone, firing off messages to Gil asking for an update on the sale of the painting, but I got absolutely no response from him.

At last I boarded my flight to Nevada, only to have the plane sit on the tarmac in an interminable queue of delayed flights. The final straw was when the airline announced that our plane was experiencing mechanical problems and we would have to disembark and wait for another flight.

The airline personnel were sympathetic when I told them my mother was seriously ill, and they tried mightily to find me a quicker alternative, allowing me to wait in a private lounge normally reserved for VIPs. All this time I continued sending messages to Gil, spilling my woes about being unable to get to Nevada. I even checked my bank account, but found that no money had been wired to it yet even though Gil had asked for the number before I left. Not a single word from him.

At this point I started muttering to myself. “Nice going, Céline. You have never trusted a man with your life and your money before, so what do you do? You pick
this time
to take up with some crazy chef, and after one sexual encounter, you just hand him your Grandma's long-lost Picasso. Terrific.”

Meanwhile, my mother was all alone in Nevada with those jackals. I was dissolving into tears of frustration in a public place, when out of the corner of my eye I saw a tall, purposeful figure come loping across the lounge, aggressively cutting through the crowd. He was wearing a hat and sunglasses.

“Céline? Come with me,” Gil said authoritatively, and he picked up my carry-on bag.

“What are
you
doing here?” I gasped. Then I found myself saying, “Where's the painting?”

“With my lawyer,” Gil answered. “He's holding it in his safe, pending the sale. As soon as you left I knew I had to come after you. Matilda had already told me in no uncertain terms to go help you! But first, I did as promised—I got hold of my friend Paul. He jumped at it! He made an offer, and if you are okay with it, my lawyer will handle the sale, and Paul will wire the money to us. But right now, let's get you on a plane.”

“There
is
no flight,” I said sourly. “Didn't you read any of my messages?”

“Yes, yes. I've had quite a few fucking balls in the air to juggle! Follow me,” Gil said briskly, steering me through a discreet airport corridor reserved for political and celebrity clientele.

“Where are we going?” I asked. He was walking so fast that I could hardly keep up.

“I told Paul that
you
would be the one to accept or reject his offer, so when I mentioned that you needed to get to your mum, he didn't mind sweetening the pot by putting his private jet at my disposal, so I could get here fast, and then fly you to Nevada,” Gil explained with a sly grin, as the airport personnel nodded deferentially to us and stepped aside to let us through.

And that's how I ended up on a billionaire's airplane. I kept staring at Gil in disbelief as we stretched out on the cushy black-leather seats that were more like sofa-beds. Our plane was cleared for takeoff, and a short while later we were airborne.

“Paul's standing by on his yacht in St. Tropez, waiting to hear your answer,” Gil announced, looking enormously satisfied with the results of all his efforts.

Still breathless from rushing across the terminal, I couldn't help but ask, “So. How much?”

“Well, keep in mind that this painting is not well known, hasn't been verified as a genuine Picasso, nor have you presented proof of ownership along with the painting's provenance,” he cautioned. “Paul wants an expert he often uses to look it over, so we've got him on standby, too.”

“That painting is real, all right,” I said, feeling feisty now.

“Yes, but even so, remember that Paul's taking a big risk believing that your grandmother—and you—are the true owners.”

“Yeah, yeah. How
much
?” I repeated.

“Fifty-five million,” Gil said calmly.

“Dollars?” I squeaked idiotically.

Gil nodded. “He wants his pre-empt to be high enough so you don't take it to auction,” he explained. “Plus, I got him to agree that if you sell it to him, he'll let you come visit the painting once in awhile. I also told him you wanted the
Girl-at-a-Window
to ultimately end up in a place where everyone has a chance to see it. He seemed to understand that. Said he'd arrange right now for the painting to be bequeathed to a public museum upon his death. He's eccentric, but he's honorable.”

For awhile we said absolutely nothing. Finally Gil said gently, “It's your decision, Céline. I figure we've got a couple hours of keeping Paul on the string, but frankly he's met all our demands, so I wouldn't give him too much time to reconsider this deal. He's a shark, and sharks move on.”

For the first time, the whole thing was real to me; and I let myself feel the pang of regret that I seemed to be losing my Grandmother Ondine almost as soon as I'd found her.

Gil was saying, “If you decide to sell, I'd like my lawyer to handle it today so he can pay off my loan and get Gus to call off his dogs. As it was, those meatheads were hanging around the
mas
again—I literally had to sneak out in the laundry truck to board this jet. Still, as I said, you can take all the time in the world, and even put it up for auction, if you want to. I'll stand behind whatever you decide.”

I thought of Grandma's
mas
in peril of those thugs
and
Rick; and my mother in the hospital, waiting for me. I took a deep breath. Then I said firmly, “Sell!”

W
HEN WE LANDED
in Nevada, the town car that Gil had hired was already waiting for us. It took us straight to the hospital, and the driver would continue to wait for us there.

“Where's your lawyer?” Gil asked worriedly as the car pulled to a stop. I checked my phone.

“Sam's in some meeting but left me a message,” I muttered. “Says the twins gave explicit orders not to let
any
visitors in to see Mom, ‘not even other family members'. That means me, of course.”

“Can they do that?” Gil asked. “What the bloody hell are they afraid of?”

“Money, as always. Sam says they're worried Mom will ‘fully revive and alter her will',” I explained. “He told me not to try to get into the hospital without him, because the twins might call the cops and make the whole thing very unpleasant. He says it's better to fight them in court. But my mother can't wait for him and his dumb meeting, and neither can I.”

My telephone rang then. It was a private detective my lawyer had hired to keep an eye on Mom's hospital room for me until I arrived, and he was sending me an update.

“Deirdre has just left,” he said. “So your mother is alone now. No change in her condition. I have two visitors' passes that I will hand you as I go by your car. Don't give your mother's name when they ask who you're visiting. I have another patient's name; at least it will get you past the downstairs reception desk. Upstairs, you're on your own. Your mom's room is 243; third left past the elevator.”

I told Gil this, and we watched in fascination as the P.I. strolled by our rolled-down window, dropped the passes in my lap and continued walking, having made no outward sign of even stopping, much less interacting with us. “I've got an idea about getting past the upstairs nurses,” Gil said.

He and I went inside the hospital. The night crew was coming on, so during the changing of the guard they only glanced distractedly at our passes and nodded. But if we showed these passes upstairs we'd be directed to another patient's room. So when the elevator landed on Mom's floor, Gil said, “I'll cover for you. Ready to rock and roll?” I nodded, ducked into the ladies' room and counted to fifty.

Then I returned to the hallway and cautiously inched toward my mother's room. Gil was parked at the nurse's station, where all the nurses on duty were gathered in a curious cluster around him while he regaled them in his irresistible English accent with a tall tale about Prince Harry. His broad back was facing me and he'd carefully squared his shoulders to block the nurses' view, as he indulgently answered their questions with great charm. Inwardly I blessed him as I slipped unnoticed into my mother's room.

She lay there, asleep in the bed, with tubes in her nose. Several bags of I-V drip were hanging beside her, with tubing connected to her hand by needles. The first thing that struck me was that she looked incredibly small, making the bed seem bigger than it actually was. They had stopped coloring her hair, so instead of her usual auburn, she was more grey-haired now. Her skin, though very pale, was still youthful-looking for her age. I noticed that Mom's lips were dry and chapped. A cup of water stood on a table beside the bed—just out of reach.

I sat down gently on the bed and tentatively took her hand—the one without the I-V needle in it. Her fingers were soft and warm and delicate, as I remembered from childhood, but it seemed as if now she was down to just skin and bones. She had her usual trusting, hopeful expression on her face. Overwhelming love for her welled up in my chest, making it feel as if my heart were about to burst.

She opened her eyes. For a moment, she didn't seem able to focus, but stirred sleepily and then squinted to see who had taken her hand. I put the water to her lips and she drank. When she finally spoke, it was in such a faint whisper that I had to put my head close to her to hear it.

“Who's there?” she asked; then, as if she had sensed rather than seen me, said, “Céline, is that you?” Now she gazed directly at me with surprise and that pure delight of hers.