And Tilda looked across the top of the paper at Davy and said, “I think he’s amazing.”
Davy was even more amazing when people began to come in. He smiled, and laughed and made them say yes, steering them to different pieces, watching their faces to see which things they responded to and then moving in for the sale. “What a wheeler-dealer,” Jeff had said halfway through the evening when he’d brought out the last of Thomas’s potstickers. “The guy’s an ace.”
“You have no idea,” Tilda said, keeping an eye on Davy in case he needed her. She thought her face was going to crack from smiling, but Davy was still relaxed and easy.
“It’s not just him,” Jeff said. “His dad sold three more Finsters.”
“You’re kidding,” Tilda said, looking around to see.
“Back there.” Jeff jerked his head toward the left. “He must be drugging the customers.”
“He’s conning them,” Tilda said, squinting to see. “I don’t have my glasses on. He doesn’t have them backed into a corner, does he?”
“No,” Jeff said, grinning. “And they’re all women. Do you think that’s significant?”
Tilda looked back at Davy, very tasty in Simon’s dress shirt and tie. “No, I’m sure that has no relevance at all.”
She threaded her way through the crowd to stand beside him and then waited until he’d made his sale and turned to her. “You’re my hero,” she said.
“Why?” he said, suddenly cautious.
She slipped her arm through his. “You got back all my Scarlets and now you’re getting rid of all this furniture.”
“Oh.” He looked relieved. “Listen, this stuff sells itself. There’s almost nothing left downstairs. Ethan and I even loaded the bed into the back of your van. You’re sure you don’t mind me taking it to Temptation on Sunday?”
“As long as you come back,” she said, trying not to tighten her grip on him.
“Yeah, that’s all my rap sheet needs,” Davy said, looking over her head. “Grand theft auto. I have to go. There’s a woman over there who is trying to buy that chair with the purple bats.”
Tilda turned to follow his eyes. “Then why isn’t she? I can’t see details without my glasses.”
“Because Mason is helping her,” Davy said grimly. “He is undoubtedly telling her it will appreciate and add to her retirement income. Look at him, he’s standing there with his arms folded smiling because he thinks he’s sold her.”
“He does that when he plays poker, too.” Tilda squinted in his general direction. “When he thinks he has something. Which he never does. Bats are going to add to her retirement income?”
“Yeah, I’m not seeing the logic, either.” He pulled his arm away, kissed her cheek, and started across the floor.
“Hey,” Tilda said.
He stopped and came back.
“You’re not getting tired of me, are you, Ralph?” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “Leaving me for purple bats and Temptation. We’re in a rut already?”
“We don’t do ruts, Celeste,” he said. “We’re inventive. If we start to pall on each other, we’ll improvise.”
Tilda moved closer, wanting his warmth. “Like how?”
He bent to her ear. “Like sometime before I go, you’re going to be Grandma, and I’m going to be Mussolini.” Then he straightened and she realized he was looking over her shoulder at Mason. “Oh, hell,” he said, and took off without looking back.
“Before you go?” Tilda said to his back. Did that mean before he went to Temptation or before he went forever? “ Australia,” she said with loathing and turned her back on him to help a man who had a question about a lavender frog bookcase.
DAVY’S EVENING went beautifully, even with his dad coming by every half hour or so to say, “Damn, what a setup.”
“I’m impressed with the Dempseys,” Louise said to him before she left for work. She was dressed in tight, stretchy black, and even though he knew she was Eve in a black wig and dark contacts, he couldn’t help thinking of her as Louise because Eve would never wear that dress. “Your dad is selling Finsters almost as fast as you’re selling Matilda Veronicas.”
“Don’t say it,” Davy said, knowing what was coming.
“Two of a kind,” Louise said and drifted away.
A few minutes later, Michael came up to Davy. “Why is Eve dressed up like Elvira, Queen of the Night?”
“What?” Davy said.
“And calling herself Louise. It’s a con, right?”
“Oh, hell,” Davy said. “It took me two weeks to get that.”
“You were distracted,” Michael said sympathetically. “Sex will do that to you.”
“You’re not sleeping with Dorcas?” Davy said, surprised.
“A gentleman never tells,” Michael said.
“You’re sleeping with Dorcas,” Davy said. “And selling her paintings, I understand.”
“They’re works of art,” Michael said seriously, and anybody but Davy would have believed him.
“Well, I hope she appreciates the work you’re doing. Nobody else but you could move those things.”
Michael put his hand over his heart. “Why, thank you, my boy, I’m touched.”
Davy shrugged. “Have to give the devil his due. You’re good.”
“Yes,” Michael said, smiling back at Dorcas, who was looking pale but lovely in gray crepe. “I am.” Then he went back to selling Finsters.
Davy watched for a moment to see Michael’s newest mark turn to him and expand under the light in his smile and the glint in his eye.
That’s wrong
, he thought, but she looked so happy as she bought a Finster that it was hard to explain why it was wrong.
Maybe when she woke up the next morning and realized she’d bought a watercolor of sadistic fishermen drowning fish, maybe that was when it was wrong. Assuming she did. Maybe she’d look at it and remember how she’d felt when she bought it. Maybe it would make her happy.
Maybe he was rationalizing. He went to sell a woman a sideboard with green and blue elephants.
Ten minutes later, the sideboard sold, and feeling something was missing in his life, Davy went looking for Tilda and her blue dress and saw her over by the counter, talking with a tall, good-looking guy in an expensive suit. She looked happy.
I’m not jealous
, Davy thought, and then grabbed Andrew as he went by. “Hey.”
“I’m late for the Double Take,” Andrew said. “Make it fast.”
Davy nodded toward the counter. “Who’s the suit with Tilda?”
Andrew looked over. “Scott. Old boyfriend.”
“Oh.” Davy watched Tilda laugh up at the guy and felt his jaw grow tight.
“He’s a lawyer,” Andrew said helpfully. “Very successful. Treated her like a goddess. They were great together.”
“No they weren’t,” Davy said, watching Tilda put her hand on the suit’s arm. “He’s all wrong for her.”
“Uh-huh,” Andrew said, and turned away, almost running into Michael.
“Andrew,” Michael said, “who’s that idiot with Gwennie? He was here last night, too. Worst salesman I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Andrew looked over. “Mason Phipps. He treats her like a goddess. They’re great together.”
“No they’re not,” Michael said. “He’s all wrong for her.”
“Are you leaving soon?” Davy said to him. “Because if not, I’m going to get drunk.”
“With Tilda in that blue dress? That’s no way to treat a woman, son,” Michael said. “No wonder she’s flirting with somebody else.” He went over to dazzle Gwennie and annoy Mason.
“I don’t want to hear any ‘two of a kind’ crap,” Davy said to Andrew, his eyes back on Tilda.
“He has a lot of good points,” Andrew said mildly.
“He has a lot of bad ones, too,” Davy said grimly.
“He is all wrong for her,” Andrew said.
“Dad for Gwennie? Jesus, yes. So is Mason. She’s doodling teeth on the sales slips. That’s not a good sign.”
“No,” Andrew said. “I meant that Scott’s all wrong for Tilda. You staying around?”
Davy opened his mouth to say something and then couldn’t think of anything.
“That’s what I thought,” Andrew said, sounding disgusted. “Two of a kind.”
“Hey,” Davy began but Andrew walked off. “Okay, how did I get to be the bad guy again?”
Across the room, Tilda turned away from Scott, and Davy caught her eye. He folded his arms and raised his eyebrows, and Tilda looked confused for a moment and then pointed at Scott. Davy nodded. Tilda stuck her chin in the air, but she grinned, and when he crooked his finger at her, she crossed the room to him and made his pulse pick up.
“Stop flirting with strange men, Vilma,” he told her, pulling her close.
“I wasn’t flirting and he’s not strange,” she said as she snuggled under his arm. “In fact, he’s very sweet. He’s not even mad that I turned him down.”
“For
what
?”
“Marriage,” Tilda said, laughing. “What is with you?”
“He proposed?”
“Six months ago. I told you this.”
“Oh,” Davy said, feeling foolish. “Right. Sorry.”
“Are you kidding?” Tilda said. “I
love
it that you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” Davy said. “But if he comes near you again, I’m breaking his fingers.”
“You have nothing to worry about, Ralph.” She stretched up and kissed his cheek. “He doesn’t have the fine understanding of living on the edge that you do. So few men do.” She smiled past him and turned to see Michael handing over another Finster. “Of course, you had a great teacher.” Before he could deny it, she slid out of his arms. “Furniture to sell,” she told him. “Move that armadillo footstool and wonderful things will happen to you later.”
Wonderful things are going to happen anyway
, he thought as she walked away from him. He looked back at Michael. Okay, maybe part of him was Michael. The charming part. He’d take that legacy. Across the room, a woman picked up the armadillo footstool, and Davy went to help her.
Three footstools, an armoire, and a garden bench later, Nadine came back into the gallery from the street, looking enraged.
“
Your father
,” she said.
“Now what?”
“Kyle came by to see me,” Nadine said, “and your dad scared him away. I didn’t want to see him but
I
wanted to tell him that.” She glared at Davy. “What is
wrong
with you people?”
“We’re very protective of our womenfolk,” Davy said, giving up.
Nadine’s frown eased a little. “I thought you were on your way to Australia.”
“I am.”
“Then I am
not
your womanfolk,” Nadine said, her scowl back in place. “If you’re not staying with Aunt Tilda,
back off
.”
“Right,” Davy said. “I’m backing. Off. Go throw yourself away on a worthless male.”
“Yeah. Goodnight women do that a lot,” she said, and went to rescue Steve, who was being baby-talked to by a woman holding a giraffe side chair.
“I am not worthless,” he called after her, and did not look over at his father, who was undoubtedly leaving Dorcas shortly.
Clearly Fate had brought him to the Goodnights to make him see that he really was Michael and, in so doing, ruin his life. And he’d fallen for it. He should have walked away when Tilda said, “Steal it for me,” in the closet; he’d known that when she’d asked him. He should not have rented the apartment; he’d known that when he’d seen the sign in the window. He should-
“What’s wrong with you?” Michael said from behind him. “You look like the last grave over by the willow.”
Davy shook his head. “I should have listened when you said, if it’s too good to be true, get out.”
“Sometimes,” Michael said, “it’s better to stay and get taken.”
He nodded across the room, and Davy followed his gaze to Tilda, laughing with the customer over Steve, showing Nadine and everybody else in the room how to charm anybody.
“She’s something,” Michael told Davy. “She really is.”
Tilda turned to see them, her curls rumpled and her smile crooked and her eyes…
“Yes,” Davy said to her.
“Are you sure she’s not bent?” Michael said. “Because if she was, she really would be too good-”
“Forget it, Dad,” Davy said, and crossed the room to buy whatever she was selling.
GWEN’S EVENING was a little rockier. It was clear to her that the show was a success; people weren’t exactly clawing their way through the door, but there was a nice crowd, thanks in no small part to the article in the
Dispatch
. People dropped by to meet Steve and stayed to have a good time, buying at a fast enough clip that Simon and Ethan spent the evening bringing up pieces to replace the things they’d sold. At ten, Ford came in and helped, and shortly after that, he brought her a dog-covered end table and said, “That’s it. You’ll have to start on the furniture in my room next,” and she’d said, “We’ll wait until you leave for Aruba for that.” He nodded, and she felt disappointed, and then some woman bought the end table -it had paws and a face that looked just like her Pete, she said, and Gwen had wondered if Pete was a dog or a husband- and she’d gone back to smiling until her face ached.
Shortly after that, Thomas came up to her and put his hand on her arm again. “Mrs. Goodnight?”
Oh, hell
, Gwen thought,
it’s the FBI
. “Yes?”
“I was cleaning up the office,” he said, a fake smile pasted on his face, “and I found an interesting painting. A forest.”
“A forest,” Gwen said and thought,
Damn it, Homer, why weren‘t you in the basement with Scarlet
?
“It’s a painting by an artist named Homer Hodge,” Thomas said. “And it was part of Cyril Lewis’s collection that burned in the warehouse fire.”
“Oh.” Gwen sat down on her counter stool. That explained why Mason had it even though he’d given his Homer collection away. So how had he gotten it?
“Did you get that from Clea Lewis?” Thomas said, sounding stern in his white jacket.
“I don’t know what painting you’re talking about,” Gwen said. “It’s, in the office? We don’t store paintings in the office.”
“It was stuck behind the desk,” Thomas said.
“What were you doing behind the desk?” Gwen said.
“What are you doing with this painting?” Thomas said.
“Is there a problem?” Mason said, and they both jerked their heads around to see him standing on the other side of the counter. “Thomas,” he said severely, “you shouldn’t be annoying Mrs. Goodnight with catering details. Just handle whatever it is.”