Page 1 of Finding Out

“Guesswho gets to see New York at Christmas?” Dressed in a suit, as always, my boss, Pat, leaned his shoulder against the doorframe.

With my elbows on my small desk, I tucked my hands under my chin and put on my best pout. “You’re just being mean at this point.”

I’d begged him to send me to New York this weekend. But after six years, Pat had become immune to my puppy-dog eyes, and thenohad flown from his lips easily.

Seeing the city that never sleeps at Christmas wasn’t my priority, honestly. I’d seen the Macy’s lights, the windows at Saks, and Rockefeller center plenty of times in my life. I’d even had the privilege of watching the Rockettes on stage a few times growing up. The magic of a New York Christmas wasn’t the draw.

No, I was desperate to tag along to the private sale of one of the most famous pieces the Boston Auction House had sold since I’d been hired. I’d been told that I could come across as shallow, and maybe that was true, but not when it came to art.

“Mean, really? Even if the person I’m talking about isyou?” The corner of Pat’s lips lifted at the end of the sentence.

I bolted upright in my chair, my heart hammering.

No way.

“What?” I clasped my hands in my lap, afraid to hope.

Please don’t let him be messing with me.

My love for visual art ran deep. The message a painting could convey was like nothing else.

Stonehenge, by John Constable, was a masterpiece. I’d hardly had the opportunity to enjoy it last year when we priced it out for the owners. So not only was I yearning to experience a transfer of a piece of this caliber, but I wanted to spend a little more time in its presence. Soak in each brushstroke. Wonder how the artist had brought the clouds to life. Study the subtle details that allowed the blend of colors to make each rock pop against the almost gray sky. I wanted to sit in the deep feelings the painting pulled from my soul.

When a piece of art spoke so loudly it echoed through my body like this one had, it was impossible not to long to see it again.

“Larry’s youngest is in the hospital.”

I sucked in a breath, and my heart crashed into my stomach. I wanted this opportunity, but not because of someone else’s misfortune. Larry was a nice guy. He lived one of those perfect lives, with a home on Long Island, a white picket fence, and three cute-as-hell kids.

“Oh no.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Is he okay?”

“It’s a combination of pneumonia and asthma.” Pat frowned from the doorway.

I couldn’t blame him for hovering there. My office was the size of a closet. There was hardly enough room for my desk and one extra chair.

“Larry says it’s precautionary, but even so, he can’t leave.”

“Of course.” Larry was the kind of guy who took off for T-ball practice. There was no way he’d leave his wife or his son during an emergency. “So…” I nibbled on my bottom lip. God, I was an awful person for it, but now that I knew Larry’s emergency wasn’t dire, excitement was pounding through me. “I get to go?”

“Not only are you going, but you’re it.”

My heart skipped as I gaped at him. This moment was surreal. Until now, I’d thought I had no chance. The customer we’d arranged the purchase for had literally refused to allow me to be involved with his account at all. He wouldn’t even speak to me if Larry wasn’t available. “I get to run point?”

Pat nodded. “Diana has tickets to Pops Holiday at Symphony Hallthis weekend.” Tight lines formed around his eyes. His wife was a former cellist and a loyal patron of Boston’s Symphony. If he skipped one of their biggest performances of the year, I could only imagine Diana’s wrath. “Since I have no interest in getting a divorce for Christmas, I can’t travel.” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “But.” He gave me a pointed look. “That doesn’t mean I expect this transfer to go anything but perfectly.”

“Of course.” Excitement bubbled up my chest, but I forced myself not to beam too brightly. Professionalism, that was my goal.

“Good. As you know, this client is…” He rocked back on his heels. “Picky.”

Difficult. Demanding. Frustrating. According to Larry, at least. I wouldn’t know because I’d never even spoken to the guy. It was as if his identity was a national secret or something. To a certain extent, I could understand, I supposed. The buyer was paying millions for this piece, and it wouldn’t be wise to advertise that. Art theft was real and rampant. Discretion was important in our business, but we rarely kept secrets from those who worked within these walls.

“I can handle anyone,” I promised, confidence settling me.

I excelled at schmoozing. I’d practically been born to do it, and I’d absolutely been trained to be social. My whole life, my parents had dreamed I’d become the wife of a senator or a businessman who consistently sat on theForbesTop 100 list. Clearly I’d missed the mark. I was no one’s wife. Not that they ever let the idea of me getting married go.

Pat gave a clipped nod. “I don’t doubt your social skills, buteveryone’swatching this one.”

I cocked a brow.

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