Page 54 of Scarlett and the Big Bad Billionaire
The mural painted on it was colorful and interesting and certainly bore a resemblance to the style of the painting Vivi had in her gallery.
“Can you believe he was right here in Rhode Island?” my grandmother said.
Her hands were clasped below her chin as she watched the report. “I wish they’d show the mural up close.”
The videographer did zoom in a little closer, but only on one part of it. It featured a stylized cityscape. The camera panned over and revealed another section of the mural, which looked like a brighter, more modern version of a Salvador Dali painting I’d seen somewhere.
Though I was the farthest thing from an art expert, I suspected the mural was a genuine Inksy. Because unlike most art, it made mefeelsomething.
I wouldn’t have been able to explain it if I tried, but for whatever reason, the piece spoke to me. About thirty seconds later, the report ended.
“Oh, we have to call Gray,” Vivi said. “I wonder if he was watching?”
She held her phone out to me. “Would you dial it for me, dear? I can’t see the screen that well at night.”
With a knowing grin, I took the phone and searched her contacts for Gray’s name, tapping it. He answered after one ring.
“Victoria? Everything okay?”
“It’s Scarlett. She wanted to talk to you.”
“Wait…”
The sudden pounding of my heart in my ears threatened to drown out his voice. “What?”
“How are you?”
“I’m the same as I was half an hour ago—very, very full. I should not have had the ice cream.”
“Yes, you should have. The next few weeks are supposed to be all about fun, and dessert is fun.” He hesitated before asking, “Have you thought about it?”
“What?”
“You know… the fling.”
The pounding returned, louder and faster.
“Vivi and I were just watching the news.” My voice sounded unnaturally high. “She’s right here.”
“The news?”
“Hold on. I’m handing the phone to Victoria. Good night, Gray.”
“Wait—Scarlett…” I didn’t hear whatever he said next because I’d already handed the phone off to Vivi.
They spoke for a few minutes, and she hung up.
“He says he didn’t see the report, but he doubts it’s real,” she told me. “Supposedly Inksy is European. What would he be doing in Rhode Island?”
“Maybe he’s here on vacation?” I suggested. “While we were at the Van Gogh exhibit and at Cliffhouse, I heard accents and languages from all over the world.”
“That’s possible,” she said. “I’ll have to check his Insta profile page and see if Inksy takes credit for it.”
I laughed as my eighty-nine-year-old grandma scrolled Instagram.
Excitement over the mysterious mural grew as the days went by, and Vivi kept me apprised of the latest news reports. The city of Providence had assigned a twenty-four-hour police detail to protect it from vandalism, and Inksy experts were flying in from London to authenticate it.
There was talk of building a temporary shelter around it on the empty lot to protect the piece from the elements, should it turn out to be the real thing.
