"Where would you like to go?"
Callie laughed and sipped her coffee. "I have no idea. I've always wanted options, but now that I have them, I'm overwhelmed and find that I only want to stay where I am."
Grace thought of the Foundation's own conservation department. Part of her didn't want Callie anywhere near the Hall Building. What if someone picked up on the family resemblance? She stared into the woman's face. The likeness to her father was subtle. Probably only noticeable if someone were looking for it and who would? No one had known about Cornelius's other life.
She hesitated but decided there was something very unattractive about refusing to help someone just because she was afraid of a remote consequence.
"Callie," she said, "perhaps you'd like to come in and talk to Miles Forsythe. He's our conservationist at the museum. He might be able to steer you to some positions. At the very least, he could give you the names of some people to talk to."
Callie slowly put her coffee cup down. Her eyes were startled, as if she never would have expected help from Grace. Or anybody else.
Looking as she did, it was impossible to believe she could be after money, Grace thought.
"I'd be very grateful," Callie answered.
After they were finished, they strolled back to the gallery and said good-bye on the sidewalk.
"I'll talk to Miles and get a date from him."
"Thank you." Callie shifted her small purse up further on her shoulder. "And you didn't have to pay for lunch."
"I know."
As the woman turned her head and glanced at a taxi driver who was blaring his horn, sunlight fell on her face and picked out those lofty cheekbones Grace had always admired in her father.
Callie looked back. "I would have brought your suit in today but I didn't know you would call and it—"
"It's okay. There's no hurry."
Callie smiled. Standing in her modest clothes and a shapeless, floppy jacket, she seemed vulnerable and yet she clearly wasn't looking for handouts.
"Will I see you when I meet with Mr. Forsythe?" she asked. "Yes," Grace said. "You will."
chapter
23
The next day, Grace came into work feeling overwhelmed. The Gala was twenty-four hours away and the big night was looming over her like an avalanche.
But it was Smith's imminent departure that was really on her mind.
"Good morning," Kat said as she handed over some papers. "Miles Forsythe stopped by. He's free to meet that woman later this afternoon. Oh, and Jack Walker called. He wondered if he could see the Copley tonight and I told him he could. I figured you wouldn't mind."
"Fine."
"And Fredrique is back."
Grace looked up in surprise. "He is?"
"He went after the caterers again. They said if you don't get him off their back, they're going to quit."
" I better take care of it."
Grace went into her office and phoned the caterers. After thirty minutes of soothing feathers, they were back on the job.
Still, she cursed when she hung up, feeling as if Fredrique's tenacity was one more problem she could have done without.
From across the room, John's eyes nipped up from something he was writing.
"Sorry," she muttered.
He shrugged and stood up. When he started to stretch, she looked down at her desk. Even though her mind had begun to accept the loss of him, her body had no such pragmatism. She wanted him, even now.
Even after he'd broken her heart. After he was leaving; and never to be seen again.
She imagined that in some part of her, she would always want him. Always love him.
"I have something for you," he said briskly. He walked over and handed her an envelope.
Frowning, she opened it and took out a thick, folded wad of paper. She spread the documents out and began leafing through them. They were printouts of bills, from a casino in Las Vegas, a hotel in Monte Carlo, another on the French Riviera.
"What's all this?" She looked up.\
"I took the liberty of doing a little research on your husband. Those are unpaid hotel charges and gambling debts, He's been on quite a bender since you kicked him out and he's been using his family's name and yours to secure credit. In addition to being lousy at the tables, he's evidently got a hearty appetite and an affinity for top-drawer liquor. Doesn't seem to care much for paying up, however."
She looked at the totals. "This is a lot, but not to a von Sharone."
"Well, that's the thing. Apparently, the family's not as wealthy as it once was. Were you aware they're selling their winery in France? "
"No." She frowned again. "But why? Those vineyards have been owned by them for generations."
"They've put several other properties on the market, as well as some paintings and sculpture. It's all been done very discreetly, of course, but when you add it up, they're offloading a boatload of assets."
"Good Lord. What's happened to them?"
He shrugged. "Too many descendants with too much interest in the high life. The bottom line is, the family's out of money and that international existence your husband's been enjoying is going to get pretty provincial, pretty goddamn fast."
"Which is why he's trying to milk me in the divorce settlement," she murmured. It was all so much clearer. She'd assumed he was going after her because he was being vindictive. Instead, it was a matter of survival. God knew, he was wholly incapable of making the kind of money he needed.
John pointed to the bills. "Sent to the right journalist, these will set off an investigation into the von Sharone finances and they would do anything to avoid that."
"Because appearances are everything," she said softly. Grace glanced back at him, knowing he'd just handed her the ticket to her divorce. "Thank you."
"I had a feeling when his lawyer showed up in your office looking so damn pleased with himself that they were trying to hold you over a barrel. Probably leveraging that picture of us, am I right?"
She nodded.
"So let me tell you, finding all this has been my pleasure."
Grace looked down at the bills. Ranulf relished his international image of wealth and status and this kind of news would ruin him. She could just see the article in Vanity Fair.
She didn't want to hurt him. All she wanted was her freedom without having to pay exorbitantly for it.
"Kat, get my lawyer on the phone, will you?" she said into the intercom.
Toward the end of the workday, Grace and John went down to meet Callie in the atrium. As they cut through the throngs of people milling about, Grace saw the woman standing by the museum's marble entrance. She was dressed in black slacks and a thick black sweater, looking calm and composed.
Callie offered a tentative wave when she caught sight of them approaching.
"Welcome," Grace said. "Miles is looking forward to meeting you."
They left the noisy mosaic of movement and sound behind as they entered the quiet interior of the museum. Grace waved at the guards and the docents and began walking quickly toward the back when she realized Callie had fallen behind, having paused in front of an exhibit.
It was the one noting the Woodward Hall family's contributions to the study of American history. There were photographs and paintings of various generations, as well as of Willings. Grace's picture had been added, next to her father's.
Their father's, she corrected herself. She tried to imagine what it would be like to stare at a history that was hers by right, but not practice.