I smiled and hugged her, being careful not to drip paint on her shirt. “You don’t, but I appreciate your support anyway.”
“All those years, and we never knew how talented you were.”
I shrugged. It was more that they’d never known how much I lacked enough confidence to share my work. The only person I had shown, before Knox, was Brand.
While Penelope studied the paintings, I thought about the man who I now knew was my half-brother.
Thanks to my dad, restitution was made to all the people who had purchased forgeries from Brand or bought fake shares in masterpieces. I wondered if the money to do so came out of the trust fund or if my father had simply paid it all. Either way, it was none of my business, and I’d never ask.
Quinn was the one to tell me that Brand had been sentenced to six years in prison for his crimes, even after the restitution was made. It didn’t seem nearly enough, but as she’d explained, Brand wasn’t the one who’d kidnapped my father or me. He also hadn’t been the one to kill the AISE agents who were protecting me. While, to some, it may seem that he should pay for the indirect consequences of his actions, as Quinn said, it wasn’t the way the law worked.
I found myself intrigued by the original idea of the business Brand and my father had started, and quietly opened a retail space of my own. I’d named it the Catarina Benedetto Fine Art Collection and Gallery. It was only one of the businesses intended to operate under the umbrella of the Tribe of Five Corporation, whose board members included Quinn Bryant, Ava McNamara, Aine Ellis, and Penelope Ramsey. We’d voted four to one to make Quinn our chairwoman.
I hadn’t sold any of my own art yet and, secretly, wasn’t sure I ever would. However, the gallery was beginning to gain in reputation for selling quality Italian works of art.
My plan was never to conduct any private art deals, but the market segment was growing quickly as savvy collectors, corporations, and even institutions like museums, began to realize the benefit of brokering one-on-one deals rather than competing in the sometimes overwhelming world of public galleries, high-end auctions, online sales, and art fairs. When initially approached about brokering a deal, I’d been reluctant, but now had finalized close to twenty.
Some dealers were reluctant to do business with me, given the level of provenance I required for any artwork I brokered in a deal. I was intransigent in insisting my requirements be met before I would continue the sale. Not that I was the face of that part of the business. That was Penelope.
While she’d loved physical therapy, the long hours and difficulty getting time off resulted in her asking if there was a place for her at the gallery.
“I’ve decided. This is my favorite.” She stepped back and waved her hand at a painting of the Valentini Winery with rolling hillsides covered in vineyards in the background. I had to admit, it was one of my favorites too.
Pen walked over and sat on a stool by the window. “I have a crazy idea.”
The way she said it, reminded me so much of Pia that I put my hand on my heart and my eyes filled with tears.
“What?”
“It’s nothing. Just missing a friend.”
“That’s something else I want to talk to you about, but first things first.”
“It isn’t who you’re thinking,” I muttered.
“Don’t try to distract me.”
I folded my arms.
“It’s time you mounted a show.”
I shook my head. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Why not? Look at all of this. How many paintings do you have now? Thirty? Forty?”
It was closer to fifty, none of which I was ready for anyone besides Pen to see. I would’ve let the remaining three of the tribe see them, but Quinn lived in California and Ava in Oregon. I wasn’t sure whether Aine and her husband, also one of the K19 Security Solutions partners, had made a decision about where they planned to live full-time. The last I heard, they were leaning heavily toward Yachats, the town on the O
regon Coast where Ava and Razor lived.
When we heard the chime of someone at the intercom at the front of the gallery, Pen eased out the door of my studio. “This conversation isn’t over,” she said, before closing it behind her.
No sooner was she gone than my cell phone rang. “Hi, Daddy.”
“Hey, princess. How are you?”
“Busy painting. How are you?”
“That’s what I like to hear. I’m hoping someday you’ll let me see some of them.”