Chapter 8: The Pitch

On Tuesday a woman from Harbor Group came to buy a painting for the new lobby.

Harbor Group was my husband's company.

Scott had stayed out of it on purpose, and I had loved him for that.

The woman was Harbor's head of design, in her fifties, with a gray braid and flat shoes.

She had a budget of two million dollars and no patience.

Blair intercepted her at the door.

I was at the desk, and I watched it happen.

"Welcome to Harrington Gallery. I'm Blair Kingsley."

"I know who you are."

"Then you know we have something special. Come, I'll show you our crown jewel."

She led her straight to the canvas I had hung myself two years ago, in the best light in the building.

It was an enormous painting of a long wooden pier at dawn, with men in work coats and a tugboat idling in the fog.

The brass plate said PIER NINE.

Blair stood beside it with her hand on her heart.

"This is a masterpiece. An anonymous Great Lakes scene from the thirties. A romantic composition, really. We believe it was a student exercise."

The woman looked at the painting.

Then she looked at Blair.

"A student exercise," she said.

"Yes, isn't it lovely?"

"At two million dollars?"

"A collector's piece."

I was standing before I knew I'd stood up.

I walked across the lobby with my visitor badge flapping and stopped between them.

"May I?" I said.

Blair's smile cracked.

"Siobhan. You're not authorized."

"I'm the one who bought it."

The Harbor woman turned.

"You bought this?"

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