of Mark Twain with the edge of a letter poking out. She wondered if it was her mother’s farewell letter.
Cleon set the shaker down on a marble-topped dressing table, dragged a large suitcase from under the bed and pulled out two, bubble-wrapped squares. He ripped the plastic off and propped the Winslow Homer watercolors side by side against the dresser mirror.
“Well, what do you think?”
Most watercolors seemed washed-out and sickly to her, but Homer’s were rich and radiant, almost as intense as oils. “I can almost feel the spray,” she said. “It’s like looking through an open window onto the ocean.”
“They’re fine examples of the master’s oeuvre, I’m told. Did I pronounce that right?”
“You know you did. You only mangle words when you want to. For effect.”
“Now, sugah. I hope I ain’t that transparent, but if I was gonna be, I’d sooner it be you who sees through me than anybody else.” He poured the martinis and they stood together admiring the paintings for a while. “Neesha and your brother gave me a lot of heat for bringin’ ’em, but it was worth it. Lookin’ at ’em bucks me up.”
“They buck me up, too. They’re wondrous.”
“I’m glad you like ’em, doll, ‘cause they’re all yours.”
“What?”
“I’m bequeathin’ ’em to you in my will.”
“Me?” She was blown away. “But they’re worth, I don’t know, maybe millions.”
“I got millions. It’s no skin off anybody else’s nose if that’s what you’re thinkin’. Wen doesn’t know Winslow Homer from Homer Simpson. Lucien’s house is overflowin’ with fine art, his and all his up-and-comin’ artist friends’, and Neesha…” His face twitched as if from pain.
Not sure if the pain was physical or mental, Dinah reached for his hand.
He brushed her comfort aside, looking abashed by the momentary weakness. “Neesha’s gonna open her own art gallery when I’m gone. She’d sell ’em to the first customer that walked in. As for the rest of the family, they want my liquid assets, not my aesthetic ones. Irregardless, nobody deserves these more than you do.”
“I don’t know what to say. I’m knocked out.” She didn’t care how he butchered the language. Irregardless, she threw her arms around him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Uncle Cleon. Thank you millions.”
“If they persuade you to stop gallivantin’ around the world and come to light someplace where you can hang ’em up and enjoy ’em, that’s all the thanks I want. I wish I could’ve seen you married and happy before I go. Leastways now I’ll know you’ll have assets to fall back on. Don’t feel like you can’t sell ’em off if you need to. I sure as shootin’ won’t care where I’m goin’ so it’s strictly up to you. If you sell ’em, the only string is that you get full market value in cash up front.”
He finished his martini and eased himself down on the bed. “You best skedaddle now, doll, and let me nap for an hour or two. Tonight’s dinner’s gonna be a lulu.”
Chapter Fourteen
Giddy with excitement, Dinah returned to the great room to wait for Lucien and tell him the good news. She was a millionaire, heiress to works of one of America’s premier artists, emancipated from the grind of crummy jobs. She could take charge of her life, pursue her anthropological studies, maybe even finance her own expeditions.
Much as she loved the paintings, marvelous as it would be to have them all to herself to look at whenever she liked, keeping them just wasn’t practical. It was so good of Cleon to say that he didn’t mind if she sold. With the money she got from the sale, she could do anything, go anywhere, indulge her every whim. Or, she could sell one and keep the other, a cake-and-eat-it solution. Lucien would know what to do. He had a friend who owned a gallery in New York City. St. Jean Dupree. It was in his gallery that Neesha found the Homers and Lucien had helped Cleon negotiate
Cleon set the shaker down on a marble-topped dressing table, dragged a large suitcase from under the bed and pulled out two, bubble-wrapped squares. He ripped the plastic off and propped the Winslow Homer watercolors side by side against the dresser mirror.
“Well, what do you think?”
Most watercolors seemed washed-out and sickly to her, but Homer’s were rich and radiant, almost as intense as oils. “I can almost feel the spray,” she said. “It’s like looking through an open window onto the ocean.”
“They’re fine examples of the master’s oeuvre, I’m told. Did I pronounce that right?”
“You know you did. You only mangle words when you want to. For effect.”
“Now, sugah. I hope I ain’t that transparent, but if I was gonna be, I’d sooner it be you who sees through me than anybody else.” He poured the martinis and they stood together admiring the paintings for a while. “Neesha and your brother gave me a lot of heat for bringin’ ’em, but it was worth it. Lookin’ at ’em bucks me up.”
“They buck me up, too. They’re wondrous.”
“I’m glad you like ’em, doll, ‘cause they’re all yours.”
“What?”
“I’m bequeathin’ ’em to you in my will.”
“Me?” She was blown away. “But they’re worth, I don’t know, maybe millions.”
“I got millions. It’s no skin off anybody else’s nose if that’s what you’re thinkin’. Wen doesn’t know Winslow Homer from Homer Simpson. Lucien’s house is overflowin’ with fine art, his and all his up-and-comin’ artist friends’, and Neesha…” His face twitched as if from pain.
Not sure if the pain was physical or mental, Dinah reached for his hand.
He brushed her comfort aside, looking abashed by the momentary weakness. “Neesha’s gonna open her own art gallery when I’m gone. She’d sell ’em to the first customer that walked in. As for the rest of the family, they want my liquid assets, not my aesthetic ones. Irregardless, nobody deserves these more than you do.”
“I don’t know what to say. I’m knocked out.” She didn’t care how he butchered the language. Irregardless, she threw her arms around him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Uncle Cleon. Thank you millions.”
“If they persuade you to stop gallivantin’ around the world and come to light someplace where you can hang ’em up and enjoy ’em, that’s all the thanks I want. I wish I could’ve seen you married and happy before I go. Leastways now I’ll know you’ll have assets to fall back on. Don’t feel like you can’t sell ’em off if you need to. I sure as shootin’ won’t care where I’m goin’ so it’s strictly up to you. If you sell ’em, the only string is that you get full market value in cash up front.”
He finished his martini and eased himself down on the bed. “You best skedaddle now, doll, and let me nap for an hour or two. Tonight’s dinner’s gonna be a lulu.”
Chapter Fourteen
Giddy with excitement, Dinah returned to the great room to wait for Lucien and tell him the good news. She was a millionaire, heiress to works of one of America’s premier artists, emancipated from the grind of crummy jobs. She could take charge of her life, pursue her anthropological studies, maybe even finance her own expeditions.
Much as she loved the paintings, marvelous as it would be to have them all to herself to look at whenever she liked, keeping them just wasn’t practical. It was so good of Cleon to say that he didn’t mind if she sold. With the money she got from the sale, she could do anything, go anywhere, indulge her every whim. Or, she could sell one and keep the other, a cake-and-eat-it solution. Lucien would know what to do. He had a friend who owned a gallery in New York City. St. Jean Dupree. It was in his gallery that Neesha found the Homers and Lucien had helped Cleon negotiate
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