Penniless And Secretly Pregnant - Jennie Lucas Page 0,53

didn’t know what to think.

“Why weren’t you doing drawings like this all along?” Her old boss at the diner, Claudia, had demanded earlier that week. “Why were you doing those awful modern scribbles—when all along you could do pictures like this?”

Remembering, Daisy gave a low laugh. Trust her old boss not to be diplomatic.

But still, it made her think.

When she’d done her painting at art school, long ago, she’d been desperate to succeed. Art had always felt stressful, as she’d tried to guess what others would most admire. Each effort had been less authentic than the last, a pastiche of great masterpieces, as Leonidas had said. The painting her husband had bought at the auction for a million dollars was still buried in a closet. In spite of its success that night, she hadn’t felt joy creating it. In spite of all her effort, the painting had never connected with her heart.

But these sketches were different. They were of people.

It felt easy to simply draw her friends—even new friends she’d just met—and see what was best in them.

Was it possible that Daisy did have some talent? Not for painting—but for people?

With a rueful snort, she shook her head. Talent for people? She couldn’t even get her own husband to talk to her! Or hold their baby daughter!

Two days ago, heartsick, she’d been thinking of how, as an agonized fourteen-year-old, Leonidas had struck out at the Picasso with scissors. And she’d had a sudden crazy idea.

What if she found the painting for him?

It was a long shot. He’d been looking for it for decades. But maybe he hadn’t been doing it the right way. Daisy had a few connections in the art world. If she could give him his heart’s desire, would it bring Leonidas back to them?

It was her best chance. A grand gesture Leonidas would never forget. She pictured his joyful face when she presented him with the Picasso. Then he would take her in his arms and tell her he loved her.

Her heart yearned for that moment!

So she called a young art blogger she knew in Brooklyn. Aria Johnson had a huge social media following and a ruthless reputation. The woman was like a bloodhound, searching out stories about priceless art and scandals of the rich and famous. Even Daisy’s father had been a little afraid of her.

Picking up the phone, she called her and told Aria haltingly about her husband’s history with the lost Picasso.

Daisy didn’t explain everything, of course. She didn’t say a word about the way he’d been conceived. That was a secret she’d take to the grave. She just told her that Love with Birds had been lost when Leonidas’s mother had died in a big Turkish earthquake, some two decades before.

“Yeah. I know the story.” The blogger popped her gum impatiently. “People have looked for that Picasso for twenty years. Wild-goose chase. Why else would your father have thought he could forge it?”

“He didn’t—”

Aria cut her off. “They only found the woman’s body. No painting.” Daisy had flinched. The woman had been Leonidas’s mother. “Other bodies were found, though. Her household staff. A young man who no one came forward to claim.”

“Could you look into it?” Daisy said.

“A widow. With money. Hmm... Was she beautiful?”

“I guess so,” Daisy replied. What difference did Eleni Niarxos’s beauty make?

“Anything else you can tell me?”

She swallowed hard. It felt like breaking a confidence—but how else could she be sure it was the right painting? She said reluctantly, “There’s a cut in the canvas. Someone sliced the painting with a pair of scissors.”

“Someone?”

“Yes. Someone.” Quickly changing the subject, Daisy said, “If you could find it, I’d be so grateful. And I’ll pay you—”

“You can pay my expenses, that’s it. I don’t need a finder’s fee. I just need to own the story. Deal?”

Daisy took a deep breath. It felt like a devil’s bargain, but she was desperate. “Deal.”

The art blogger paused. “If I find the painting, it might not have provenance.”

Meaning, the painting might have been stolen. Which would make sense. How else could it have simply disappeared during the earthquake?

“I don’t care,” Daisy said. “As long as the Picasso is genuine. And I want the story of where the person found it.”

Aria popped her gum. “Don’t worry. I’ll get the story.”

That had been a few days ago. Now, holding her sleeping baby, Daisy was rocking in the chair in the nursery. It was late August, hot and sweaty summer in New York, but cool and calm inside