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“How’d it go?” we ask each other at the same time.
“You first,” I say.
“Let’s just say I won’t be employed at Generations Bank in the near future.” Rhett grins. “It’s for the best. It’d break Mother’s heart.”
I can barely acknowledge the joke. “Marie wants a painting,” I say, and fill him in on the task set before me.
“Okay,” Rhett says, frowning. His eyes scan the walls, coming to the same conclusion that I already have: there are a fuck-ton of paintings in this room.
“I guess we start Googling market prices?” he asks.
“A good idea for the value today, but we’ll get a hundred different answers about which will be worth the most in ten years.”
Rhett chews his lip. “Okay. I’ll admit it. I don’t know shit about art and even less about its market value.”
“And I only know the basics.”
“So we find someone who does,” he says.
Our eyes lock instantly.
We find Selina Marlo stuck in conversational quicksand, being talked at by the ancient socialite Marmie Adler. She is visibly relieved when she sees us approach.
“Marmie, you remember Rhett and Liz,” Selina says loudly.
“HUH?” the woman barks, putting a hand to her ear. “You must speak up!”
“Her hearing aids don’t work in rooms with high ceilings,” Selina informs us.
“My hearing aids don’t work in rooms with high ceilings!” Marmie shrieks.
Rhett takes one for the team. He puts a hand on Marmie’s shoulder and produces a glass of champagne from thin air. “HI MARMIE. YOU LOOK LOVELY TONIGHT,” he booms so loudly everyone within fifty feet turns.
I use the distraction to sweep Selina off to the side.
“Can you keep a secret?” I ask.
“I love secrets,” she says. “But I also tell Colton everything.”
“Okay, can the both of you keep a secret?”
“That we can do.”
“What painting is the best investment here?” I ask. “I need to prove to a multi-billionaire that I can handle her money.”
Selina’s brow furrows. “Wait, is this about the Alencars?” Her eyes bug. “Holy shit, they are getting a divorce. Argh, I owe Colton five bucks.”
I ignore the hilarity of this multi-millionaire bemoaning the loss of a five dollar bet, and ask, “Can you help me?”
“Hmmm.” Selina bites her lip. “It’s difficult to say. Like I said, the Basquiat is the most expensive, and his works have only gone up over the years. It could be that one.”
“Maybe,” I say. I don’t know that much about art, and really there’s no reason it couldn’t be the giant abstract painting. But my instincts warn against about choosing the biggest and shiniest painting, about spending the most amount of money. Careless purchases are not a great sign from a prospective financial manager. Marie wants to see that I’m perceptive, calculating.
“Are there any other contenders?” I ask.
Selina lists off a few, including the Degas that Marie and I were just observing. None of them stand out to me, and she doesn’t seem that thrilled by any of their prospects over any of the others.
“Really it all comes down to the market,” she says with a shrug. “Which on paintings this old can be fickle.”
