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Sean and Rose waited in the hotel foyer. Sean looked captivated by her. He held her hand and said, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Rose snorted. “That’s rich.”
But Sean held her gaze. “It’s the truth.”
Rose’s smile melted. She squeezed his hand and marveled,Is this the fairy-tale ending I always dreamed of?
But already, the car pulled up to take them to Mrs. Walden’s fundraiser. Rose had wanted to come in style.
Sean opened the door for her, and Rose slid in and assembled the end of her gown around her ankles.
“It’s showtime,” Sean said, wagging his eyebrows.
Rose burst into nervous laughter.
The car reached the glorious art deco building thirty-five minutes after the fundraiser was set to begin. Already, wealthy and well-dressed men and women paraded from taxis and limousines and entered the gold-laced doors. Rose watched, hunting for some sign of Oren and the arrogant sway of his shoulders. But he wasn’t among those entering. Maybe he wouldn’t be here at all.
Sean had already told her as soon as she confirmed that the sculpture was hers, he’d make the call. A few cops were on standby in the area. The fact that she’d crafted this scheme was far beyond his scope as a police officer.
But she had to know if Oren was involved. She couldn’t let him slip away. Not if he’d done something wrong. Not this time.
Rose slipped her arm through Sean’s. He led her gently toward the doorman, who bowed as he opened the door. It had been a long time since a doorman had held the door open for Rose. Had the last time been when she’d been married to Oren?
Rose remembered so many doormen. So many of them had seen Oren verbally or physically abuse her. So many of them had witnessed an unhappy marriage. But they’d smiled and said, “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Grayson.” They’d looked the other way.
Would Rose have looked the other way, too? Would she have said,That’s just the way things go?
Rose handed over her invitation upon entering. The woman who took it looked it over, then smiled and said, “You must be the portraitist. You’ve really done something sensational. Let me ask you. Can I hire you to paint my portrait, too? Or is this something the MOMA must hire you for first?”
The woman’s eyes glinted. Rose felt speechless.
“Really, honey. I’ll throw as much money at this as I can,” the woman said.
“Let’s talk about it after the fundraiser,” Rose sang, smiling.
“Of course,” the woman said, fixing her face. “Tonight is all about the children.”
“Yes. All about the children,” Rose repeated.
After that, Sean and Rose entered a glorious ballroom. It was a bit like walking back in time. Chandeliers hung low from a bowed sky, glinting and throwing their light across the walls, and a full-string orchestra sat in the shadows. Music swelled. There was a ball in Rose’s throat. She struggled to breathe.
That was when she spotted Mrs. Walden’s portrait.
It hung far above their heads so that it seemed like Mrs. Walden gazed down upon them, formidable and wealthy.
Sean muttered under his breath, “You are so talented.”
“I made her look the way she wanted to look,” Rose corrected.
“That’s still a huge talent,” Sean told her. “You swindled our way in here.”
Rose giggled, then fixed herface as Mrs. Walden approached. She wore an elaborate ball gown, and her hair was piled into an architecturally bizarre set of curls and rolls on her head. But she really did look wonderful. Her eyes glistened strangely, though. It was proof she was already drunk.
She’d never been able to kick that habit, Rose realized.
For a moment, Rose allowed herself to feel tremendously sad for Mrs. Walden. It was clear something was very wrong with her. With her life. With the way she thought about herself.
“Darling, you made it,” Mrs. Walden said, kissing both cheeks. “Everyone is giddy about the portrait. They can’t get over it. Everyone wants to know your name. Barbara Sparrow. Barbara Sparrow. It’s the name on everyone’s lips!”
