Though last night was unbearable, I refuse to let Emmett continue to wreak havoc on my life. I want some semblance of normalcy, so I decide to push my flight back to Boston until later Sunday evening. There’s a Jeff Koons retrospective at the Whitney, put together by Scott Rothkopf, a curator I greatly admire. I’ve been wanting to view the show, and now seems as good a time as any.
Before I head out into the city, I slip into a tan cashmere dress that coordinates with a duster of the same material. An Hermès belt cinches my waist and pulls the whole look together. I wonder if I can make it to the Guggenheim today as well. I’ve seen their permanent collection a hundred times, but I can never resist the temptation to view Picasso’s Woman with Yellow Hair. The painting depicts Marie-Thérèse, one of Picasso’s lovers. When they met, Picasso was already married and Marie-Thérèse was only seventeen years old. They concealed their intense love affair, but its earliest years are documented in Picasso’s work. In fact, five paintings from 1927 incorporate the monogram “MT” and “MTP” as part of their compositions, cryptically announcing the entry of Marie-Thérèse into the artist’s life.
The piece is wonderful, and the story behind his muse is so complicated and gritty. It’s easy for people to stand in front of a painting and think the colors are blended well and the subject matter is satisfying, but I want the behind-the-scenes stories, the why of it all.
Spending my day in front of art sounds like a perfect distraction. I’m proud of myself for going through the motions even though deep down, I’m a mess.
I’m about to grab my purse and head out into the city when a heavy fist knocks on the door.
I frown, trying to remember if I called down to room service for anything. They’ve already come to remove my breakfast tray. It could be housekeeping wanting to check in on me, but when I peer through the peephole on the door, I spot an older man in a three-piece suit flanked by armed guards on either side.
My eyes widen in alarm as I step back from the door quickly.
Then they knock again.
“Ms. Davenport. Might we have a moment of your time before you depart the hotel?”
My first instinct is to lock the door, but then I press up against the peephole again and see the Leclerc & Co. emblem on his suit jacket pocket and the metal briefcase he cradles against his chest as if he’s protecting a newborn baby.
Foolish though it might be, I crack the door open to peer out at them.
The distinguished man in the suit beams.
“Ah! Madam, please pardon the intrusion. I know this is rather unusual…” He waggles the suitcase to emphasize the absurdity of the situation. “I am Eugene Brooks, one of the creative directors at Leclerc & Co. jewelers. Surely, you’ve—”
The guard behind him forcefully clears his throat, and Eugene jumps slightly. He checks left and right before leaning in closer and lowering his voice. “Ah, may we come in? It’s much safer to explain the purpose of my visit while inside your suite.”
My eyes fall to the heavy briefcase, but still, I don’t move to let him enter.
Sensing my reluctance, he passes off the briefcase to one of the guards with clear instructions to hold on to it carefully. Then he extracts a pristine business card from his wallet and holds it out for me.
I inspect it as if looking for some kind of counterfeiting measures, but it hardly proves anything, as if criminals wouldn’t have access to paper this luxurious. Big deal?
I peer back up, and Eugene smiles gently. Then against my better judgment, I unlock the door and open it wide for them.
It’s stupid of me to allow them in. I’ve watched all the crime shows on Netflix. I’m well aware that this could be some elaborate ruse to kidnap me and demand ransom, but my intuition says it’s not, and I find out quickly enough that I’m correct in recognizing their true intent.
Eugene walks over to the small dining table in my suite and places the briefcase on top of it. Then he clasps his hands in front of him and turns back to me. “I appreciate your hospitality, and I assure you this shouldn’t take too long, though that depends on a few things.” He taps the top of the briefcase. “I have here a collection of stones for you to look over. Mr. Mercier insisted you are to have your pick of any of them, and if none of the stones I brought with me today meet your standards, I can set up an appointment for you to visit our showroom here in the city.”
Dumbfounded, I merely nod.
He turns toward the briefcase and discreetly keys in a combination before producing a silver key from his pocket. Once both locks are disengaged, the briefcase pops open, revealing a black velvet tray with two dozen stones evenly spaced in four neat rows. Though they vary in type—diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires—they’re all absolutely enormous.
“I’ve gathered for you today a collection of heirloom stones as well as uncut gems, and I assure you once you pick your favorite from among them, our masters at Leclerc & Co. will get right to work on customizing your one-of-a-kind engagement ring.”
I step closer and peer down into the briefcase, momentarily mesmerized by the light bouncing off the gems. The contents of this briefcase could fill an entire Smithsonian exhibit. I shudder to think of their combined worth—no wonder there are two armed guards near the door. I wouldn’t be surprised to find more stationed out in the hall.
I lean down, inspecting a diamond that would cover the entire width of my ring finger.
“Ah, the lady has good taste. That’s an emerald-cut white diamond, weighing ten and a half carats with a provenance that can be traced back to Prince Rainier and Grace Kelly, originally found in a ring made by Cartier.”
“And this one?” I ask, pointing to a pale blue stone.
“That is the Blue Moon Diamond. It’s a flawless thirteen-carat vivid blue diamond. Discovered in India in 1703, it was then purchased by French royalty. It has enjoyed a long history of use as a crown jewel. It has graced Louis XV’s coronation crown and the scepter of Napoleon III.”
“Beautiful,” I say, standing back up and looking at him rather than the rings. “They all are. Who did you say sent you?”
He adjusts his stance as if somewhat flustered by my shift in conversation.
“Mr. Mercier.”
“The father or son?”
His eyebrows furrow. “Frédéric.”
“I see.”
I step away from the briefcase and offer Eugene a tight smile. “I do appreciate you allowing me the pleasure of viewing these stones today, and though I hate to leave you with a task, I do think it would be more fitting to have the younger Mr. Mercier, Emmett, choose from among them.”
“Of course.” Nodding with understanding, he walks swiftly toward the briefcase and closes it securely once again. “It’s no trouble at all. I understand the appeal of doing things the old-fashioned way. I’ll set up an appointment with Mr. Emmett Mercier right away. Now, if you’ll excuse us, my men and I will be on our way.”
They vacate my hotel suite smoothly, one security guard positioned on each side of Eugene.
Already, there’s a pit in my stomach. The pleasure of my morning is gone now, replaced with worry over what Emmett will do once he receives that case. He probably doesn’t even know about it, not if his father was the one to send the jeweler here today, never mind the intrusion on my privacy. I’m sure my grandmother was all too happy to inform Frédéric where I’d be this weekend.
Determined to continue my day as planned, I grab my purse and head for the hall.
The wait for the elevator is long, but when I step on, I’m blessedly alone. I ride the whole way down with only my reflection in the mirrored walls to contend with.
The doors open to a cacophony of noise down in the lobby. I pass more than a few familiar faces and smile at them as I pass. It seems everyone who was here for the fundraiser last night is checking out of the hotel and heading home at this precise moment.
I bypass the madhouse and rush out into the crisp autumn air to join the taxi line. With it being so close to the hotel’s official checkout time, the line is slightly longer than I expected, though I’m sure it’ll move fast. The sidewalk is bustling with people toting their luggage out of the hotel. Bellmen rush around, attempting to direct the flow of traffic and offload bags from tired guests. A sleek black Range Rover pulls up to the curb, blocking the taxi lane and eliciting curses from the people in front of me in line.
“These drivers think they can just park wherever the hell they want!”
Impatient taxi drivers add to the noise, laying on their horns with gusto.
“What’s goin’ on?!” one shouts to a hotel attendant trying to appease the crowd.
The attendant waves at him to calm down. “We got some special guest leavin’. Should just take a minute.”
At hearing this, we all turn collectively to watch as a small entourage of people exit the front entrance of the hotel. I suspect it to be Eugene and his briefcase at first. No doubt they’d require special treatment like this, but then I see two hotel attendants carrying luggage, a bodyguard bringing up the rear, and then…Emmett walking alongside Miranda, cutting across the sidewalk like he owns the world.
For a brief moment, I observe him as if I’m just another unsuspecting pedestrian. He’s paired a navy suit jacket with a slightly darker sweater underneath it. From his cuff, his silver Jaeger-LeCoultre watch peeks out. His black hair is impeccably styled and his shoes look as if they’ve just finished being shined, but he hasn’t shaved this morning, leaving a tantalizing amount of stubble that I’m unaccustomed to seeing on him. He somehow looks more French today than ever.
Sacré bleu.
He looks up into the crowd and catches me staring; the intensity of his brown eyes makes me feel momentarily off balance, but his expression doesn’t change. There’s no hint of recognition, no kindness.
I’m the same as everybody else, watching with a slack jaw as he escorts Miranda to the waiting Range Rover. He reaches it first, and rather than getting in, he stands back and ushers her forward then offers his hand. She doesn’t need it. She is fully capable of sliding onto the back seat without his help, but she doesn’t pass up the chance to gently lay her hand in his and bestow a beautiful smile of thanks in return for his gallantry. Then it’s Emmett’s turn to get in, but for a moment he stalls, his hand on the roof above the door.
I stand frozen, my breath arrested, hope growing with every millisecond he fails to get in after her. Then his head turns as if listening to something Miranda’s just said, and without another moment’s hesitation, he slides into the vehicle beside her.
I’m left on the sidewalk, waiting for my taxi while everyone around me chatters loudly about Emmett and who they think he could be.
“Probably some big-time actor. Did you see how smug he looked walking out of the hotel like that while we all stood here, waiting?”
“He’s not an actor,” someone corrects. “He’s a businessman. I recognized him. Can’t think of his first name, but he’s that French guy’s son. Mercier something.”
The hotel attendant directing the taxi line hears this. “That fucking billionaire guy? Are you shitting me?”
“We should have asked for an autograph or some spare change.”
They laugh at this, and then someone cuts in, “You see the girl he was with? Damn, she was fine.”
Having had enough, I step out of the line and decide I’ll take my chances with the subway.
