Oriana was sure she could believe almost anything when it came to this case.
“But Isabella said that the exhibition was a total failure,” Meghan said, “because Larry had a wild freak-out that night when his wife didn’t show up. He started yelling at servers, art buyers, and anyone who got close to him. He took off, out of his mind. They don’t know what happened after that. My guess is that he went to the cops or the bus station or something. But, you know, I guess it could all be an act? Maybe he wanted to pretend he didn’t know where she was?”
“It’s hard to say,” Oriana said gently. She felt herself drifting off to sleep.
“Oh, but they talked about you on the news,” Meghan said. “They talked about how it was you who brought Henrietta to everyone’s attention. Larry’s paintings are still selling, but not the new ones he’s trying to push out there. His most recent agent dropped him, and he’s taking to social media to promote his brand on his own. I don’t think he’s going to have a lot of luck.”
Oriana rubbed her forehead, imagining a man of eighty attempting social media for the first time. It was not a pretty sight.
“They said you’re a hero for what you did,” Meghan said. “You stepped away from Larry when you realized he was a fraud. You said aloud what mattered. It’s a rare thing.”
Oriana groaned and rolled onto her side. A headache churned at the back of her neck and threatened to overtake her. She wanted to tell Meghan never to bring up Larry Johannes again. She didn’t want to think about him; she didn’t want to think about the wife who’d hopefully escaped him. She had to focus on the here and now.
And then, a text message appeared from that same unknown number that had called her several times.
UNKNOWN: Hi. I know you don’t know me, but I have information about Henrietta Johannes. Please call me back when you get the chance.
Oriana sat bolt upright, her heart pounding. “Meghan,” she said. “I have to go.”
“What’s going on?” Meghan demanded.
“I’ll explain when I know myself,” she said. She told her sister she loved her, hung up, and dialed the number immediately. She prayed it wasn’t a prank.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The beginning of April in Oahu meant low eighties and packed beaches and nonstop sun. Jasmine was upstairs in her bedroom-slash-painting studio, listening as, downstairs, Alyssa and Jade gossiped about something that had happened at school that day. Always there had been a breakup; always something had been said that needed to be unpacked. This was the way of high schools all over the world, Jasmine knew. Through the window, she could see Chase and his new girlfriend Rita, sunning, books splayed on their stomachs, their sunglasses catching the rays.
This was a feeling of peace she’d never known—a feeling of family communion and safety. Just last week, Walton had signed the divorce papers, freeing Jenny from their marriage. He’d put the house up for sale (for a price that Jenny and Jasmine couldn’t afford) and planned to leave Hawaii within the next month or two. It meant that Jasmine and Jenny didn’t have to be afraid of him. They wouldn’t have to imagine him any longer, lurking around the corner, threatening them with the very idea of his presence.
Jasmine was hard at work on her fourth painting since she’d begun making art again. It was a strange and artistic take on old-fashioned surfing photographs, featuring her grandson, Chase, balanced beautifully on a board as a wave encroached overhead. She’d spent an entire afternoon watching him surf, sketching and trying to plan out the image before she began the painting itself. Now, as she delved deeper into her practice, she found that her color choices were surprising her. She was developing as an artist—even at the age of seventy-eight. It excited her to realize that she wasn’t done yet, and she still had plenty of time.
She had no plans to waste the time she had left.
It was five thirty that evening when Jenny returned from work and crept up the stairs to surprise Jasmine at her easel. Jasmine nearly leaped from her skin. When she turned to find her daughter leaning in the doorway, watching her work, she laughed at herself and stepped away from her painting. Jenny’s smile was secretive.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Jasmine said.
Jenny didn’t say anything for a moment. “How did you choose your new name?” she asked.
Jasmine’s heart leaped into her throat. She’d told Jenny bits and pieces about her old life: that Jenny’s father was cruel, that they’d lived in Colorado, that Jasmine had done everything to get away from him, especially when she’d learned about her pregnancy. She’d never told Jenny about her original name, not about the name she’d abandoned, because she’d felt it was too sacred.
Maybe Jasmine shouldn’t leap to conclusions about what Jenny knew or what she didn’t. Maybe Jenny had assumed that Jasmine had once had another name. After all, Jasmine wasn’t a typical name for a woman of Jasmine’s age.
Jasmine set down her paintbrush and sat on the edge of her bed. “What’s this about?” she asked gently.
Jenny stepped into the bedroom and closed the door behind her. Silence filled the space. Sometimes it was hard for Jasmineto remember that this woman before her, this fifty-year-old woman, was the baby that had forced Jasmine to change the course of her life. It was the love she’d had for that baby that saved her.
Jasmine wasn’t the first person who’d been saved by the existence of a baby, she knew. But her story was unique in every sense of the word, if only because it belonged wholly to her.
“I thought it was beautiful,” Jasmine said finally. “It’s the same reason I named you Jenny. I thought that was beautiful, too. Isn’t that why you named Chase and Alyssa and Jade the way you did?”
Jenny’s cheek twitched. Jasmine realized that she was holding a piece of newspaper in a cylinder in her right hand.
“What’s that?” Jasmine asked.
Jenny’s hands shook as she unrolled the newspaper and spread it out on the bed. The headline was: LARRY CALVIN JOHANNES: FRAUD? And under it was speculation about the real artist behind Larry’s work. Jasmine bent down to read that many art experts speculated that Henrietta Johannes was the real artist. But had any of them actually seen Henrietta paint anything herself? No, Jasmine knew. They hadn’t.
“What’s this about?” Jasmine asked, trying to play dumb.
