“Every day.”
A beat of silence stretched between them. Not unpleasant, more contemplative.
“Do you believe you’d have found your way to art either way?”
Lucia pursed her lips. “Like fate?”
“Not exactly. More like…some things in us are so fundamental, they’ll manifest one way or another.”
“But isn’t that a form of fate? Maybe I’m missing something here, but—”
“No, I expressed myself clumsily. I don’t mean predetermination—just that some things are so ingrained, they’re bound to happen. So maybe…you’d get another chance.”
“Huh, that’s an interesting theory,” Lucia said. “Maybe. It’s a nice thought.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Penelope looked like she’d surprised herself.
“What about you? Is there something you’d have found your way to regardless?”
Penelope seemed to consider the question for a while. “I’m not sure. I honestly can’t think of anything.”
“Maybe it’ll come to you later. Like on your drive home or in the shower. I sometimes do my best thinking in the shower.”
Penelope chuckled. “Anything is possible, I suppose.”
Another pause.
“Will you tell me?”
“Excuse me?”
“If you do think of something like that, will you tell me?”
“Oh,” Penelope breathed. “Sure. If you want to know.”
“I do.” Lucia smiled.
Chapter 8
Falling Down a Rabbit Hole
Penelope spent her Sunday cleaning, lost in thought, and greatly disturbing Fuller the moment she turned on the vacuum cleaner. The cat bolted under the couch, tail puffed like a bottlebrush.
Distance.
She had planned to distance herself from Lucia, to see her only as a person of interest, bound to the world that had sent her father to prison. She’d wanted to trap her, catch her in a lie, in some sort of scheming. That was why she’d agreed to their second coffee “date,” why she indulged in their flirtatious banter.
Only for it to blow up in her face. Every mantra crumbled in the face of Lucia’s openness, her raw vulnerability, and her sincere interest in Penelope.
Maybe her father was right, and she was in over her head.
Monday arrived all too soon, and with it, she found herself back at the Meridian, sorting through files and requests when her computer beeped.
She’d set an alert for updates on the Alessi and Bellini pieces. Penelope opened the email, scanning the text before settling to read it word by word. Then again. And again.
“Damn it,” she muttered, closing the message and leaning back in her chair.
As she’d figured, their lab deemed the Alessi painting a forgery but assessed the Bellini as the real deal, despite a slight inconsistency in the pigment layering, attributed to either later restoration or natural degradation over time that did not impact the overall result.
