“As far as possible,” Lucie says, still reserved.
“I like you,” Stella says to her. “I knew I would, and I regret not meeting all of you sooner. My plan was not perfect, but it will be from here on out. The first thing you should know is that everyone has a price. It will serve you well to keep that in mind going forward. That nice young woman doctor named hers and I gladly met it.”
She drains her drink and motions to the waiter to bring her another one.
Lucie makes the same motion. “I think I need something stronger than coffee for this resurrection.” She turns to Stella. “Madame Swanson, before we go any further, there are some things we should clear up. First, Emma explained how we are indeed indebted to you. That you have been our silent benefactor, the one who brought us all together. For that we are incredibly grateful. I think we can all agree.”
Colette and I nod slowly, unsure where Lucie is going with all of this. But Stella seems to have some idea.
“Girls, when I started the scholarship for you two years ago I was looking for allies,” Stella responds. “My husband was very ill.I still believed there was a chance that I would be named his successor. He promised me as much, but I knew I would need a secondary plan. I began to think about selling mySunflowers, but as you know I couldn’t do it myself. I just didn’t think I could convince anyone to make an enemy of Louis Swanson by working with me. I needed help. And I chose you to come here and help me. I didn’t know if I would ever need it. If not, then you got a full ride to come to Paris and live out your dreams. I was consumed with Maxwell’s care, and he went faster than anyone expected. Louis made sure he was appointed the sole heir of his father’s company, and I do believe that it happened when my husband was no longer in his right mind. That’s when the family cut me off.”
Lucie clearly wants to get straight to the point. “I’ve seen the painting. We’ve talked about it and we’ll be glad to help you if we can, but I think we should determine what will be in it for us if we do.”
This amuses Stella greatly, I can tell.
“What would you like?”
“An even split,” Lucie says.
“Of the sale of this painting?”
“Yes.” Lucie doesn’t stammer, but I can tell she’s nervous.
The silence grows heavy around us. Stella sips her drink slowly without answering.
“What do you think the painting will sell for?” she eventually asks, directing the question to Colette, who is, after all, an expert in these kinds of things.
“You would know better than I do. Most of these paintings are purchased privately. They never even go to auction. That’s why the market is so difficult to navigate. Your family has made sure of that,” Colette says pointedly. “The entire system is rigged.”
“I don’t disagree,” Stella says. “But let’s say it would go to auction. Sotheby’s?”
“A Van Gogh that has never been on the market before?Wooden Cabins Among the Olive Treesis similar. It sold for seventy-one million. This is smaller, but more vibrant. And a self-portrait in addition to the sunflowers. Maybe ninety million?”
Stella nods, pleased at the assessment. “There would be fees, of course. The auction house could take as much as twenty-seven percent. And then there are legal costs. So let’s say sixty million. Divided four ways? Is that what you’re asking for?”
“Yes,” Lucie says.
“You would be a very rich woman. All of you would be very rich women.”
“We’re worth it,” Lucie says, louder this time.
Stella’s laugh echoes through the small room. “Damn right you are. If we can pull this off, you girls can have whatever you want. I don’t need much. Who knows how long I have left?”
She certainly seems to be the picture of good health right now.
“I want to enjoy my final years. And I think the three of you are an excellent investment. Always have. There’s a reason I chose each of you. Plus, this endeavor is not without its risks.” She calls the waiter over to the table and asks for the check.
“Let’s go somewhere private where we can talk,” she insists as we walk out of the restaurant and into the rows of the market. We don’t dawdle the way we usually do. Stella keeps hustling us back to our apartment building, where she parked her car.
Because it turns out Stella’s idea of somewhere private where we can talk is a four-hour drive away.
“We’re going to the island,” she declares.
The island, as if there are no others.
She waits outside while we pack a couple of duffel bags and carefully place her Van Gogh into a large rolling suitcase. We hastily wrap the painting in thin brown paper and secure it with thick black packing tape.
“Who can drive stick?” Stella asks from the passenger seat of the idling jewel-toned green Bentley when we return. “I can, but I don’t feel like it.”
