meal simple, splitting the difference between the sandwich of an informal lunch and the elegance of a formal dinner plate, to request salads, oven-hot bread, and lots of Texas grilling. “You’ll find the beef strips have a touch of spice and the chicken strips less so.”
“It all looks delicious.”
Daniel lifted back the towel from the basket of hot rolls and offered her one.
Marie settled in to enjoy the meal. They talked of inconsequential things for a while and then Marie smiled. “The Denart was a pretty nice opening diversion. Would it be easier if I just asked why you really called?”
“Why do you think I did?”
“Your uncle recently passed away; it might have been expected, but it’s still a substantial impact for you. There’s your uncle and aunt’s home to deal with and this business. Since paintings are the one thing I deal with, I’ll assume you’re making decisions about the estate.”
Daniel nodded. “Could you handle placing a few paintings if I did decide to let go of some my uncle owned?”
“You’d be better off taxwise placing them with a charity or a museum. The upper end of the art market is soft right now.”
He chuckled. “Marie, that was spoken like a wise dealer. Set expectations low and never oversell what is possible.”
“Your uncle owns some magnificent works; I don’t have to see them to know that. He was a man who did his homework before he made a purchase. But placing even three or four of those in the next year isn’t something to be done in this state if you want the best price they can bring. I’ll be glad to recommend a dealer in New York who can do better for you than I can.”
“We’ll discuss it. I have a feeling my uncle landed more often at your number than his own.”
She offered a small smile. “Maybe that too.”
“Did you know your father?”
She blinked at the question asked so out of the blue, but she finished the beef strip she was tasting and then shook her head. “No. My mother died when I was six, an aunt raised us, and I never knew my father.”
“Ever know his name?”
“No. I never asked.”
He wondered at that and the hurt it meant lived inside. The last thing he wanted to do was cause the pain he was about to. He opened his wallet and pulled out a very old black-and-white photo he’d carried for a few weeks now. “This is why I called you.”
He offered the photo to Marie. She set down her fork after the first glance and soon pushed back her plate to set the photo down on the table. She didn’t say anything for a long time. She was looking at a photo of two people, one of whom would be unmistakable to her. “Henry knew my mother.”
“Yes.”
She turned over the photo, but there was no date. He knew the lady was sharp, quick to put together details, and she’d made the connection. He saw it in the way her expression subtly closed. And an awful pallor had begun to creep into her face.
“That was taken when she would have been about twenty-seven,” he said gently.
“You’ve got my attention, Daniel. There’s more.”
He hesitated and then removed the envelope from his inside suit pocket. “Would you recognize your mother’s handwriting?”
She reached for the letter as if she’d aged a few dozen years.
It was the shortest and tamest of the letters he’d discovered in the bank box, written in the good times between Henry and her mom, when he’d arranged to join her for the weekend about a year after Marie was born. The affair had lasted at least six years from what Daniel had been able to piece together.
He watched Marie absorb a hurt so deep it was killing her and tuck it away deep. The pallor had been joined by a hard set to her jaw, and she wasn’t going to let tears come; they were threatening, but staying forced away.
“You’ll have already done more than just speculate that I’m Henry’s daughter.”
“There were paternity tests run at the lawyers’ insistence years ago. Marie, Henry names
“It all looks delicious.”
Daniel lifted back the towel from the basket of hot rolls and offered her one.
Marie settled in to enjoy the meal. They talked of inconsequential things for a while and then Marie smiled. “The Denart was a pretty nice opening diversion. Would it be easier if I just asked why you really called?”
“Why do you think I did?”
“Your uncle recently passed away; it might have been expected, but it’s still a substantial impact for you. There’s your uncle and aunt’s home to deal with and this business. Since paintings are the one thing I deal with, I’ll assume you’re making decisions about the estate.”
Daniel nodded. “Could you handle placing a few paintings if I did decide to let go of some my uncle owned?”
“You’d be better off taxwise placing them with a charity or a museum. The upper end of the art market is soft right now.”
He chuckled. “Marie, that was spoken like a wise dealer. Set expectations low and never oversell what is possible.”
“Your uncle owns some magnificent works; I don’t have to see them to know that. He was a man who did his homework before he made a purchase. But placing even three or four of those in the next year isn’t something to be done in this state if you want the best price they can bring. I’ll be glad to recommend a dealer in New York who can do better for you than I can.”
“We’ll discuss it. I have a feeling my uncle landed more often at your number than his own.”
She offered a small smile. “Maybe that too.”
“Did you know your father?”
She blinked at the question asked so out of the blue, but she finished the beef strip she was tasting and then shook her head. “No. My mother died when I was six, an aunt raised us, and I never knew my father.”
“Ever know his name?”
“No. I never asked.”
He wondered at that and the hurt it meant lived inside. The last thing he wanted to do was cause the pain he was about to. He opened his wallet and pulled out a very old black-and-white photo he’d carried for a few weeks now. “This is why I called you.”
He offered the photo to Marie. She set down her fork after the first glance and soon pushed back her plate to set the photo down on the table. She didn’t say anything for a long time. She was looking at a photo of two people, one of whom would be unmistakable to her. “Henry knew my mother.”
“Yes.”
She turned over the photo, but there was no date. He knew the lady was sharp, quick to put together details, and she’d made the connection. He saw it in the way her expression subtly closed. And an awful pallor had begun to creep into her face.
“That was taken when she would have been about twenty-seven,” he said gently.
“You’ve got my attention, Daniel. There’s more.”
He hesitated and then removed the envelope from his inside suit pocket. “Would you recognize your mother’s handwriting?”
She reached for the letter as if she’d aged a few dozen years.
It was the shortest and tamest of the letters he’d discovered in the bank box, written in the good times between Henry and her mom, when he’d arranged to join her for the weekend about a year after Marie was born. The affair had lasted at least six years from what Daniel had been able to piece together.
He watched Marie absorb a hurt so deep it was killing her and tuck it away deep. The pallor had been joined by a hard set to her jaw, and she wasn’t going to let tears come; they were threatening, but staying forced away.
“You’ll have already done more than just speculate that I’m Henry’s daughter.”
“There were paternity tests run at the lawyers’ insistence years ago. Marie, Henry names
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