“Not exactly,” Harriett said. “But Culling Pointe may soon be in need of my services.”
Jo felt her smile fade as she remembered the handfuls of tiny seeds Harriett had tossed from Jackson Dunn’s roof deck.
“Your services?” Chase sneered. “I’ve heard you’re popular around Mattauk. Are you getting paid for your services these days?”
“You know, it’s a shame you’re so insecure, Chase,” Harriett replied. “Your penis really isn’t that small.”
Claude Marchand Plays Her Hand
Claude stood with a champagne flute in her hand, waiting for the toast to begin. To her right, the crowd parted, and she saw the young man making his way across the room toward her. He was lovely, she thought. His height, posture, and gait spoke of generations of good breeding.
He found an empty spot a few feet away from her. A moment or two passed before he casually turned her way. He didn’t want to try too hard. “Have you had a chance to view the collection?” he asked, smiling down at her. Even in heels she was almost a foot shorter than he was. Men always felt bigger standing next to her.
“Oh yes. It’s the reason I’m here. I’m Claude.” She saw no flicker of recognition in his eyes. He was genuinely interested. “I study art,” she added.
“Owen,” he said. “Where do you study?”
“Yale,” she replied. “I’m just down for the weekend. What did you think of the paintings? It’s in vogue these days to dismiss Singer Sargent as a brownnosing society portraitist.”
“I’ve always been a big fan of his,” Owen said. “In fact, that’s my great-great-grandmother right there.” He tilted his champagne glass at the portrait of a regal older woman whose corset-stiffened form was draped in pearls. “Of course, he was very prolific. I’m sure your grandmother is around here as well.”
Claude blushed prettily. “No, I don’t think so.” He thought she was one of them. He’d find out the truth soon enough. “So you’re descended from Lady Wilcott, then. I read somewhere that she was found in a storage facility that hadn’t been opened in decades. She must be glad to have finally found a good home.”
“Perhaps. It’s a shame, though.” Owen let his voice drop. “That she and the rest of these beautiful people will spend the next few decades staring back at that.”
Claude followed his eyes to the spot where their host stood chatting with a small group of guests. He was easily the largest man in the room, with a belly that cleared a broad path for the rest of him. The thatch of thick black hair on his head had been temporarily tamed, but his jowls were tinted by tomorrow’s beard. The party had started only an hour earlier, and there was already a stain on his shirt. Paté, Claude guessed. There was a matching splotch on his chin, where the food had first hit when it tumbled from his mouth.
“I must get the name of his tailor,” Owen said. “If they can fit a gorilla for a tuxedo, they should be able to work wonders for me.”
Claude hid her frown with a sip of champagne. “Do you know him?” she asked.
“My father invests with him,” the young man said. “He says he’s brilliant. Grew up in France in the years after the war. He told my father he ate rats to survive. Apparently, he has no formal education to speak of, and yet—” He gestured at the grand ballroom with his free hand.
“And they say the American dream is dead,” Claude quipped.
“Yes, only in America could a rat-eating French peasant corner the market on nineteenth-century portraits of American aristocracy. Funny, I would have taken him for a Koons or Hirst man. And this house. It’s magnificent. I assumed he’d married someone with taste, but my father told me he’s single.”
“I believe his wife passed away many years ago,” Claude offered.
“I wonder who she was,” Owen mused. “It must have been hard crawling into bed with that every night.”
“Not if you’re another rat-eating French peasant,” Claude replied and Owen laughed heartily as their host took his place at the front of the room. “I can’t wait to hear what this one has to say.”
“Good evening,” their host said. “Thank you all very much for coming tonight. I am a man of numbers, not words, so rather than bore you all with a terrible speech in a thick French accent, allow me to introduce you to the person who made this all possible, my charming and talented daughter, Claude Marchand.”
“Will you excuse me?” Claude asked Owen, whose horror was just beginning to register on his face. “Daddy needs me. What did you say your last name is?”
The young man cleared his throat. “Van Bergen.”
“Nice to meet you, Owen Van Bergen. I’ll have someone pass along the name of my father’s tailor.”
Later that night, after the guests had gone, Claude cuddled up next to her father on the sofa in his study. The two often ignored the rest of the house when they were alone. With the lights off and a blaze in the fireplace, the study reminded them both of the little house in Brittany in which Claude had been born. They’d been happy there, the two of them, just as they were happy in the mansion her father had purchased when Claude was thirteen. As long as they had each other, Claude figured, they could be content just about anywhere. From time to time, Claude felt a pang of remorse that she’d never gotten to know her mother, who’d died during childbirth. But her father had always done everything he could to compensate for the loss. No father could have loved a child any more.
“You hired the perfect caterer, my dear.” Her father patted her on the knee as he praised her. “The food was delicious.”
“I can see from your shirt how much you enjoyed the paté,” she teased.
He pulled his shirt out to take a look and sighed at the sight of the pink smear. “Your father is a pig. I don’t know how you acquired your gift for all this,” he told his daughter.
“Anyone could do it,” she said, dismissing his praise. “All it takes is money.”
“No.” Her father was adamant. “You cannot buy taste. It is a rare gift. One we both know I don’t share. You make me look presentable, and for that I am grateful.”
“Grateful enough to grant my fondest wish?” she asked, keeping her tone light.
“Of course. Whatever you want, it is yours,” he replied.
“I want to come work with you at the hedge fund. I want to learn everything about your business and join you after I graduate.”
He frowned. It wasn’t the first time the subject had been raised, and they both knew it would not be the last. “No,” he said. “Money is filthy. A beautiful girl should keep her hands clean.”
She’d known what his answer would be, yet it still stung to hear it.
Claude’s father took her hand and squeezed it. “I’ll always take care of you,” he promised.
She didn’t doubt it. That wasn’t the point. “You don’t think I’m capable of taking care of myself?”
“It has nothing to do with your abilities, Claude. Trust is the key to my business. I do not hire women because men only trust other men with their money. I wish it were not true, but it is. I would not lie to you.”