The story also said that a banking institution was tracking down the source of those funds, implying that Aria had randomly used someone’s account. In a normal world, that would be a good thing—the account would lead back to Maxine Preptwill. But Aria knew Ali was too smart to be sloppy; she’d probably used Aria’s name and Social Security number at the bank. Because she was just that devious.
Everything was such a mess. Patricia, Aria’s agent, had called her a zillion times, but Aria hadn’t picked up, way too embarrassed to have the inevitable conversation. She couldn’t even bring herself to listen to Patricia’s messages. There were other ramifications, too. How would this affect Ella? Her mom had facilitated the sale; what if the press thought she was involved in Aria’s get-famous-quick scheme? What if Carruthers sued her? Would Ella’s boss fire her mom? What if she was blacklisted from the art world? What if the whole gallery shut down because of this stupid—and untrue—scandal?
And then there were the texts from Harrison. Last night’s were full of concern; he’d wondered where Aria had disappeared to. The ones this morning were a bit more circumspect: Saw the post. Is that why you ran off last night? Can we talk? I like you no matter what the truth is.
She stared at the latest one from him. It was sweet for Harrison to say he’d stand by her, but the thing was, Aria didn’t want him to be her boyfriend. Not-very-deep-down, Aria knew she felt nothing for him. She wished she did. It would be so much easier. But her feelings were her feelings.
Sighing, she composed a reply. “It’s not the truth, but I can’t get into it right now. To be honest, I kind of need my space. I’m sorry. Good luck with everything.” Then she hit SEND. It was ironic, she realized, how much her text sounded like what Noel had said to her only two weeks before. But she sent it off anyway, just needing it to be done.
Taking a deep breath, Aria started up the sidewalk. Every step to the gallery was painful. She pushed the door open, wincing at the cheerful bell chimes. Her mother was standing at the desk, looking at some papers. She looked up, straight into Aria’s eyes. Heat filled Aria’s cheeks. Here goes.
Ella swept up to her. “Guess who had two more sales today?” she chirped happily. She waved some faxed papers in Aria’s face. “A buyer from Maine and someone in California. Not for as much as the Ali painting sold for, but still—congratulations!”
Aria blinked. Her mother’s excited demeanor was heartbreaking. This was even worse: She didn’t know yet.
Wordlessly, Aria passed over the phone and pushed the icon for Safari. The Post article was still up. “You should see this.”
Ella glanced at it, then shrugged. “I already have.” She straightened Aria’s hair behind her shoulders. “Your agent told me. I hope that’s okay—she was trying to reach you, but you weren’t picking up, and your voice mail was full. Is this the real reason you ran off last night? You should have just told me, Aria.”
Aria blinked, then nodded. She had found out last night. It seemed like as good an excuse as any to explain her mysterious absence.
Ella looked at the phone again. “Your first Post article—and front page, too! I’m so proud.”
“Mom!” Aria cried. She couldn’t believe how oblique her mom was being. “The story is awful. And untrue. I didn’t pose as Carruthers’s assistant or get anyone else to. I had nothing to do with that sale at all—to be honest, I’m horrified that Ali painting sold. I was going to burn it.”
Ella looked at her intently. “Aria, of course I know you didn’t have anything to do with it.” She placed the papers back on the desk. “Are you truly worried about that article? If you’re serious about being an artist, you’re going to have all kinds of crazy things written about you, a lot of it negative criticism, much of it lies. My guess? Someone used Carruthers’s name because he or she didn’t want to admit who they were. Maybe it’s someone notorious. Or maybe it’s a celebrity!”
Aria stared at her mother. Well, Ali was both those things. “S-so you’re not mad?” she finally eked out.
Ella walked to the corner of the gallery and straightened a crooked landscape of the Brandywine River. “The transaction has nothing to do with you, honey. We all know that. Besides, your agent told me that this scandal has actually drummed up more interest in your paintings. The buyer in Maine specifically bought something after that Post article came out. Sasha was there when he came in—said he was a youngish guy, mid-thirties, super-artsy. His name was Gerald French.”
Aria blinked hard. So Ali’s plans to ruin her actually hadn’t worked? She almost couldn’t swallow it. She looked around, waiting for the gallery to explode or Ella to drop to her knees, severely food-poisoned. Something. But Ella just smiled at her warmly, then moved into the back room, where they kept the inventory.
The bells on the door chimed again, and Aria turned. “Oh my God,” she blurted, her mouth moving before her brain. Standing in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, was Noel.