“Four twenty it is, sir. I’ll call your room the moment the car arrives.”
Seb made his way to the ninth floor and, as he looked across at the White House, he realized they’d even given him the same room as before. He unpacked his small suitcase and placed a thousand dollars in the wall safe, which he assumed would be more than enough to buy all of Jessica’s pictures. He undressed, took a shower, lay down on the bed and put his head on the pillow.
The phone was ringing. Seb opened his eyes and tried to remember where he was. He picked up the receiver.
“Your cab is waiting at the front entrance, sir.”
Seb checked his watch: 4:15 p.m. He must have fallen asleep. Damn jet lag. “Thank you, I’ll be right down.” He quickly put on some clean clothes before making his way downstairs. “Can you get me there before five?” he asked the driver.
“Kinda depends where ‘there’ is.”
“Sorry, Jefferson School.”
“No sweat.” The cab moved off to join the early evening traffic.
Seb had already worked on two plans. If, when he arrived at the school, he spotted either Samantha or Jessica, he would wait until they’d left before going into the exhibition. But if they weren’t there, he would take a quick look at his daughter’s work, select the pictures he wanted and be on his way back to the Mayflower before they even realized he’d been there.
The cab pulled up outside the school entrance a few minutes before five. Seb remained in the backseat and watched as a couple of parents, accompanied by a child, made their way up the path and into the building. He then paid the fare and tentatively followed them, searching all the time for two people he didn’t want to see. When he entered the building, he was greeted by a large red arrow with the words ART EXHIBITION pointing down the corridor.
He kept looking in every direction but there was no sign of them. In the exhibition hall there must have been over a hundred pictures filling the walls with bold splashes of color, but so far there were only about half a dozen parents, who were clearly interested only in their own offspring’s efforts. Seb stuck to plan A and walked quickly around the room. It wasn’t difficult to pick out Jessica’s work; to quote one of his father’s favorite expressions when describing his old school friend Mr. Deakins, she was “in a different class.”
Every few moments he glanced toward the door, but as there was no sign of them, he began to study his daughter’s work more carefully. Although only ten, she already had a style of her own; the brushwork was bold and confident with no suggestion of second attempts. And then he stopped in front of the painting entitled My Father and understood why Dr. Wolfe had singled it out as quite exceptional. The image of a man and woman holding hands seemed to Seb to have been influenced by René Magritte. The woman could only have been Samantha, the warm smile and the kind eyes and even the tiny birthmark that he would never forget. The man was dressed in a gray suit, white shirt and blue tie, but the face hadn’t been filled in, just left blank. Seb felt so many emotions: sadness, stupidity, guilt, regret but, most of all, regret.
He quickly checked the door again before walking over to a desk where a young woman was sitting behind a sign that read SALES. Sebastian turned the pages of his catalogue, then asked for the price of items 9, 12, 18, 21, 37 and 52. She checked her list.
“With the exception of number thirty-seven, they are all a hundred dollars each. And, of course, all the money goes to charity.”
“Please don’t tell me number thirty-seven has already been sold?”
“No, sir. It is for sale, but I’m afraid it’s five hundred dollars.”
“I’ll take all six,” said Seb, as he removed his wallet.
“That will be one thousand dollars,” said the woman, making no attempt to hide her surprise.
Seb opened his wallet and realized immediately that, in his rush to get the cab, he’d left most of his cash in the hotel safe. “Can you reserve them for me?” he asked. “I’ll make sure you have the money long before the show closes.” He didn’t want to explain to her why he couldn’t just sign a check. That wasn’t part of plan A.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t do that,” she said. Just then, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
Seb froze and turned in panic to see Dr. Wolfe smiling at him.
“Miss Tomkins,” she said firmly. “That will be quite all right.”
“Of course, headmistress.” Looking back at Seb, she asked, “What name shall I put on the sales sheet?”
“Put them all in my name,” said Dr. Wolfe before Seb could reply.
“Thank you,” said Seb. “When can I collect them?”
“Any time on Sunday afternoon,” said Miss Tomkins. “The show closes at five.”