Ivy moved into the en suite bathroom, envisioning everything. “And in here, luxury toiletries. Molten Brown, or maybe an artisan line from a local supplier. Fresh scents like mint or lemon verbena. Or unscented if they prefer.”
Swept up in the excitement, Shelly jumped into the story. “A magnifying mirror, a bowl of fruit, bottled water by the bed. Slippers and robes. Bubble bath and wine flutes.”
“And the all-important corkscrew,” Ivy added.
“We’re going to sell out these rooms.” Shelly whooped and raced back downstairs for another armload.
They brought up what they could carry, leaving the larger pieces for their nephews and their friends to bring upstairs later. “Not that we couldn’t try,” Ivy said, “but I’m not throwing out my back before getting on a flight to Boston.”
The two women were laughing and singing like American Idol wannabes, so the pounding on the front door startled them.
Shelly shrieked and raced downstairs.
“Have to get those door chimes fixed,” Ivy said, catching her breath. She swung open the massive door. Chief Clarkson and the two FBI agents stood in the doorway.
The chief furrowed his brow with concern. “Everything okay in here?”
“Sure, why wouldn’t it be?” Ivy replied with nonchalance. “We aren’t disturbing the peace, are we?”
“You’re lucky your neighbor probably hasn’t put on her hearing aid yet. Back door locked?” he asked.
“It is.” Ivy and Shelly traded looks.
Cecile peered inside. “Anyone else here?”
“No one but us at this party.” As she spoke, Shelly brushed her hair back and twisted it at the nape of her neck.
The chief pressed on. “So what are you doing in here?”
“Decorating,” Ivy said, waving her hand as she stepped aside. An occasional table now stood in the foyer, and on it rested a silver platter and a cut-crystal vase and bowl. She imagined a marine blue cloth thrown over it, with the vase overflowing with pink flowers and the bowl brimming with local fruit for guests. Tangerines, apricots, plums, grapes. Strawberries in season…acquired from a farm not far from here. That’s when Ivy realized she still had on her pajama bottoms and a skimpy tank top.
“We’ll let you get back to it,” Chief Clarkson said. “And we’ll see you in the morning to begin the removal.”
Ivy closed the door and fell back against it while Shelly exploded with laughter.
After they made countless trips up and down stairs, the two sisters sat on the lower level staircase and gazed across the room of antiques. Ivy rested her arms on her knees.
“Guess your masterpieces will be gone tomorrow,” Shelly said.
With a measure of sadness, Ivy nodded. “You know what I would like to do before they go away?”
“What?”
“Promise you won’t think I’m crazy?”
“You know that train already left the station,” Shelly said, nudging her sister.
“Ditto for you.” Ivy stood and brushed her hands. “I’d like to take a few paintings upstairs tonight. When else will I ever have the opportunity to sleep with and wake to a Chagall, Kandinsky, Klee, or Beckmann?” She strolled across the room to one of the standing crates where the agents had returned the paintings. Easing one painting from its place, she sighed in awe. The towering blue horses. “Franz Marc was killed in the First World War,” she said with reverence. “More than a hundred years ago now.”
Shelly joined her and placed her hand on her shoulder. “I’ll help you.”
“We have to be careful,” Ivy said, her hand quivering as she touched a frame. “What if we dropped one?”
“We won’t, I promise.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t.”
“I think Amelia Erickson would’ve approved. You once told me that art is to be enjoyed.”
“You know who else would enjoy seeing this?”
Shelly nodded. “Mom and Dad.”
“Do you think we could get them past our guards?”
“Why not just ask them?”
Ivy drew her lower lip over her teeth in thought. Did she dare? Her mother’s advice rang in her ears. If you don’t ask, you don’t get. She fished her phone from her pocket and was surprised when a call from Bennett came in just as she was about to dial.
Chapter 25
BENNETT’S VOICE FLOATED through her phone, sounding even deeper and sexier than ever. “It was great seeing you last night, Ivy. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
“Shelly and I have had the music up fairly loud. We’ve been bringing pieces up from the lower level and arranging furniture and accessories around the house.”
“Are the protective services still there?”
“Sticking like Velcro and just as prickly.” She hesitated. “Bennett, I have a favor to ask, and I’d like your advice on it.” She quickly explained how much it would mean to her parents to see the artwork before the FBI agents removed it. “They’ve spent their lives traveling to find artisans around the world to help them sell their work here. They inspired my love of art, and I would love to honor them with this.”
“You could ask Chief Clarkson, but the FBI will make the decision.”
“Of course,” she said. She doubted that she could persuade them, but she would try. They spoke a little more before Ivy hung up to call her parents. She talked to them for a while, and Ivy invited them to meet her and Shelly in Summer Beach for supper. If the FBI didn’t approve them, the four of them could go to a café in town overlooking the water.
Ivy and Shelly brought a few paintings upstairs and placed them around Ivy’s room.
A delicate spring landscape of Impressionism here, a colorful rendering of a woman in the Fauvism style with unconstrained brushwork there. Ivy’s heart soared as she grouped the paintings.
“Do you want any in your room?” Ivy asked.
“I don’t think I could sleep,” Shelly said. “What if an earthquake hit and a million dollar painting crashed to the floor?”
“I wish you hadn’t put it that way,” Ivy said, but she didn’t regret her decision. With the paintings she’d brought up, the bedroom glowed
