The viewing area was four leather armchairs around a four-foot-square table made of glass and steel. James put on a pair of paper gloves and retrieved a sheet of paper from his credenza, placing it in the center of the table.
“As you can see, this is truly an extraordinary piece,” James said. “It shows Jackson Pollock’s thought process in crafting his larger canvases. The owner of this work, who would like to remain anonymous, was a very close friend of Lee Krasner’s, Pollock’s widow. She provided this piece to him more than thirty years ago as a gift.”
Noah couldn’t hide a Cheshire cat grin. No doubt he was already mentally composing the tale he’d tell his friends about how he’d acquired this bit of art history. For collectors, the story was sometimes more important than the art itself.
Allison, however, looked far from sold. She examined the work closely, her eyes within a few inches of the paper. “No signature, right?”
“As I have already explained to Noah, it is an unfinished piece, which is why Jackson Pollock didn’t sign or number it.”
“That’s also why provenance is going to be difficult to establish,” Allison said. “And that reduces the piece’s value considerably.”
James caught Reid’s pained expression out of his peripheral vision. He tried to show the opposite to Allison.
“I’m not a hard-sell kind of guy, Allison. As you know, if the piece had Jackson Pollock’s John Hancock on the reverse, it would be up a few blocks at the Met. This is a preliminary work, which undoubtedly formed the basis for one of the master’s larger canvases. If that’s not what you’re interested in purchasing, then this isn’t for you. But this is an extremely rare opportunity to own something that Jackson Pollock actually put his hands on, without shelling out eight or nine figures for the privilege.”
As much as James liked to fancy himself an art expert, he was first and foremost a salesman. He knew a lot about the art he was selling, but he knew even more about the art of persuasion that went into closing a deal. Right now, he knew that Noah Reiss was sold. It was Allison he had to convince that everything was on the up-and-up.
Or even better, convince Noah not to follow Allison’s advice.
James touched his pants pocket and quickly removed his cell phone. “Excuse me. I need to take this call. I’ll be quick.”
He walked into the other room, shutting the door behind him. James waited for two minutes, which was as long as he thought a phone call with another prospective buyer would take, if he had actually received such a call.
“Apologies,” James said when he returned to the others. “I don’t want to rush you, of course. Unfortunately, that call was from another buyer. I had originally planned to meet with him tomorrow, but he’s had a change of plans, and needs to return to Dubai this afternoon. He wanted to come by now to see the piece. I told him that I needed another fifteen minutes or so and would get back to him. So, if you’re not interested, I really do need to take that meeting.”
Reid was smiling as if trying not to break into laughter. James hoped his own expression better concealed the ruse.
“You can tell your Arab guy happy trails back to the Middle East,” Noah said. “I’ll take it.”
“As I told you over the phone, the purchase price is $750,000,” James said. “That’s firm.”
Noah extended his hand to seal the deal. “I’ll wire the money as soon as I get back to the office.”
After the doctor’s visit, Wayne suggested that they all get lunch together. Jessica declined, claiming that she had already made lunch plans with James.
Wayne doubted that was true, and her lie made him feel worse than if Jessica actually had plans with James. At least that way it didn’t necessarily mean that she didn’t want to spend time in his company.
He and Owen stopped in the first restaurant they saw that didn’t seem to cater exclusively to billionaires. It was a diner, but because it sat in New York City, the chef’s salad still cost twenty-one dollars, even though everything else about the place looked cheap. Cracked vinyl booths, scratched tables, fake Tiffany tulip chandeliers in pink.
They settled into a booth in the back. Owen ordered a grilled cheese and french fries. Wayne selected the overpriced salad.
“How you feeling about everything we heard today?” Wayne asked.
Owen’s response was a shrug.
“Yes, that makes sense, and I agree with your logic, but would you care to elaborate a little?”
At least that got a smile from his son. “It is what it is,” Owen said.
“I think you know that statement is the verbal equivalent of a shrug. I’m asking you to talk to me, Owen. Here’s the thing, and I’m not under any illusion that you’re going to believe any of it, but I swear to you that what I’m about to say is the one hundred percent God’s honest truth. In your life, you’ll meet lots of people. Some you’ll like. Some you’ll love. Some will like you. If you’re lucky, some will love you. But no one is going to love you the way your mom and I do. And that’s not bragging. It’s just . . . a fact, is all. Everyone else you ever meet, their love for you is conditional. And by that I mean you could do something to make them stop loving you, or you could just fall out of love with them, or vice versa. I guess your mom and I are Exhibit A on that one. But it doesn’t work that way with your children. There
