Things We Never Say (51 page)

‘Maybe this will be your exhibition.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ said Abbey. ‘I can always try selling some down at the Pier, see how it goes.’

‘Well, show them to me when you’ve got them done. Although you should put them on your walls. They’re still remarkably bare.’ Solí looked around the apartment.

‘I know. I know. I keep meaning to do some more home decorating, but I guess I was a bit reticent about it until the whole Irish situation was resolved. And the situation with Pete, too.’

‘He’s OK with letting this place to you?’ asked Vanessa.

‘Yes, it’s all worked out perfectly. He has other properties in town, you know, so it’s all being looked after by the rental company now. Which I’m happy about. Keeps it on a business footing, although to be fair to Pete, he’s giving me a slam-dunk deal on the rental, even though I told him I didn’t want any favours.’

‘He’s a great guy,’ said Vanessa.

‘I’m lucky to have him in my life,’ agreed Abbey. She turned slightly. ‘What are you doing, Solí?’

Her friend was looking through the other paintings that Abbey had left in the corner of the room.

‘Oh, checking on your old work too. But this isn’t one of yours, is it?’ She held up the painting that Lisette and Zoey had given her. Abbey had taken it out of the rather ornate and old-fashioned gilt frame it had been in because it would have been far too much trouble to bring it home that way. So now it was loose among the rest of her paintings.

‘God, no.’ She explained the gift from the Fitzpatrick women. ‘I took it because they were clearly so guilty about having raided his safe that they needed me to accept something.’

‘It was in his office?’ Solí was studying it as she spoke.

‘It’s odd that they picked it for me,’ said Abbey. ‘The wall was completely covered in photos and prints and paintings. But that one caught my eye when I was giving him CPR. I kept looking at it, telling Fred to be strong like the rock. And I felt comforted by it too. I like the way the sunlight hits the stone. Reminds me of Alcatraz. Made me feel at home.’

‘Did they say anything about it?’ asked Solí.

‘Like what?’ By now, Abbey detected an undercurrent in her friend’s voice.

‘Where he got it?’

‘No.’

‘It’s just …’ Solí’s eyes were narrowed as she looked even more closely at it. ‘It’s not in the greatest condition, I guess. But you know we studied Irish art in college?’

‘Hey, one class,’ Abbey reminded her. ‘And the only painter I remember was Francis Bacon, because we used to have similar ones in the Geary Street gallery. Probably half the reason I stopped working there – they used to freak me out so much.’

‘Not the sort of thing you want hanging at the end of your bed,’ agreed Solí. ‘This is different. Not a Bacon, sadly, because they go for millions these days.’

‘D’you recognise the painter?’ asked Abbey.

‘I think so,’ replied Solí. ‘I think this was painted by Jack Yeats.’

Abbey frowned. ‘Jack Yeats?
The
Jack Yeats? The brother of that Irish poet?’

‘W. B. Yeats was the poet, Jack was the painter,’ Solí reminded her. ‘Look at the brushwork here. And here. And …’ she grinned as she indicated the corner of the painting, ‘there is, of course, the signature.’

Abbey examined the painting. ‘I didn’t recognise it as a Yeats on the wall,’ she said doubtfully. ‘But then, I probably wouldn’t. D’you really think it’s him?’

‘It could be,’ said Solí. ‘Certainly worth checking out.’

‘Is it valuable?’ asked Vanessa.

‘That depends,’ replied Solí. ‘Some of his paintings have sold for forty or fifty thousand.’

‘Seriously?’ Abbey was impressed.

‘But one of them went for over a million.’

Abbey and Vanessa stared at her.

‘It was a much bigger painting, and in the height of a craze, so …’ Solí shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t get my hopes up, but you might still get a reasonable five-figure sum for this, Abbey. Maybe even a bit more if it’s a good day.’

‘Oh my God!’ Vanessa looked at Abbey, her eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘You could be rich after all.’

Abbey continued to stare at the painting, at the sea and the rock that had reminded her of home. She didn’t say a word. There were none to express the tangled emotions that were running through her.

She called Lisette and asked if there had been a special reason why she and Zoey had chosen that particular painting to give her.

‘No,’ Lisette had replied. ‘It was one he liked and so we thought it would be a bit more meaningful for you. He said that his father had been given it instead of payment by a friend of his back in the nineteen thirties. His father was a farmhand, from Sligo,’ Lisette added.

‘Was he given any more?’ asked Abbey.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Lisette. ‘We’re going through Fred’s things now.’

‘Well go through them carefully,’ Abbey told her. ‘Because this painting might be valuable, and perhaps there are others.’

Lisette and Zoey immediately engaged an expert to look at Fred’s pictures, but there were no more Yeatses among them, although he reckoned that some of the paintings by lesser-known artists could fetch a few thousand euros.

‘I guess you might feel a bit sore about giving me this one,’ said Abbey, when Lisette rang her with the news.

‘To be truthful, Donald and Gareth were furious when they found out,’ confessed Lisette. ‘But Abbey, you gave us back so much, you deserve it. They’ll come round eventually, I hope.’

‘Are things still difficult between you and Gareth?’ asked Abbey.

‘It’s hard for everybody,’ replied Lisette. ‘Donald is trying to put a deal together so that he can buy the house. He wants it and so does Zoey. But it all depends on him selling his own and – well, Gareth and I need our money quickly, so there are still some obstacles to overcome. On the plus side, Zoey went shopping with Karen and Sorcha the other day and nearly melted Donald’s credit card. But he was so pleased that they’d been out together that he didn’t say a word. Gar and I seem to be getting back on track with each other again, too. He’s actually … he’s a bit ashamed of how manic he was about everything, which is why I’m pretty sure he’s not going to want to pursue the issue of the painting. So hopefully we can work things out in the end. And at least we’re not being pressurised by Suzanne. She emailed me the other day. She thinks the hotel will be open ahead of schedule.’

‘I know, she emailed me too,’ said Abbey. ‘And I’m sure everything will work out for you guys.’

‘Funny thing – I’ve talked to Suzanne more in the last few weeks than in all the years I’ve been married to Gareth. She’s good fun, has a different perspective to the boys. It’s refreshing. Zoey and I have become really firm friends too, which I never would’ve thought.’

‘Perhaps one day we can all get together again,’ said Abbey. ‘In Fred’s house. With everything sorted.’

‘I’m afraid that could be a few years away yet,’ said Lisette. ‘At least as far as Don and Gar are concerned. But it would be nice if the female members of the family could meet up again. Maybe your mother could come too?’

Abbey wasn’t sure. She hadn’t spoken to Ellen since she’d returned to Los Montesinos, and although she knew that her mother hadn’t yet made her final profession, she couldn’t help feeling that she had settled back quite happily into the community of sisters. But for the first time in her life, she didn’t resent it. She wanted Ellen to be happy and content no matter where she was. Because the truth was that she was happy and content herself. Suddenly her life seemed to be moving along on an even keel. She was enjoying her work, her social life was good, and she didn’t have the nagging feeling that there was something missing any more. Cobey Missen had gone to LA, hoping to take part in a reality TV show. He hadn’t tried to reach her before he left and Abbey was relieved that he’d gone. Although if he’d hung round a little longer, she thought, the whole thing might have started again, because he’d have found out about the painting, and knowing him, he’d have been ready to advise her on how to maximise her cut from that too.

Part of Abbey wanted to keep Fred’s painting, but the idea of having something of potential value in her apartment worried her. Besides, a painting by a famous artist needed to be kept in a more controlled environment, with a steady temperature, to maintain it in good condition. Admittedly Fred’s study hadn’t been ideal, but Abbey felt it had been better than anything she could provide. So in the end, she decided that selling it was the best thing to do. She had to admit that her motives weren’t entirely down to the fact that she wanted what was best for the painting. The idea of a tidy five-figure sum was an appealing one too.

She’d been to lots of auctions, particularly when she’d worked part time at the gallery, but she’d never been a seller at one before. Not a run-of-the-mill seller either – at today’s auction, taking place in New York, the main interest was the painting titled
Sligo Rock
by Jack Yeats. As she sat in her seat and waited for it to come under the hammer, she read the catalogue description over and over again.

Sligo Rock
, painted in or around 1930, is loosely impressionist while conveying an enduring strength. It is a signature work by a much-loved Irish artist.

Pete had pointed to the words ‘signature work’ and murmured that they should add another few thousand dollars to the price. ‘I was so mad at you when you passed up that house,’ he said. ‘And I’m still mad because there’s no way this painting can make up for it. But at least you struck lucky with it. At least they didn’t give you one of the photos of the old cars.’

‘I’ll ask for one to replace this,’ Abbey murmured. ‘I need to have something to remember my grandfather by.’

‘Perhaps you can buy yourself a nice piece of jewellery,’ suggested Pete. ‘You’d remember him every time you wore it.’

‘There’s a thought,’ said Abbey. ‘Most of my jewellery is from handicraft stalls. I’ve never had an expensive piece before.’

‘Of course the Yeats mightn’t even reach the reserve,’ Pete warned her as they listened to Lot 45, a small painting by a little-known painter, sell for five thousand dollars. ‘These things are unpredictable.’

The auction house had set the reserve at fifty thousand. As far as she was concerned, fifty thousand dollars was a windfall for a painting that she hadn’t expected to be worth more than a sentimental value, but she knew that Pete would be devastated if it didn’t make more than that. Given the fact that she’d disappointed him over the house and left him as the owner of the apartment, she didn’t want him to feel gutted over the Yeats, even if he was being over-optimistic.

‘Hello, Abbey.’

She looked around in astonishment, and a wide beam broke out on her face. Sliding into the empty seat on her right was Ryan Gilligan.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she asked.

‘I wanted to surprise you,’ he said. ‘That’s why I didn’t say I was coming over. But the flight was late and I came straight from the airport. I thought I’d miss the auction.’

‘We’re up next,’ she said. ‘I’m terrified.’

‘Don’t be.’ He took her hand in his. ‘Like you said to me a hundred times, it’s only money.’

It was evident that many people in the room had been waiting for the appearance of
Sligo Rock
. And it was evident, too, that the painter was more skilled than the others that had come before him. There was a vibrancy and a strength in the work that had been absent in all of the others. Abbey’s fingers tightened around Ryan’s. On her other side, Pete took her left hand in his. The three of them sat joined together as the auctioneer began to speak.

The opening bid was below the reserve price, and Abbey felt a stab of disappointment. It wasn’t entirely for the money, she realised; it was because she wanted other people, people who could afford it, to like
Sligo Rock
as much as she did. She wanted them to want it. She wanted to think that it would go to someone who cared.

And then the bids began to creep up. They reached the reserve and went higher. And higher again. And then the auctioneer said ‘a hundred thousand dollars’ and Abbey held her breath. This was it. Pete’s secretly hoped-for price.

‘One hundred and twenty.’

She was startled as she became aware that the bids were continuing.

‘One hundred and fifty.’

She realised that she was squeezing both Pete and Ryan’s hands ever more tightly.

‘Two hundred thousand dollars.’

Abbey gasped. So did Pete, but that was because she’d grasped his hand so tightly she’d almost broken it.

‘Two hundred and ten.’

There was a buzz around the room now.

‘Two hundred and twenty-five.’

‘Two hundred and fifty.’

Abbey was hearing the numbers but hardly able to comprehend them.

‘Three hundred thousand dollars.’

It was slowing down now. She was almost relieved. Three hundred thousand dollars was more than she’d ever dreamed of. She remembered looking at the painting as she’d willed Fred’s heart to start beating again, urging him to be strong.

‘Three hundred and twenty. Fifty. Seventy.’

Abbey blinked rapidly. She looked at the monitor on the wall to check that she was hearing correctly. The figures were displayed in red.

‘Four hundred thousand dollars.’

Now it was Pete who was squeezing her hand, and she realised that she was forgetting to breathe again. She inhaled slowly, through her nose.

‘Four hundred and twenty. Thirty. Forty. Fifty. Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. All done?’

That had to be it, surely, thought Abbey. There was no way anyone would pay more for her painting, no matter how beautiful.

‘Five hundred thousand dollars.’

There was an excited hum around the auction room. The auctioneer looked to left and right. But this time there were no further bids.

‘Sold,’ he said. ‘For five hundred thousand dollars to the telephone bidder.’

There was a round of applause, and Abbey realised that tears were streaming down her cheeks.

‘Congratulations!’ whispered Ryan.

‘Tremendous!’ whooped Pete. ‘This is celebration time.’