Unspoken

  “He’s written her in the last month, care of her sister. A lot of mail has come over the years via that avenue, and her sister is smart enough to have a security firm simply intercept all the mail so neither of them ever sees it. They send it to me. Richard is looking for a thank-you for helping her out back then that suggests ten thousand today would be a kindness, as his luck has been rough lately.”

  “Charming.”

  “He’s done this before. Last time he showed up in person at Tabitha’s home, hoping to collect his thank-you money from her. The thing is, this guy has fixated on Charlotte for so long he’s the one guy who likely would recognize her on the street at a glance if their paths happen to cross somehow. I don’t like this guy’s history of being lucky enough to be in that wrong place. Until someone I’ve got out looking puts eyes on him and tells me where he’s at, she’s got a close tail.”

  “You should tell her.”

  John shook his head. “Long ago Charlotte and I made a simple agreement. I say I’ve got an active threat, her mouth shuts, she does everything I say, no questions, no hesitation. Anything else that bothers me—that’s less than that active threat—I deal with however I see fit, but without her. She can be as annoyed as she likes, spout off all she likes. We do our own thing. But you’ll notice your front door still hasn’t opened, and when she realized I was on a close tail, she was standing on your porch with her phone open in her hand and two numbers of 911 dialed. She won’t willfully undermine what’s going on. She’ll just be annoyed that I’m being John on her again.”

  “What’s an active threat?”

  “I hand her a gun and tell her to shoot whoever walks through the door.”

  Bryce opened the front door of his home mentally braced for Charlotte to be waiting. The foyer was empty. Her shoes were in the middle of the rug, and the sack she had been carrying was resting on the bottom step of the staircase.

  “Charlotte?”

  She appeared from the direction of his kitchen. She was carrying the bowl of cheese popcorn. “You two were having a long chat.”

  “He’s just being John.”

  She blinked, then laughed. “I use pretty much those exact words, but mine have a more exasperated air and tossed-up hands accompanying them.”

  “You’re fine. He had a pho—”

  She raised her hand to cut him off mid-word, wiped the back of her hand across her mouth to deal with cheese dust. “I’ll ask if I want to know. I don’t want to know. If I knew the problem, I’d just be bugging him for updates. He’s already doing whatever he has decided needs to be done. After eighteen years of this, I think I’ve earned the right to stay in the dark.”

  “Okay.” He took a handful of the popcorn from the bowl. “So how was your day?”

  “I had this evening dinner appointment I was supposed to go to, and it threw off my concentration the entire day. I had to change clothes like four times.”

  He blinked, trying to catch up to the fact he was hearing humor, bad humor, but she was trying. “I like the final choice.”

  She’d found a striking dress that did a nice job of reminding him why she was dangerous, and a silk black ribbon to tie back her hair. The bare feet failed to tone down the impression of it.

  “I’ve been wandering around. I like your house. It has furniture.”

  He laughed. “Rather too much of it I think at times, but all of it comfortable. Much of it has been in the family for a lot of years.”

  She nodded to the sack she’d brought. “I was told housewarming gifts were the thing to do. That’s for you. I’d hand it to you, but no way I’m giving up cheese popcorn to give you a badly wrapped gift. I fail miserably at straight edges.”

  He reached for the sack and took out the package, felt a picture frame under the wrapping paper. “Can I open it now?”

  “Sure.”

  He tore off the wrapping paper and caught his breath. Bishop Chicago. She’d drawn his storefront from the perspective of across the street, caught Devon and Sharon walking hand in hand on the way in to work. The store display was accurate for last week’s specials on early-date half-dollars. “It’s wonderful, Charlotte.”

  “I have very few talents in life. But I can draw.”

  “How did—?”

  “I snapped a photo, worked from memory. It’s a little flat—it lacks the smaller details that make a scene feel authentic—but I wasn’t able to linger and see what else caught my attention.”

  “Quit criticizing,” he murmured. He balled up the wrapping paper. “I’m going to go get a hammer and nail.”

  He decided the sketch deserved the attention of all his guests, so he took the drawing to the front hallway and stood by the front door to look around. He selected a wall, used approximate eye level as a guide, placed the nail so he’d be looking down a few inches, and glanced at her. She’d taken a seat on the staircase to watch him. “You can comment.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Thought it.”

  “In the summer afternoons when you open the front door, the sun hits that wall. Your guests will see a beautifully reflected sunlight on glass rather than the sketch.”

  “Excellent point.” He stepped back to consider other options. Chose another wall, looked at her for approval, and drove the nail. He carefully hung the sketch and stepped back to admire it. She really did beautiful work. “Thank you, Charlotte.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He glanced over at her. “I had in mind feeding you something better than half a bowl of cheese popcorn.”

  “I’ve still got my appetite. I missed lunch due to all the clothing changes required for this evening.”

  He reached for her hand, grinned. “You’re not going to get me to say anything more than I like the results. You don’t need more compliments at the moment; you need some real food. Come on back to the kitchen. Pizza is in the oven. I was working on the salad when you arrived.”

  He picked up where he had left off, cutting tomatoes. The pizza cheese was bubbling, and the kitchen smelled good.

  “The photos are your family?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the refrigerator covered in snapshots. “Yes.”

  “Do they come here or do you go visit them?”

  “Mostly I go. This house isn’t very kid-proof. But someone tends to drop by every week or so, or I find excuses to drop by their homes.” He shrugged. “When family lives in the area, it’s just part of the flow of life.”

  She turned the vase of flowers on the counter. He watched her finger one of the petals but didn’t say anything. Telling her they were for her would just add a layer to the evening she likely wasn’t ready for. “Want to put those on the table?” he suggested. He’d decide later if he would mention she should take them home with her. “What else have you been up to today?”

  She took the flowers over to the table. “The group four coins are now at the store. I’m at three million two.”

  “I’ll write you a check.”

  “You don’t want to go look at them first?”

  “The first three groups are averaging a profit of thirty percent. I’m not going to quibble with your pricing.”

  He sliced the last carrot and used the knife to scrape it off the cutting board into the bowl. It added nice color. He’d gone skimpy on the cucumbers and mushrooms since they weren’t his favorites. Pizza and a salad, brownies for dessert. He’d spent the better part of a week figuring out how to keep this evening simple and informal.

  He refilled her glass. “The last of the vault five coins went up for sale today.”

  “So this is a celebration meal. You’re ready to tackle the big vaults.”

  “It is. I’ve got the signed lease on my desk for more prep space, Chapel will have his security work done in a week, and I’m hiring people. First of the month I plan to bring the first shipment of coins to Chicago.”

  “Thanks, Bishop.”

  “Sure you don’t want the other check
today?”

  A check for twenty-eight million was in his office safe, waiting his signature. He’d buy the large volume of coins, and she’d continue to sell him the individual coins in groups of five hundred every thirty days. Ann had been right about Kevin Cooper. He’d wanted to fund the entire syndication share himself.

  Charlotte shook her head. “I’ll take the check the week you start moving the coins. An earthquake might happen in the next few days and bury them.”

  He laughed. “Worrywart. Have you relaxed at all since Fred told you about the coins?”

  She half smiled. “Life was simpler before I had a grandfather.”

  “Check out the cupboards for me, would you? See what I’ve got for salad dressings and choose what you’d like. I bought new.”

  She opened the long cupboard, pulled out a ranch dressing and set it on the counter.

  “I thought you were going to bring your sketchbook with you.”

  She looked over her shoulder. “I thought you were joking.”

  “I’m planning to eat pizza and watch a ball game. The only business we need to talk through tonight is what you want to do with the next thirty million. We can have that conversation during commercials.”

  She laughed. “Sure we can.” She set a French dressing beside the other one. “I’d like to keep doing what we’ve been doing. You give me a page of ideas, I look it over and fund the page or not.”

  “You can’t abdicate the decision making.”

  “I’m signing the checks, so I’m making the final decisions.”

  “Food pantries. Animal shelters. What else interests you?”

  “Those are the core ones. I’ll give you the checkbook registry, and you can see what I’ve done for the last few years.”

  She set a third salad dressing on the counter, this one a Caesar. “I want to give so carefully no one even notices a wave. Existing organizations, not new ones, places with a clear mission statement and goals, a passion for their work, integrity in their finances, stable staffs.”

  “You’ve given this some thought.”

  “The broad strokes. How much to give, specifically where, and when, so the gifts are helpful but aren’t being noticed as excessive—that’s your problem, please. It’s been a challenge to give away a few million quietly. I don’t know how to approach doing sixty million in a year. I’d like you to figure that out. I don’t want this to take three to five years. Sell the coins and give away the money.”

  He picked up his glass, drank half of it, considered her. “Do you like to give?”

  “No. I just like to keep it even less.”

  “I actually understood that distinction.”

  “Where are the plates?”

  “Second cabinet to your right.”

  The oven timer went off. He pulled out the pizza. “There’s probably a sketchbook around here somewhere that one of the kids left behind.”

  “I’m a snob about paper. I like a nice, heavyweight, hot-pressed paper—something sturdy and smooth to the touch—and archival grade so it’s not going to yellow in the next hundred years.”

  Bryce smiled. “You’ve got a favorite brand?”

  “There’s a place in New England called Traverse that stocks paper from different manufacturers, and you can buy for the year of production as well as the brand. The year the paper was made actually can make a difference.” She carried two plates to the table. “Silverware?”

  “Right-hand drawer next to the dishwasher.”

  She pulled open the drawer. “Arches makes a hot-pressed watercolor paper that’s sturdy and forgiving—it’s what I toss in my bag if I’m just walking around to see what I happen to notice that day. I love Stonehenge 2006 when I’m working at the drafting table—it’s a bit soft for the surface, but I can make the details almost photo-like. The Strathmore Bristol Plate Finish from 2004 is my all-around favorite paper when I’m doing a sketch where I can take my time. It’s the smoothest of the papers and it doesn’t step forward and interfere with my pencils or pen.” She stopped, smiled. “Bet you’re sorry you asked.”

  “A sketch artist who didn’t care about her paper would surprise me more.”

  “I’m kind of the same about my pencils and pens.”

  Bryce laughed. “Expected that.”

  They fixed themselves their salads, lifted slices of sizzling pizza from the hot stone, and took the meal over to the table.

  “I’ve not been over to the Dance and Covey Gallery yet,” Bryce told her. “My apologies. I’ve been a bit busy, thanks to you. But I plan to change that fact soon.”

  “I think you’ll enjoy it,” Charlotte assured him. “You’ll find hundreds of my framed sketches at prices that make me wince. Six of Marie’s oil paintings, five on loan from their owners, one on display pending being priced for sale. I’m guessing Ellie will price it around eight million. Marie and I are an odd combination for a gallery’s exclusive artists, but it works. The main hall showcases whatever artist Covey has brought in to feature for the month.

  “Ellie manages the business affairs for Marie and me for the art we create. Covey deals with the rest of the artists and the business of the gallery. It leaves Ellie free to do whatever traveling she wants, be at the gallery when she wants. Covey gets a partner to help keep the business profitable while still running the gallery as his. It’s a good arrangement, has been a stable one for the last fourteen years.”

  Bryce got up for more pizza. “Why select a gallery in Chicago?”

  “Just the way it happened to work out. We considered Texas, but both Marie’s and my work is Midwest in its flavor. Ellie grew up about two hours south of here. The city is large enough it has a vibrant art community and can support a specialized gallery. Ellie knew Covey through her uncle. Covey’s been in the business thirty-two years, and he’s a guy with solid integrity. It works. This pizza isn’t half bad, Bishop,” she said as he slid another piece onto her plate.

  “Not frozen, and there’s no recipe, so don’t ask me to repeat it. Every pizza I put together comes out different. But the sauce stays the same.”

  “I’m mildly impressed,” Charlotte promised. “I’m not in Chicago very often,” she continued, reverting back to the prior conversation, “and I’m rarely at the gallery. CRM is known as the artist who does interesting work but carefully keeps her privacy. Ellie has made that a feature rather than a drawback with collectors. Covey would recognize me, but I doubt his staff would know me by sight. Marie is the same—she’s not one to make public appearances to sell her art. You can tell from the prices that it hasn’t hurt her sales or reputation among collectors.”

  “You know her?”

  Charlotte took another careful bite of the hot pizza. “I know her very well.”

  “Let me show you around outside while the evening light is still good.” Bryce walked through the kitchen into the sunroom where he opened the French doors that led out onto the back patio.

  Charlotte, carrying her glass with her, had stopped in the sunroom. She was looking down the length of the room with a stunned expression. “What is this, about forty feet?”

  “They built the sunroom to run alongside the garage addition, so thirty-six feet by fourteen feet wide.”

  “Forget the room. I’m looking at all that gorgeous expanse of white wall and thinking of the art it’s missing.” She looked to the open French doors and the patio beyond him, laughed. “This just keeps getting better.” She stepped out onto the paving stones. “This is like an oasis in the city.”

  “The woman who built this home bought four lots. She planted the blue spruce trees around the perimeter knowing in twenty years they would create this sanctuary. Trees have been replaced over the decades as they age, but the concept has been kept. I get the benefit of her foresight.”

  The distant noise of traffic was a steady backdrop, along with some sounds of neighbors. But the backyard was white birch trees, some flowering shrubs, roses, against those year-round evergreens.


  Charlotte rested her hand on the back of one of the patio chairs. “You must spend a lot of time out here.”

  “Not as much as it deserves.” He nodded to the windows to their right. “But my home office looks out over the yard, so I get to enjoy the scenery. The birds consider it a safe haven and nest here in large numbers. I’m partial to the sparrows, oddly enough.”

  “This is why you bought this house.”

  “It is. The property will also appreciate in value faster than other homes in the neighborhood because of the yard and the oversized garage.”

  Charlotte laughed. “Always the businessman.”

  “I’m wired that way, so I’ll say thanks for the compliment. I like the combination of practical decisions along with long-term thinking that drives most decisions I make. Life stays interesting that way.”

  Charlotte smiled. “I like that about you, Bryce.”

  Charlotte liked Bryce’s living room. It was casual and well lived in, the couch and chairs chosen for comfort, the books on the shelves indicating the man probably read as much as he watched TV. She set her drink on a coaster on the coffee table and sank into the plush leather of a chair. “Good food, a comfortable chair . . . you’re going to lose my attention.”

  Bryce turned on the TV and found the baseball game, set the volume on low, then took a seat on the couch. “You nod off, I’m not going to be offended.”

  “I won’t, but thanks.”

  “There’s a reason I want a few evenings of conversation with you,” he mentioned, “and I was semi-serious when I suggested we could talk during commercials. I’d rather have you take a question, mull over your answer until the next commercial, and give me some depth to your answer, than simply give me the surface answer you think I want to hear.”

  “An interesting way to put it.”

  “So here’s my first question. I need you to think about the approach you want to take to your giving. Do you want a top-down approach with objectives, categories, and I find ways to give which express those objectives? Or do you want a micro approach, where the giving is lists of specific items to fund where the criteria are simply whether it’s a useful gift?”