“I can’t say for certain. The FBI will be investigating him, but his grandmother claims he had nothing to do with any of it. That’s how it looks to me, as well.”
“That’s something, at least.” She nodded. It wasn’t a categorical no, but it gave her hope.
“You’re worried about Joel, too?”
Chelsea nearly smiled as she sensed a bit of jealousy. “Well, yes. I’m concerned about him as a friend, but it’s also the gallery I’m worried about. We might all be out of a job.”
“You believe the harm to its reputation will be insurmountable?”
Now she smiled. “Actually, I think just the opposite. If it’s cleverly done, the connection to the Thompson heist could be turned to the gallery’s advantage. The whole mystery and intrigue surrounding the theft could be capitalized on to draw people in.”
He took her hand. Linked his fingers with hers. “Then why are you worried?”
“Joel talked to me about it because he didn’t know who else to turn to. He’ll probably sell the gallery. If he can’t sell it, he’ll close it. He’s never been a fan of art. All he really cared about was his grandmother and his inheritance. Now that I know the gallery has been a money-losing enterprise, I understand why he was so concerned about Mrs. Sinclair’s finances and the deteriorating condition of her home. The gallery was depleting her resources and the value of what would eventually come to him.” She fidgeted with the hem of her sweater. “We also talked about what happened between us. I now understand his change in demeanor and his preoccupation near the end of our relationship. He might not have known what his grandmother was involved in, but he sensed there was something going on. He was worried about her, but also hurt that she’d shut him out, when they’d always been close.
“He won’t reopen the gallery. He’ll try to get what he can out of it, but he won’t reopen it,” she repeated sadly. “So not only did my chance to become curator go...” She made a pfft noise and snapped her fingers. “I’ll be out of a job, too. There aren’t a lot of art galleries in Camden Falls,” she said with a harsh laugh. “My options are to find another career...or move to Boston.” The thought of that—and leaving Sam—caused a sharp pain in her chest. She loved Sam.
He wasn’t unaffected by her, either, she mused. She could see it from the look on his face.
Chelsea dropped her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes. “How could Joel not want to own the gallery?” She shifted her head toward Sam, and she didn’t hide the intensity of her feelings. “What a dream that would be! Not just to manage the gallery, but to own it! To decide what to buy and when. How to display the works to maximum effect. To plan showings and events. Oh, my gosh, what a thrill that would be! So much more than just managing it. To have complete and unfettered control.” The passion with which she’d started to speak diminished, and she ended on a quiet sigh. “I’m out of a job. The gallery I love so much will close.”
Chelsea jolted at the sudden, forceful knock at her door. Mindy was startled awake, too. She leaped off Sam’s lap, but not before digging her claws into his thighs, judging by the hiss he let out and the grimace on his face.
Chelsea glanced at her watch. It was after ten. She couldn’t imagine who would be at her door that late in the evening. Suddenly fearful that there might be something wrong with Mr. or Mrs. Bennett, she rushed to the door and flung it open.
Relieved that it wasn’t one of her neighbors, she wondered why the representative from the museum, whom she’d met briefly at Mrs. Sinclair’s home, was at her door.
Sam stepped up beside her and she reached for his hand. “Mr. Lancaster, what can I do for you?”
“May I come in?”
Sam squeezed her hand reassuringly.
“Yes, please.” She opened the door farther. With no idea what he wanted—and part of her feeling anxious that she was in some sort of trouble—her manners still overrode all else. “May I take your coat?”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I won’t be staying long,” he assured her. “Ms. Owens, as I said earlier, you’re responsible for what happened today,” he added. “For the Thompson Museum recovering five of the stolen pieces, including The Tempest on the Ocean, and with a very viable lead to recover the rest.”
“Well, um...”
Sam gave her a not-too-gentle nudge. She glanced up at him and caught his encouraging grin.
“I don’t have the words to tell you how much I appreciated being there today. Thank you.”
“We’re the ones who can’t thank you enough.”
“Oh, no, it’s not—”
Before she could finish her sentence, Sam rested a hand on her shoulder. “Let the man finish,” he whispered in her ear.
Alan must have noticed the interplay, because he grinned at her. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and withdrew a pale gray envelope with the Thompson Museum logo on the top left corner and her name in the center.
“I had to speak to the Thompson Museum’s curator as final authorization before I released this to you. Here you go,” he said, offering her the envelope.
She turned a questioning look at Sam as she accepted it. He was grinning, too. Not knowing what to expect, she felt her stomach clench. “What’s this?” she asked in a barely audible voice.
“Open it and find out,” Alan told her.
With shaking fingers, Chelsea broke the seal on the envelope and reached in to pull out its contents. She unfolded the sheet of paper.
“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, and was glad that Sam was beside her so she could lean on him. He wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her. The check that had been folded inside fluttered as she held it in her hand. Wide-eyed, she looked at Alan. “I...I don’t understand...”
“The museum has been offering a reward for the return of the stolen masterpieces for more years than I’ve worked there. You were instrumental in their return. That’s your reward.”
“But...but...” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat in embarrassment. “But this is two million dollars!”
“Yes, it is. That’s forty percent of the reward. If we’re able to recover the remaining pieces from the Saudi prince, it will be my great pleasure to present you with the remainder of the five-million-dollar reward.”
Chelsea gaped at him.
“Well, I’ve completed my final task for the day.” Alan held his hand out to Chelsea. When she placed hers in his, he covered it with his other hand. “Sincere and heartfelt thanks not only from me and the management of the museum, but from art lovers the world over.”
After Chelsea closed the door behind Alan, she leaned against it and stared at Sam. “Can you believe this?” She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t look surprised. You knew about it?”
He nodded and kissed her parted lips. “I knew about the reward, but I also knew that they’d have to authenticate the paintings. It might not be my field of expertise, but I thought they did it rather quickly.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
Chelsea glanced again at the check in her hand. She couldn’t believe what was happening. At a loss for words, she threw herself into Sam’s arms for the second time that evening.
He held her tight for a long moment, then cupping her face with his hands, he smiled down at her. “Chelsea, you are the most remarkable woman I have known in my life.” He brushed his lips over hers. “We met under less than normal circumstances, but I’m so happy we did meet.” He kissed her again. “I never thought I’d say these words again. Chelsea... I love you.”
Chelsea blinked rapidly so she could see his face through the tears that swam in her eyes. She placed her palms on his cheeks and finally said the words that she’d known in her heart for some time. “Oh, Sam, I love you, too!”
EPILOGUE
LARGE FLAKES OF
SNOW drifted gently down as Sam lifted the three large bags from the trunk of his car. He held Chelsea’s gloved hand as they walked past the white picket fence and up the driveway to Paige and Daniel’s house. It was Christmas Eve, and they were spending it with Paige and Daniel, Jason and Emily at the Kinsleys’ home, along with all of Paige and Chelsea’s friends.
Jason opened the door for them, and his eyes rounded when he saw the bags of gifts.
“Hey, squirt!” Chelsea greeted him with a hug.
“Hi, Aunt Chelsea. Hello, Sam. Is there anything in those for me?” he asked, pointing to the bags.
Chelsea tugged gently on his hair. “There might be. Have you been good this year?”
“Aw, c’mon, Aunt Chels!”
“All right. I’ll take that as a yes,” she said as they brushed the snow off their coats and boots before stepping into the vestibule.
Scout darted out of the living room, followed by Paige.
“Chelsea!” Paige exclaimed and rushed over to embrace her, then rested her hands on Chelsea’s shoulders. “You look wonderful.”
“Is that so hard to believe?” she teased as she reached down to scratch Scout’s ears.
Paige laughed. “Well, with everything you’ve been through these past weeks, I thought you might be a little tired. So, how does it feel to be the new owner of the Sinclair Gallery?”
“Excuse me, but it’s now the Chelsea Gallery,” she said with mock haughtiness, then grinned. “Quite spectacular, although it doesn’t seem real yet.”
“I think it’s great news that the second half of the reward money came through so quickly after the recovery of the remaining works of art, and you were able to close the deal before Christmas. What a wonderful way to start the new year. As a gallery owner!” Paige’s voice softened. “I also think it’s wonderful and generous of you to pay Charles Hadley the salary he would’ve earned over the next two years so he could retire early and move back to England to be with his nephew.”
“Honestly, it wasn’t that much and not entirely altruistic, since it gives me a completely free hand in restructuring the gallery.”
“Say what you will, I know you did it more for him than for yourself.” Paige took another appraising glance at Chelsea. “Not only do you not look tired, you look very happy.” She turned to Sam and gave him a hug, too. “And speaking of which, I’ll bet you’re the reason for it. Thank you for joining our celebration this evening.”
Entering the living room, Chelsea realized that they were the last to arrive. Laura and Harrison Weatherly were sitting by the fire, baby Emily nestled in Laura’s lap. Emily was in an elf onesie, complete with an elf hat. And the staid and conservative Mr. Weatherly was cooing to the baby. Chelsea had to blink to make sure she wasn’t imagining it.
Jason ran over to sit on the floor next to Mrs. Bennett’s chair and resumed playing a card game with her. Daniel was setting the table, and Paige excused herself to go back into the kitchen to finish preparations.
Chelsea knew that the next day Paige and Daniel and the kids would be visiting their parents—just like she and Sam had agreed to split the day between their respective families. But tonight was about friendship.
This was her family, Chelsea thought, as much as her mother and father were. Not of blood, but of love. That brought to mind her discussion with Sam about his determination not to pass on the recessive gene he carried for spinal muscular atrophy. She was glad she’d had the chance to assure him that to her, adopting children—who would be theirs because of love rather than blood—would be perfect.
Sam’s fingers were linked with hers, and she curled hers around his more tightly. It reminded her of when she’d first met him and how she’d wondered what it would feel like to do exactly what she was doing now. It felt perfect!
Dinner was served soon afterward, and it was a boisterous and joyous affair. As had become tradition, Daniel and Paige announced that Jason’s most recent checkup revealed that he remained cancer-free. Everyone cheered and clinked their glasses together. And two years to the day after Harrison and Laura had announced that they were engaged, they jubilantly proclaimed that they were adopting a child from Guam.
Chelsea couldn’t have been happier for her friends. She and Sam gave each other a meaningful look, reaffirming their belief in adoption.
After dinner, everyone gathered in the living room around the fireplace again and exchanged gifts. When all the gifts had been unwrapped and all the thanks had been given, Sam tapped his temple. “I can’t believe it! I left one of my gifts in the car.”
Chelsea had wondered why she hadn’t received anything from him, but assumed he was saving his gift to her for Christmas morning. She’d given him a cashmere sweater and a new winter coat, but she still had another gift for him once they were alone.
“Excuse me, everyone, while I go outside to get it,” Sam said and left the room.
He returned a few minutes later with a large rectangular object wrapped in bright foil paper. Based on its shape and size, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that his gift had to be a painting. Chelsea felt a moment’s unease worrying about Sam’s taste—or lack thereof—in art, but repressed it quickly. If that was the biggest issue between them, a difference in taste and in their appreciation of art, she could consider herself fortunate.
All eyes were on her as Sam handed her the gift-wrapped package. Jason scrambled over, his interest obvious. “I know what it is, Aunt Chelsea! I know what it is!”
“Well, don’t spoil it for me, squirt,” she said good-naturedly, giving him a gentle nudge. She fixed a smile on her face as she carefully peeled away the paper.
The only sounds were the strains of “All I Want for Christmas Is You” playing in the background and the wood crackling in the fireplace, as Chelsea removed another strip of paper. The colors she could see were muted and gray-toned, not the bright, cheerful colors she preferred.
She glanced up at Sam. The joy and excitement written all over his face nearly stopped her heart. She loved him so much, but why did he have to give her a painting, knowing their tastes ran in very different directions? And in front of her friends and neighbors? If that first glimpse of it was any indication and it turned out to be as depressing as she feared, how was she going to mask her reaction to it? The last thing she wanted to do was hurt or embarrass Sam.
She peeled off another strip of paper. What she saw was even gloomier. She’d just have to unwrap the whole darn thing and brave it out.
Removing another piece of the wrapping paper, what she saw struck a chord in her memory. Uncertain...even apprehensive, she locked eyes with Sam.
He grinned at her foolishly.
She might as well get it over with, she decided as she peeled away the last of the wrapping...and stared with disbelief at the painting.
Jason bounced on his toes. “Let’s see it!”
“Sam...I don’t understand?” Chelsea murmured.
“Here,” Sam said, grabbing a dining-room chair and facing it toward the living room. “Why don’t you put the painting here so everyone can see?”
Not knowing if she could or should say anything, she did as he suggested. When she’d positioned the canvas and moved out of the way, no one spoke, but Mrs. Bennett let out a snort.
Chelsea sent her a cautionary frown.
Mrs. Bennett seemed unapologetic. “I’m sorry, but my age entitles me to honesty. That’s a rather depressing-looking painting, Sam. Why on earth would you have bo
ught it for our Chelsea?”
“Mrs. Bennett!” Chelsea exclaimed, horrified. “This is...” she hesitated and made eye contact with Sam. “This is Rembrandt’s The Tempest on the Ocean.”
He had a huge grin on his face and took a step closer to the painting.
She continued to hold his gaze as she sat back down on the sofa. “This...this isn’t the original.”
He chuckled, ignoring Mrs. Bennett’s question and Chelsea’s comment. “What do you think of it, Jason?” he asked.
“I don’t know if Jason should critique other people’s work,” Paige interjected, obviously not wanting him to offend Sam by expressing his opinion.
“It’s okay. I’m interested in his reaction...as an artist.” Sam winked at Jason.
“How sweet,” Paige commented. “Would anyone like more coffee?”
“Jason,” Sam continued, “Why don’t you come have a closer look?”
“Wait. What’s that?” Jason asked, scooting up to the canvas and pointing to the bottom center. “Aunt Chelsea, come see!”
With unsteady legs, she rose and walked over to the chair, kneeling in front of it, next to Jason.
“See! Right there.” Jason pointed again, nearly touching the painting.
Chelsea saw it, as well. Affixed to the painting, appearing to be held in the outstretched hand of the man on the canvas, was something shiny. The sudden pounding of her heart echoed in her ears and drowned out the music in the background.
She looked up at Sam.
“What? You don’t like it?” he asked, still grinning.
When she touched the object, it dropped into her hand. She stared down at her palm and the diamond ring that sparkled there.
“I... don’t understand,” she said, swiping at the moisture on her cheeks with her free hand.
Sam knelt beside her. “It’s an engagement ring.” He picked up the ring. “Knowing how much your friends, family really, mean to you—and figuring you’d be less likely to turn me down in front of them—I thought this would be the most appropriate way to ask you to marry me. So...” He took her left hand in his. “Chelsea Owens, will you marry me?”