Even though she wasn’t movie-star gorgeous, she had a compelling aura. It was all in her confidence and her presentation.
She brought her wineglass up to almost eye height, staring at it the way an audience volunteer might stare at a hypnotist’s watch. “Gerard,” she finally said.
Our waiter was at our side in less than two beats. “Is there anything wrong?” he asked her, turning to me after the fact, as though suddenly remembering I was there. “Would Signorina Pezzati prefer something else? A different vintage, perhaps?”
She laid a hand on his arm. I wondered if she knew the little thrill she’d just given the man. Even in this dim room, I could see his cheeks brighten and his eyes light up. “No, I’m sorry. I’m simply in a thoughtful mood. Thank you.”
Dismissed, he nodded and left us alone again.
“I know it’s a difficult subject.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Not for me,” she said. “Gerard and I have never lost touch.” Finally making eye contact, she shrugged. “He’s my brother. I can’t turn my back on him.”
“But your father—”
“Father disowned him years ago. He doesn’t understand that people can change. He won’t give Gerard another chance.”
“What did Gerard do?”
Her expression tightened. “My father forgave a lot. He’s a kind man and he loves his family, but he couldn’t forgive Gerard’s deception. My brother stole one of our father’s most cherished treasures. When confronted, he denied it. But we knew the truth.”
For a woman who professed to keep in touch with her brother, she sounded angry. I asked her about that.
“Yes, of course I am upset,” she said. “Our father is a generous man. He refuses me nothing. If only Gerard would have asked for what he needed instead of trying to take it.” She stared out at the dancers below us. “Now it’s too late. Our father has cut him out of all possibility of inheritance. He refuses to speak to his son.”
“Your father said that Gerard hasn’t tried to reach him for fourteen years.”
“He said that? Today?”
When I nodded, she took a long sip of wine.
“I’m surprised. Father rarely speaks of the matter. They are both stubborn men. Gerard tried to make amends for a while. But now he is bitter. He knows the wealth our father has, and he’s angry that he will never be part of that life anymore. I understand. Gerard lives in New York and claims he is too ashamed of his living conditions to allow me to visit. I send him what I can but”—she blinked away tears that had begun to shimmer in her eyes—“there is so little I can do.” Setting her glass down on the table, she reached across and grabbed both my hands with hers. “I don’t want to cry in public. Please, let’s talk about something else. What did you think of Father’s gallery?”
When she let go, I picked up my own glass. “Beautiful,” I said, “though that hardly begins to describe it. I know Bennett was impressed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he commissions a new spot on Marshfield property for something similar.”
She laughed. “I must admit, I am a disappointment to my father in one respect. I have no knowledge of what he has in there.” Lifting one hand, she waved it from side to side. “Of course, I hear names like Picasso and Monet and I understand that these are valuable, priceless, even, but I don’t have the interest in collecting and buying and selling the way my father wishes I would.” Grinning, she took a quick sip, then looked at me with new interest. “You, on the other hand, would be a great asset to my father. You not only understand what treasures he has amassed, you share his enthusiasm for it all.”