None of that happens. She just expects me to breathe.
I take the breath she ordered me to, and with a wavering smile, I meet her eyes. “Hi,” I say unsurely.
“Good job. I’m proud of you for thinking of the museum during what sounds like a really special tour. I’ll email Mrs. Cartwright to follow up on her visit today?”
I’m silent until I feel Maeve looking at me expectantly. I realize she wasn’t telling me that, she’s asking me . . . as if I’m already in charge of the exhibition. “Oh! Yes, of course.”
Maeve nods and stands, tapping away on her phone before she’s even out of the room.
This is happening! A Thomas Cartwright collection right here at the museum, and it sounds like I’ll get to help coordinate it.
Needing to celebrate this with someone, I grab my phone to text Carter.
You won’t believe this! Elena came to the museum today to talk about the exhibition! I gave her a tour!
I should definitely use fewer exclamation points, but I’m so excited that I’m basically vibrating. Texting like a middle-school girl is the least of my worries, so I hit Send and wait.
Less than a minute later, I get a response.
Carter: That’s awesome. Congratulations! I can’t wait to hear all about it tonight.
Me: How was your meeting?
Carter: I don’t know yet. He wasn’t as receptive as I’d hoped.
Me: Oh, no! I’m sorry. Anything I can do?
The three dots are there for a long time, and I wonder if he’s typing a novel. Or more likely, typing something dirty and then deleting it, and I feel a smile steal my lips at the idea.
Carter: All good. I don’t give up that easily.
Luna: Me neither.
Carter: Good girl. I’m heading into a meeting. See you tonight?
I send back a quick heart emoji and put my phone away.
It’s not till after my next tour that I realize that I didn’t text Samantha, Zack, or even my mom when I got the great news about the exhibition. My first and only thought was that I wanted to talk to Carter.
But that doesn’t feel like a bad thing at all.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
CARTER
After Luna tells me about Elena’s weird museum visit with twenty questions and the dinner invitation, I spend the night tossing and turning with my mind running a million miles a minute. I feel three steps behind, and it’s not a feeling I like, but staring at the ceiling isn’t helping.
What was Claire doing at Oleana’s office?
Why did Elena go to the museum after that?
Is this dinner to tell us that it’s all a go?
Or to tell us that she’s going a different direction with both her money and Thomas’s art?
I scoot away from Luna, planning to leave her blissfully sleeping while I go to the living room to plot and plan, obsess and analyze. But she mumbles, “Carter, where’re ya goin’？”
If it was only the half-asleep mumble, I could’ve headed to the living room, but Luna’s reaching out for me with grabby fingers and an unhappy moan is too much for me to bear. I lay back down, and she snuggles into me, her head on my chest and body pressed against me. I feel her cheek move and realize that she’s smiling in her sleep.
Because of me.
Having Luna in my arms is a joy I never dreamed of having. I honestly don’t know that I ever truly saw her before this whole thing. She was my friend’s little sister, but now . . . I see her. I know her. I feel her.
I run my fingers over her arm and press a kiss to her hair. Not for her, but to soothe myself. I have a bad feeling about this dinner, but I vow to myself that I won’t let anything happen to Luna.
Eventually, I fall asleep from pure exhaustion, but I don’t dream of portfolios. No, Luna dances her way through my sleep, and it’s better sleep than I’ve had in years.
The next day, I decide to work from home, burying myself in every bit of information I have on the Cartwright estate and then digging into what I can find on Claire.
There’s not a lot.
In shorthand, she’s Thomas’s niece, but only because I’m too confused by greats, grands, and once removed to figure out her actual connection. It doesn’t matter, really, because ‘niece’ is what they’ve always called her. She’s married to Madison, who prefers Mads, and they have a son, Jacob. All things I knew. My research does show that I was correct about Mads being a suit-type, though he’s a mid-level manager, not an accountant like I suspected. From what I can tell, they live on funds from good ol’ Uncle Thomas—their house, cars, Jacob’s piano lessons, and more.
Who gets that kid to sit still long enough to play piano? Poor teacher.
But there’s nothing concerning that I can find. She seems like a woman of means, the same as many others when your family is Cartwright-level wealthy.
“Here, eat something,” Luna tells me as she sets a sandwich on the table next to me. She’s been working on Alphena all day, making little noises as she writes that I’m guessing correspond to the action on pages of her tablet.
“Can’t. I need to figure this out.” I keep tapping away, not sure what I’m hoping to find.
Luna plops into the chair she’s been curled up in all day, sitting on her feet in a way that makes my legs hurt, and takes a bite of her own sandwich. Around the mouthful, she says, “If you don’t eat all day, when Elena puts dinner in front of you, you’re gonna act like a ravenous wildebeest.”
I still don’t reach for the sandwich.
“Your brain needs fuel to figure out whatever you’re trying to figure out. You’re not going to do it if all your brain is saying is ‘feed me’。 You’re basically a zombie running on caffeine at this point.”
Okay, that’s a good point. I take a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Claire is the key here. I don’t know why, but her showing up at Oleana’s office and then Elena coming to the museum worry me.”
Luna takes another bite and then sets her sandwich down in favor of her tablet. “Whatever it is, you’ll handle it.”
Her faith in me is reassuring. If only I felt the same way.
She goes back to working, and I watch her for a moment before I do the same.
Pulling up to Elena’s home this time feels just as fraught with possible missteps as it did last time. I’ve researched, planned, and plotted. Luna and I have done everything to address the money and the art and have even gone so far as getting married for real. There should be nothing they can throw at us to ruin this.
But my heart is pounding so hard I can almost feel it bursting through my shirt.
Holding Luna’s hand, I help her out of the car.
“You bring that piss monster with ya this time?” a grouchy voice says.
I look over to see Bernard, the gardener, holding a spray bottle at the ready like he’s a cowboy in the Wild West who’s going to shoot the bank robber when he runs by. My guess? Nutbuster is his version of the bad guy, and he’d do anything to protect his rosebushes from another round of baptism by dog pee.
“No, not this time,” I answer with a forced smile, waving in greeting.
His lip curls in a snarl and then he squirts the water my way with a jerk of his arm. The spray arcs but doesn’t reach me. I think he truly meant for it to, though, which would’ve gotten my favorite suit wet.