Price of Inheritance

by Karin Tanabe

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

In this enthralling new novel from the author of The List (a “smartly paced and dishy debut,” Publishers Weekly, starred review), a young woman working in the high-end art world stumbles upon a rare antique—and an irresistible man with a dark past. After eight years in the American Furniture department at Christie’s, twenty-nine-year-old Carolyn Everett is a rising star. But one wrong decision and a scandal leaves her unemployed and broken. Desperate to piece her life back together, Carolyn leaves New York City to work in a tiny antique store in Newport, Rhode Island. One day at a small county auction, she discovers a piece of Middle Eastern pottery, which she purchases for twenty dollars on a hunch. Curiosity sends her on a mission to find its original owner, and she eventually winds up in the town’s United States Navy Base—and in a relationship with notorious womanizer Marine Sergeant Tyler Ford, who claims the relic came to him as a gift from his translator during the early days of the Iraq War. From two different worlds, Tyler and Carolyn become obsessed with the mysterious relic—and each other—until the origin of the art comes under intense scrutiny and reveals a darker side of Tyler’s past. Carolyn still feels like there’s more to the story, but can she risk attaching herself to another scandal—and does she truly know the man she’s fallen in love with? The Price of Inheritance is a rare find of a novel. Engaging, suspenseful, and full of intrigue, it delves into the elite world of big bucks deals and dangerous black market promises, where one woman must decide whether she’s willing to gamble her greatest asset—her heart.

Release date: August 5, 2014

Publisher: Washington Square Press

Print pages: 384

Sample

The Price of Inheritance

CHAPTER 1

It starts in my ears. A slight ringing that fades in and out like a faint Morse code signal. Then my heart takes off. It beats and thumps and pounds so loudly I’m sure the people next to me can hear it. I smile and laugh nervously. I think about reassuring the worried-looking man to my right that I’m sane; it’s just a little heart murmur and I’m not in need of a Xanax or an EKG. But nothing can stop the rush of adrenaline, anxiety, and animal-like sweating. My palms start to clam up, from the tips of my fingernails to my wrists. They become damp, soaking even, as the bids in the auction room start low—low in billionaire-speak—and soar up in minutes. I want to join them, calmly dishing out seven figures for that Chippendale armoire handmade by craftsmen in the eighteenth century, like it’s as routine as buying a latte. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to get the super-rich to buy, and as the room buzzes with the sound of moneyed voices, I know my job is almost done. But that doesn’t calm me down.

The bids rise as a waterfall of sweat swims down my back. I’m so sticky I could keep a fish alive in my shirt. I’m sure I look crazy, but I try to smile through my adventures in perspiration. The auctioneer’s sophisticated voice works its way rhythmically through the crowd and hands go up and down like a rich person’s version of Whac-A-Mole. Then, finally, only the most determined bidders wave their paddles in the air—some tentative, some powerful, others unnaturally relaxed as they bid with someone else’s money. Then, a pause. A single hand rises in the crowd, the auctioneer acknowledges the final bidder, and the hammer hesitates, then firmly falls. The mahogany hits the podium. And just like that, someone very rich and rather sentimental has spent millions of dollars, dirhams, yuan, or pounds on a painting, a table, a coin collection, dueling pistols, or an old pair of Kennedy underwear.

After ten years of the money-fueled adrenaline fest, I knew what to expect when I walked into the Christie’s saleroom in New York on September 13 at 6:30 P.M. As soon as my leather soles squeaked through the institution’s glass doors on the periphery of Rockefeller Center as a nineteen-year-old intern, I vowed to never leave Christie’s, and I hadn’t. For the last decade I’d been assisting, and then appraising and finally acquiring lamps in the shape of boats, clocks in the shape of birds, and desks made by men who loved powdered wigs. And all that—along with a few good connections—had led me to today.

The last time the famed Nicholas Brown Chippendale Mahogany Block-and-Shell Carved Desk-and-Bookcase sold at auction was in 1989 and it went for $12.1 million, a world auction record for American furniture. All the art journalists wrote about it. And everyone agreed that the desk, crafted by the Townsend-Goddard School of cabinetmaking in Newport, Rhode Island, was worth the astronomical price. There was plenty of buzz around the sale, and no one thought it would sell again for decades. But they were wrong.

Thanks to a tip about a family’s failed investments from a collector whom I’d worked with for years, I’d made two trips to the Cayman Islands in six months and one to Boston to convince Jack Davidson, the fickle heir of an old Massachusetts family, that yes indeed he should sell his prized desk to help pad his bank account. And I convinced him that only my distinguished place of employment, Christie’s, could get him a higher price than the eight figures he’d paid five years ago.

To keep Jack from contacting rival Sotheby’s while we wined and dined him, I’d immediately made a $12 million guarantee. Every dollar above $12 million that the piece brought in would be split by Jack, the seller, and us, the auction house. I’d also promised him prime placement on the cover of our September auction catalogue, skybox tickets to the Boston Red Sox, and a ninetieth birthday party for his father at the Christie’s headquarters in New York. I assured him that he and his third wife would be put up at the Plaza in the F. Scott Fitzgerald suite for the weekend, and that I’d personally take his youngest daughter to the American Girl store and to lunch at Delmonico’s. “Around strangers, she only eats condiments,” he’d warned, pushing back his dapper mop of brown hair and giving his diabolical seven-year-old daughter a wink and several packets of ketchup before heading back to the hotel.

Before I showed Jack the mockup of our catalogue—which I’d had the graphics department put together in twenty-four hours—I tied it with a linen bow handmade in Nantucket and spent thirty minutes starching and ironing it until it could barely be knotted. American furniture is mostly bought and sold by Americans. But this cabinet was a record breaker. I knew collectors in Russia, Asia, and the Middle East would be interested; it was something we had to have.

The courting we did in the American furniture department to woo estates was nothing compared to what went on in the bigger departments—Old Masters, Impressionist, Contemporary. I wanted Jack Davidson to build a relationship with Christie’s, and as soon as his beloved father, Paul Davidson, died, I wanted him to think of no one but Christie’s when he sold his estate. So a big-dollar promise was made and now I had to deliver on it. We both knew there was no guarantee I could keep my word. Worst-case scenario, it wouldn’t sell for $12 million and Christie’s would own the piece. I would be branded a failure and the next decade would see me selling plastic chairs in church parking lots.

I woke up on auction day in my tiny apartment on East Fifty-Ninth Street and pushed back the covers an hour before sunrise. I went through the same ritualistic motions on every big auction day as I tried to steady my racing mind. I picked up the New York Times and the front-page headline read: “Economy in shambles. Never spend another dime! Move to burgeoning New Delhi,” or something like that. But I was ignoring the pessimists. Those grizzly economists always saw the champagne glass half empty and there were lots of rich people left counting Bentleys and Picassos between their spoonfuls of fish eggs. I knew it was wrong to ask God for large sums of money to be spent on ludicrously expensive furniture, so I didn’t pray. Audibly, anyway. Instead, I walked. It was the same every time my department had an auction. My alarm went off at 5:30 A.M., I ate an entire bar of dark chocolate and three organic breath mints, and then I hit the pavement for an hour.

The morning of the desk auction, or Chippendale Day, as I’d been calling it during nervous phone calls to my therapist, I headed toward the park. I would start by strolling around the edge, the empty streets full of historic buildings inhabited by the extremely wealthy, and then, when the sun started to rise, I would turn into the park, watch the orange rays cover Manhattan, and sweat out a tiny portion of my nerves in the city’s cloud of green.

I walked twenty-three blocks, watched the yellow cabs race by, and climbed up and down the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. All I could think about was money. Specifically, $12.2 million. I’d be happy with that. Not thrilled, but happy. I sat down on the steps, letting the morning wind slap my pale face, and stretched out my arms. In the next hour, I would wash, dry, brush, powder, and paint myself into someone who looked like she knew what she was doing. I’d appear polished and intelligent. Someone who deserved to have the job title Senior Specialist, American Furniture and Decorative Arts; someone Christie’s was proud to have associated with their venerable name.

I thought back on the first full day I worked at Christie’s as an employee instead of an intern. I was twenty-one, I was terrified, but I knew much more about American furniture than your average college student. I was a little obsessed. I thought about getting a tattoo of a Chippendale drop-leaf dining table on my inner forearm. To me it said, Passion, Old World, Awesome. To my parents, it said Lunatic, Criminal, Antiquities Freak, so I never did it. But I was ready to. That’s how much I loved what I was doing. And maybe Christie’s had seen my obsession, which, combined with the fact that my grandparents were once a pretty big deal, led them to slap a secure entrance card in my hand and give me a desk and access to very expensive things.

In the nearly 250-year history of Christie’s, I was the youngest senior specialist ever to be employed by the American furniture department. And as much as my parents were disconcerted by the way I wanted to express my passion, it was a job that was in my bones.

All through my childhood, my mother, Laura Everett, taught American art history at Salve Regina University in Newport, and my father was an architect specializing in nineteenth-century restoration. My family liked old things. Most of the time we liked old things more than we liked each other. But no one was in Newport anymore. We were just three, my parents and me. My grandmother, Virginia Everett, lived with us until I was thirteen years old. My parents had me far too young, when they were just getting ready to devote their lives to PhDs and academia, and quickly concluded that they weren’t kid people. So my grandmother beckoned us from Boston to Newport and raised me while my parents focused on what really mattered to them—things without a pulse. It was clear to all of us by the time I could walk that I was happiest when I was in my grandmother’s arms. When she passed away from liver cancer the void she left was something even teenage freedom couldn’t fill. Our house, once booming with the sound of her thick Rhode Island accent and determined matronly ways, became very quiet. At thirteen, I was considered an adult by my parents, and they didn’t bother to fill the silence.

When I finished boarding school and was about to become a very nervous college freshman, my parents shipped back to Boston, home to a whole host of nineteenth-century buildings for them to have fits over. They abandoned our history and our little house with the green glass roof.

My heartbreak pushed me swiftly into studying ­nineteenth-century American architecture and decorative arts, which turned into my first job at Christie’s as a summer intern in the Valuations department. I got to handle not only American furniture but Renaissance art, Chinese scroll paintings, South American and Asian pottery, Middle Eastern artifacts, and a lot of massive diamonds. Before I had my Princeton diploma, Christie’s officially hired me in April of my senior year. As I was allowed to become more of an expert, everything else faded away until I was surrounded only with what I loved most, American history. I became a junior and eventually senior specialist in the American Furniture and Decorative Arts department. I loved old things, but I really loved old American things. And if they had been pieced together in Newport, I went into joyous cardiac arrest.

On the unseasonably chilly morning of the auction, the wind ripped through my thin jacket as I watched the vendors set up their carts. The summer’s ice cream and soda stands were slowly turning into New York’s fall street food—roasted nuts, salted pretzels—but everything else was the same: the I Love New York T-shirts, the mass-produced wall art, the mini plastic versions of the city’s iconic buildings. Mementos for normal people to enjoy.

I took in the five-dollar price tags as I thought about the hours in front of me. Was having an auction this close to the summer holidays a good thing or a terrible idea? Terrible idea. Was the senior director of my department going to have me done away with if I didn’t keep my $12 million promise? Absolutely. Death by old-world hands and an antique butcher knife was predicted. But I had to give a price guarantee to lure the cabinet out of a handsome house in Boston and onto our showroom floor. Everything we sold had a reserve price—we were never going to let Édouard Manets sell for a nickel—but pieces or collections we really wanted to acquire and keep away from Sotheby’s we gave a guaranteed price to. That’s just how it was done. Sometimes we even gave half the guarantee in advance so the seller could buy more porcelain dogs or whatever oddity they were coveting. My department knew that the $12 million I had given was very high, but collectors liked records, and it wasn’t going to break a record again unless it went past $12.1. There was money in the world and people wanted to spend it on well-crafted mahogany, I was sure. Funds from blood diamond sales, arms dealers, drug cartels—surely someone wanted to own the most expensive piece of American furniture in the world. And we weren’t picky! Money was money.

I needed to rope up some confidence. This was not doomsday, even if my central nervous system seemed to think so. This was a day I had worked very hard for. At one time, my family had an astronomical amount of money. When I was born, most of it was gone, but I grew up around enough millionaires to feel comfortable with wealth. That was the key to working with the extremely rich. They couldn’t intimidate you, scare you, or disgust you. You had to sit down to dinner with them and declare, “You paid eight hundred dollars for that haircut (that looks like it was done with a fork and gardening shears)? What a bargain! Your (pot dealer) child is taking seven years to graduate from Choate? There’s no hurry! You have a Queen Anne Carved Mahogany Armchair and want fifty thousand for it? Of course, totally possible, more than happy to discuss.”

It wasn’t normal life. The people were rich and crazy, the men were pompous, the women were vain, and everyone wanted to win in front of an audience. If no one was watching then it wasn’t worth it at all, which is why the filthy rich always bought at auction. I absolutely loved it.

I had reached my salary high at Christie’s this year: $85,000. Many of our buyers made that in a day, but I would have done my job for much less. When I started at the auction house, thanks to connections and solid grades at an Ivy, I made $20,000 a year and had to live in a friend’s home office. My bed was so close to her power shredder that I slept with shoes on, just in case. But I’d moved up quickly by consigning the right collections. During non-auction weeks, I spent my workdays putting together catalogues, researching provenance and doing appraisals, sourcing pieces, working on client relationships, and trying to stay on the winning side of our duopoly with Sotheby’s.

Now, even when the art market, especially American decorative arts, was shaky, I was still managing to bring in big collections, and that was partially because my late grandfather was Marlin Everett, whose grandfather first came to Newport for the summers after his father made a pretty penny in New York working in steel manufacturing. He, along with Andrew Carnegie, was a key investor in the mass production of American steel through the Bessemer process, brought over from Britain. My grandmother, Virginia Everett, served as chair of the Red Cross Ball three times in a row. I liked to think it wasn’t the only reason I was at Christie’s, but I knew it helped. At all the major auction houses, your relationships mattered enormously. They cared about your last name, your mother’s maiden name, your parents’ bank accounts, how many millions your grandparents had, and where your biological tentacles reached all over the country. They asked you about private club memberships, university club memberships, and when they were done grilling you, they did it all again in French, and maybe Italian or Mandarin, too.

Just before my first day of work, when I was deciding on which black dress out of fifteen nearly identical black dresses to wear, a family friend who had worked at Christie’s but had left to run a gallery put her hand on my shoulder, pointed to the plainest one, and said, “It’s not Vogue. It’s brain wars.” She sat down on my bed—thin, polished, a patrician profile and professionally straightened hair—and kicked off her Prada loafers. “People don’t collect bags; they collect foreign languages, dialects, degrees, and academic papers. They know everything about their collectors—their favorite foods, their birthdays, what perfume they wear, how their parents died, any diseases in the family that might kill them off and when. I can tell you the projected life expectancy for every cancer diagnosis. You have to know which collection could move when and be in front of it. At Princeton you were very smart, but at Christie’s you’ll feel awfully stupid. Good luck.” I had eaten three Sprinkles cupcakes and cried that night. And she had been right, in a way. Every person at Christie’s had gray matter for days. They argued in Russian, coaxed clients in Japanese, and did interviews for Le Monde while walking around the Met with former spies who were now premier experts on Fabergé eggs. But that wasn’t all. Your academic knowledge of art was impor­tant, but equally important was your ability to get close to the right people and schmooze. Some hated that reality, but I thrived on it. Except for right now.

On my way home, I tried counting how many auctions I’d attended since I started at Christie’s. My department, American Furniture and Decorative Arts, was small, but going to auctions of any kind—numismatics, weaponry, wine, ceramics—was encouraged and I’d been slipping in and out of them for a decade. Auction day should no longer be intimidating, but when it was mine, it was—every single time.

My professional integrity, and possibly my career, was on the line. If the desk didn’t make the guarantee, the sale would become known as the greatest missed opportunity our department had ever had. If it went past $12.1 million, it would be our most important sale in the past twenty years. I felt strangled by the pressure but there was nothing I could do now but chew handfuls of Klonopin, freebase espresso, and cry in the fetal position. The catalogues were printed, we’d shown the works, the sellers were ready to buy, and all I had to do was carry on getting dressed, dry my hair, finish putting on makeup, and pray for my anxiety to fade away. Holding on to the towel rack, I looked at myself in the mirror and flashed a big fake smile. Why were my teeth so small? I looked like someone who only ate candy and had rotted away her bicuspids. And my eyes were very brown, a unique shade of polluted swamp brown. I picked up my brush and straightener and ironed my blond hair to near perfection. My hair was long and extremely light, which was good for being spotted in a crowd or attracting men with a love of Renaissance fairs or the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. I once went out with a photographer who loved to take my picture and yell, “You’re so elfin! A woodland sprite goddess!” He didn’t seem to mind that my coloring was Children of the Corn, and neither did anyone at Christie’s. I did everything that I could to stand out, to be memorable, the one people called when they wanted to break records. I’d even had a perfume mixed by the most famous nose in Grasse, which was partially made from ground money in several global currencies. “You will actually be wearing the smell of money,” he’d announced, and I’d been spraying it on religiously for a decade. Some might call it over-the-top; my boss deemed it ingenious.

•••

Twenty Rockefeller Plaza: the intimidating address where Christie’s has ruled the auction world since it moved out of its smaller Park Avenue offices in 1997. My workday, getting ready for the evening sale, was going to be hell. But at least hell was located in a very nice building. At first, I had trouble associating Rockefeller Plaza with anything but ice-skating in December and the country’s best Christmas tree, but after I first walked into the Christie’s office in 2004, a nervous college intern, Rockefeller Plaza would mean nothing to me but Christie’s. I was destined to become one of those high-powered, brilliant women who threw out words like “figural marquetry techniques” before heading off with my fellow artistic geniuses to the Waldorf Astoria to drink highballs and discuss the ongoing crisis in the Middle East. “It’s awfully awful!” I’d say before handfuls of millionaires stopped by our table for fashionable tête-à-têtes.

“Good evening, Carolyn. Happy Chippendale Day,” John, the building’s head of security, whispered to me with a smile as I finally made my way from our offices to the auction room, checked in, and tried not to faint directly into his arms.

“Yes! It’s going to be exciting,” I said, unbuttoning my blazer.

“You’ll be fine and it will be exciting,” John replied, and I tried to smile in agreement. He was right, it would be exciting, because I was going to die. “It was art that killed her,” they’d declare before speedily donating all my organs to people with apartments full of West Elm bookcases.

Deciding not to check in with our chairman, but go straight to the auction, I walked inside and headed for the very back, where it was standing room only. My colleague Nicole Grant, a direct descendant of Ulysses S. Grant and junior specialist in American furniture, was already there, leaning nervously against the wall. She waved me over with a polite twist of her thin wrist.

“Carolyn, it’s time,” she whispered as I made my way through the crowd. “Your crowning moment! You look beautiful. Like you’re made of snowflakes. Are you nervous? Don’t be nervous, because I’m nervous for you. I’ve been scoping the crowd for half an hour and there are some major players here. Victor Wong. Peter Rensselaer from the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. I think I saw Bridget Donahue, too. How come you didn’t come down early?”

“Because I would have marched up to every single person and demanded to know their net worth. I am not sane right now. I can’t be trusted in a public place.”

Nicole smiled supportively.

“I think you’ll at least match. Twelve-point-one million.”

“You know I can’t have it just match,” I said, trying to keep from shrieking. Nicole was the most junior person in our small department but she understood the stakes. If the price for the Chippendale didn’t exceed its previous selling price of $12.1 million, my brilliant moment would be stained forever with the words “Americana worth nothing. Sell immediately. Economic downturn proves fatal. Carolyn Everett to blame. Will be beheaded at dawn.” And all those trips trying to rationalize with a very eccentric seller would be for naught. Though we’d been preparing this auction for months, each lot would get only thirty seconds to five minutes of bidding time—an exceptionally short amount of time for someone to spend $12.2 million—and the whole evening sale would last just over two hours.

I stood motionless next to Nicole as the remaining potential bidders filed into the room. The noise of the crowd swelled as we approached the start of the auction—the chatter and air kisses, the adrenaline increasing everyone’s pulse. The first lot of the day, a sideboard built in Newport by the school of Thomas Howard Jr., went on the auction block and Nicole and I listened as the lower-dollar bids rose past the reserve and then finally neared an end. We always packed the front of an auction with some of the more valuable pieces, then moved to lower-priced objects before the high-dollar pieces. The prices rose and fell like a heart monitor, but you had to warm people up and get them ready to empty their wallets with a little help from the civilized thrill of the chase.

One more sideboard, an end table, three desks, and two sets of priceless side chairs, which suddenly had prices, were sold. Eight lots down, twenty-one left, but suddenly no one cared about anything except the Super Bowl of American decorative arts, Lot 30.

The esteemed Olivier Burnell was calling the auction, something he’d been doing for Christie’s for the last twenty-three years. I half listened to him as he finished Lot 29, and then I sucked in my breath and held on to Nicole’s wrist for support as he announced either the apex or downfall of my career, lot number 30.

“Lot number thirty is the Nicholas Brown Chippendale. The Mahogany Block-and-Shell Carved Desk-and-Bookcase,” he said calmly, his perfect British accent pronouncing each word as precisely as a translator. “Showing on your far right and as described and illustrated in your catalogues. Lot thirty,” he repeated. Without pausing for breath, he started the bidding.

“Now five million dollars to start. Five million. Five million dollars.” I crossed my legs so tight that my right ankle started to seize and I accidentally kicked a bald man in front of me so hard that he jumped up like he’d been launched out of a cannon. Olivier almost mistook him for a bidder. “So sorry,” I muttered quietly just as the auctioneer’s voice rose and sped up like a posh version of a man selling a pig at a county fair.

“Five million five hundred thousand . . . six million now. Six million dollars . . . six million five hundred thousand. Against you here at six million five hundred thousand . . . now seven million dollars. In a new place with Michael now.”

Olivier pointed to one of the Christie’s employees taking phone bids on the far right-hand side of the room.

“The gentleman in the center. Now on this telephone here. Now in the room, this side,” said Olivier, pointing. “New bidder now in the room at eight million five hundred thousand, against the telephones now, gentleman’s bid here,” he said, moving his eyes expertly across the crowd.

“Against you Agnes now,” he said, looking toward the phones at one of our Russian speakers, who was covering her mouth with paper to make her conversation totally anonymous.

“In the saleroom, and against you here,” said Olivier as Agnes’s bidder kept going against the room. “Now yours here up front at eight million five hundred thousand,” said Olivier as the bids sailed past $9 million.

Olivier swept his arm across the space where two different men in the center left of the room were bidding. Another phone bidder went up with a colleague who spoke Mandarin, and then the bids moved quickly back to the crowd. While some governments had strict laws about keeping their country’s heirlooms at home, the United States didn’t care. If you had money, you could buy our stuff and take it out of the country, even if you lived in Sichuan Province.

“In the room now at nine million five hundred thousand dollars,” Olivier declared quickly, scanning for new hands. I needed just three million more. A tiny, paltry little three million. I closed my eyes, praying that when I opened them a passionate billionaire with five black AmEx cards and tears of joy in his eyes would appear and announce his love for eighteenth-century American furniture. Instead, I opened my eyes and felt like I’d developed cataracts. Nicole looked at me like I was taking my final breaths.

“Are you okay?” she said, leaning over and gripping my right hand. “Are you always this hot?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Poor circulation due to childhood illness. Polio,” I whispered back.

“You had polio?” she said, clearly imagining my painful childhood spent as a clone of FDR.

“Sorry, not polio, I meant pox. Like chicken. Chicken pox.”

My tongue now had a mind of its own. Next I was going to declare myself the illegitimate ruler of France. I felt one step away from a supersonic meltdown. And, as Nicole soon pointed out, a real problem with hives.

“You look like you have enormous hickeys all over your face,” she said, physically recoiling.

“I know, I know,” I said, reaching in my bag and taking out my foundation. “It will go down as soon as this auction’s over.” I opened my purse again and popped three Benadryl and did a few of the breathing exercises that I’d learned in my Virgin Airlines Flying Without F