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Whitcombe Collection — Final Confirmation

I open it.

The message is brief and copied to the appropriate members of the archive team, Trust counsel, and Charlotte Whitcombe’s representatives. The final approvals are complete. The documentation connected to the painting and the Art Deco brooch has been accepted, the remaining transfer papers are being circulated for signature, and Charlotte has confirmed that she is satisfied with the resolution.

I read the email twice.

Five weeks of work have come down to less than a page.

My first thought is Blaire.

I pick up my phone.

Ross: I saw the final confirmation. Congratulations. Job well done.

Her response comes several minutes later.

Blaire: Thank you. It’s been a hectic few days, but Mrs. Whitcombe is happy with the outcome. That’s what matters.

I smile slightly.

Ross: Then you should celebrate. Have dinner with me tonight.

This time, her answer takes longer.

Blaire: I still have some things to finish at the archive.

I look at the clock.

Ross: Six-thirty? There’s a restaurant a few minutes from you.

Another pause follows before my phone lights again.

Blaire: Okay. Six-thirty works.

There is nothing wrong with the message.

Still, I read it once more before setting the phone down.

The last several days have been busy for both of us, and I have seen less of her since we returned from the Cotswolds than I would have liked. I have attributed most of that to the Whitcombe project reaching its final stage and the work waiting for me at Kensington Holdings.

Tonight, that excuse is gone.

I return to the documents on my desk and force my attention back to work. The rest of the afternoon fills quickly with financing decisions, New York calls, and a review that should have been finished yesterday. At six, I close the final file in front of me and reach for my jacket as I head out.

Blaire is already seated when I arrive at the restaurant. She is wearing a dark fitted dress beneath a tailored coat, her hair loose around her shoulders, and for the first few seconds after I see her, I forget the entire reason I suggested dinner was to celebrate the end of the Whitcombe project.

I cross the room and lean down to kiss her. The kiss is brief. She returns it, but there is a restraint in her that I notice immediately.

“Congratulations again,” I say as I take the chair across from her.

“You earned this one.”

“Thank you,” Blaire replies.

“It was more complicated than it needed to be at the end, but Mrs. Whitcombe got what she wanted.”

A server approaches before I can answer. We order wine and dinner, and once we’re alone again, Blaire gives me the concise version of the final stage of the transaction.