Page 13 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
That made him happy.
That made me happy.
That made the buyers happy.
It was our last big coup.
“You’re reinstating Pizza Friday?” I offer, since I can’t let myself want more than that. I’ve learned that hope is a Chippendale dancer. It sashays to the front of the stage, ripping off clothes, revealing carved muscles, making you salivate, then it struts away, leaving you with only a wagging tongue.
Daniel laughs. “That’s a damn fine idea. Maybe I will start that up again. Even add in a pick-your-own-topping contest.”
“Go for cheese. People think pizza needs to be covered in mushrooms or artichokes or, ugh, figs. Real aficionados know nothing beats the simplicity of cheese.”
He points at me like a proud papa. “Pizza and American antiquities. Your expertise is boundless.”
I nod playfully, hoping I can indeed walk out of here with the promise of a cheese pie. Pizza makes bad days better.
He takes a breath, a signal that he’s shifting gears. “I just got a phone call from a new client. A very good client. It might help us gain some ground we lost.”
Competition has been breathing down our neck. Online auctions are gaining steam, and we don’t have the same cachet as we did when Daniel’s father started this place, growing it into a worthy option next to Christie’s and Sotheby’s. Trouble is, as the auction business has contracted, so has ours, more than others. We desperately need exciting opportunities, ones that give us a chance to prove our worth.
“Is it those Strads found in the basement of an opera singer’s home?” I ask, because the big rumor these days is that a soprano with the voice of an angel plans to auction a collection of violins.
“No. This is better.”
I sit up ramrod straight, my interest dialed up to one thousand. “Better than Pizza Friday and a collection of Strads? What, are there Honus Wagner baseball cards nestled inside the instruments?”
“Ha, that would be a good one.” He clears the laughter from his throat and picks up his tablet, opening it and angling it to show me a grainy shot taken years ago of a gorgeous, stately home. When he slides over contemporary photos of the same house, I recognize it.
“That’s the—”
“The Valentina estate,” he finishes reverently.
Chills run down my spine. “Valentina as in Edward Valentina?”
He nods with glee. “One of the greatest adventurers the world has ever known. These modern-day fools can’t hold a candle to him.”
“They can’t. Not at all. Not one bit.” I’m bursting with possibility, because any good American historian knows of Edward Valentina, one of those wealthy, well-regarded early twentieth-century businessmen of the Gatsby era. Or at least we know of Valentina’s accomplishments after the age of thirty, when he ran a number of successful businesses, mostly banking and finance.
His early years are a mystery.
“When he founded the Exploration Society, it changed the game for explorers.”
“Yes, with his wife, Greta, and—what was that chap’s name? The circus guy who was also an explorer.”
“Jack Caribaldi,” I replied, not surprised by his memory lapse, since Jack’s more well-known for his family business, Caribaldi’s Extravaganza, a traveling circus more like Cirque du Soleil than Ringling Bros. Supposedly, his circus earnings funded his share of the expeditions he undertook. Then the Caribaldis and Valentinas together invested in about a half dozen theaters on Broadway.
“Exactly. That’s why I thought of you. You know Valentina’s background, and his house is your specialty. The family hired us specifically to catalog the remaining contents of the home. Much of it has been sorted already, but there should still be some valuable things we can auction for them.”
That’s a dream assignment, and I can barely grasp that he’s offering it to me. “Does anyone live there anymore?” I say, asking the most rudimentary of questions as my brain says Holy hell, oh my God, this could be fantastic.
“The grandchildren moved out a while ago. Joseph and Corinne. But they’ve given us the go-ahead to start. The home is empty, and a caretaker can let you in. I’m estimating it’s a two- to three-day project.”
“Do we know what sort of valuables are left in the house?”
“Supposedly a few items from the Exploration Society, possibly some maps, perhaps artifacts he uncovered on his expeditions, as well as paintings, photographs, prints, and a desk with secret compartments.” His eyes twinkle with delight.
“I love the way furniture was built centuries ago with all sorts of hiding places.”
“Indeed. It could be a treasure trove.” He leans back in his chair, a grin commanding his face. Daniel has only ever wanted this auction house to succeed again. I can tell that’s what he thinks he’s latched onto—the chance to put this company back on the map. “And I want you to lead the project.”
I nearly bounce out of my chair. This is not a Chippendale dancer. This is the full package, the whole banana, and I want to sink my teeth into it right now. Digging through history is my great love. “I’d be honored.” I am honored and grateful and still wonder-struck by this tremendous opportunity.
