The Art of Stealing Forever (4 page)

St.
Clair winces but takes a step toward me. “Everything
I said about my feelings for you was real. I never lied about that.”
He
takes another step and my breath catches at his nearness. “I
love you, Grace. And if you let me, I can show you what this all
really means.”

I
frown. “What
are you talking about?”

“Will
you take a trip with me so you can see why I do this?”
He
hands me the roses and I inhale their sweet perfume. Roses have
thorns but that doesn’t
make them evil. St. Clair looks at me, his blue eyes yearning, “I
want you to know me, to understand. Please?”

I
pause, but my resolve is weakening. He’s
not hiding anymore: he’s
finally opening up.

“I’ll
give you one more chance. One chance to explain everything. But
that’s
all, Charles. It has to be.”

The
first thing the next morning, St. Clair arrives in his sports car
outside my flat.

He
opens the door for me. “After
you, m’lady,”
he
says in an attempt to lighten the mood, but I can barely crack a
smile there’s
so much weighing on my mind.

We
drive through London, going north, I think, although the streets are
still all a foreign blur to me. I’ve
barely been in the country for two weeks, and it feels like no time
at all.

I
look over at St. Clair behind the wheel. He seems nervous, and for
some reason, that thought makes me feel better. This matters to him,
so maybe
I
matter,
too.

After
the city landscapes have shifted into more residential streets with
tree branches stretching across the narrower roads, St. Clair turns
onto a cul-de-sac lined with shady oaks and lots of rose bushes.

“Here
we are.”
He
pulls into the driveway of a cute stone cottage nearly hidden behind
a blooming garden full of bushy plants and wild mint and towering
wildflowers. I see the curtains in the front window move.

“Where
are we?”
I ask, getting out of the car.

“Hampstead.”

I
give him a look. “You
know what I mean.”

He
gives me a hesitant smile. “You
want to know more about…what
I do. So, I thought I’d
show you.”

I
glance at the cottage, then back at St. Clair. That doesn’t
explain anything.

We
walk up the winding stone path, stepping on dozens of fallen petals
like colorful natural confetti, and I wonder who lives here: who
could possibly make me change my mind about him.

St.
Clair knocks, and immediately the wooden door opens to reveal an
older woman. She’s
in her eighties, maybe, with a shock of grey hair and a thick knitted
cardigan.

“Charlie,”
she beams, speaking with a thick European accent. “You’re
right on time.”

“I
never keep a lady waiting.”
St.
Clair lifts her hand to his lips in a polite greeting.

“Greta,
this is my friend, Grace. The one I told you about.”

“Ah,
yes.” Greta
looks me over, her sharp stare missing nothing, despite her age. She
finally gives a small nod of what I hope is approval, and stands
aside. “Please.
Come in.”

Greta
leads us into her sitting room, a small but warm space stuffed to the
brim with antique couches, threadbare rugs and old clocks. And there,
on her wooden mantel, along with lots of framed family photos, sits a
very familiar painting.

I
stop, shocked. It’s
the painting St. Clair stole from the museum in San Francisco.

Greta
chuckles at my expression. “Beautiful,
isn’t
it?” she
says. “Sit,
sit. I’ll
get the tea.”
She
walks away slowly, leaving us alone.

I
move closer to the mantle, drawn to examine it more closely. It can’t
be. But I quickly realize it’s
not a reproduction, it’s
the real deal, just as I thought
– a
few thousand miles from where it was last seen.

“You
took it,”
I
say softly. If I had any remaining doubts about St. Clair’s
thieving, they’re
gone now. He’s
made a whole life out of doing this. It’s
who he is. And it will never stop.

St.
Clair nods.

“Why
this one?”

“I’ll
let Greta tell you all about it.”
He
gives me a smile, but he’s
tapping his fingers restlessly on the table, still anxious and
jittery.

I
realize what a risk he’s
taking here: I could already be working with Lennox, and he’s
led me straight to evidence of his crimes. But his trust in me is
heartening; it makes me believe that he really is telling the truth
now.

Greta
returns with a tray of tea things, and St. Clair immediately leaps to
take it from her and set it on the coffee table. Greta slowly lowers
herself into an old armchair, and then bats away St. Clair’s
hands to pour.

When
we’re
all seated with mismatched china cups of tea, St. Clair nods to
Greta. “I
told Grace you would explain to her about the painting, and how I
came to retrieve it for you.”

“Are
you sure?”
she
checks, but St. Clair nods.

“Please.
I’d
like her to know.”

Greta
takes a deep breath. “It’s
not an uncommon story, I’m
afraid. I grew up in Germany, with my family, and then, well, the war
came. When I was still in grade school, I was sent to live with my
aunt and uncle here in England, but the rest of my family weren’t
so lucky. They were taken, sent to the camps, and eventually killed.”
Her
voice is steady, despite the horror she’s
describing. “All
our possessions, every single thing we owned, was looted. The Nazis
took anything of value themselves, to furnish their war-rooms and the
houses of the top generals. They wouldn’t
allow any of the artwork to be hung in public, but it was more than
good enough for their own collections.”
She
snorts with disdain, and I see her gnarled hand curl into a fist in
her lap. I feel anger at her loss, at the losses that so many
suffered, and I have to hold back from reaching for Greta’s
hand.

“When
the writing was on the wall, and they knew they were losing the war,
the Nazis sent the most valuable items out of the country –
to
the Swiss vaults, or South America. Millions in stolen art and
heirlooms just disappeared into the ether, to be profited on by
future generations. Title deeds were forged or mislaid. What was left
of my family tried to make claims, for compensation, but without
documentation there was nothing to be done. And then, last year, I
got word that this painting had surfaced in America. Can you
imagine?”
she
asks. “The
prized painting that had sat on the mantel in my family home when I
was a girl—one
of the few things of any value that we owned, passed down through
generations—now
hanging in a gallery in San Francisco.”

I’m
enraptured by her story. “Did
you try to get it back?”
I ask.
“Did
you tell them it was yours, that it had been taken without
permission?”

She
shakes her head. “I
did, dear. I went through all the legal channels. But without title
deeds or pictures, or really any proof other than my memory and my
word, the owners refused.”
She
sighs. “I
was heartbroken.’

I
look to St. Clair. “How
did you meet?”

“Through
mutual friends,”
Greta
says. “They
suggested he could help me with my legal troubles. We discussed the
options in the courts, but it seemed like hope was lost. I resigned
myself to never possessing that painting again, but he told me to
have faith.”
She
gives St. Clair a fond look. “And
then, a few weeks ago, I got a delivery.”
She
has tears in her eyes, of joy and gratitude. “It
was like getting a small piece of my family back.”

I’m
tearing up, too, and Greta hands me a handkerchief. I take it, wipe
my eyes. “I’m
so sorry for all you went through,”
I say.

She
nods. “This
young man proved to me that no matter what happens, there is still
beauty in this world. Because true beauty endures,”
Greta
adds, her face full of the wisdom of many years, a lifetime of
experiences, good and bad. “Just
like love.”

We
leave Greta’s
after tea, and drive back into the city. I’m
lost in thought, there’s
so much to process. Seeing Greta, hearing her story, I can understand
for the first time why St. Clair strayed outside the boundaries of
the law. He did something good for that woman and the memory of her
family, even if Lennox and the authorities would disagree.

But
if he’s
not just a simple criminal, what does that mean for me?

For
us?

Finally
we arrive in front of my flat in Notting Hill, the cute little blue
building I was so thrilled to enter for the first time. It felt like
an adventure. For a sheltered girl who had never even left the
country before, living abroad was a big deal. If only I could go back
and tell that Grace, “Just
you wait.”

Instead
of parking, St. Clair idles the engine. “I
hope today helped you understand,”
he
says. “I
want you to see, Grace, I’m
not doing this to hurt anyone. The legal channels available to
people…they
rarely work the way we want them to. I try to do the right thing.”

I
take a deep breath. It’s
the middle of the day, and there are people all around us on the
street. I’m
not ready to end this conversation just yet. “Come
up?” I
ask. “We
can talk some more. Just talk,”
I
add.

St.
Clair nods. “Anything
you want.”

Inside
my homey flat, I brew us another pot of tea—I’m
becoming so British—and
start a fire in the fireplace. Upstairs, I sit across from him on the
sofa, still not trusting my body to be too close to his.

His
perfectly sculpted features look tired, making him look more
vulnerable, younger. I want to swoop him up in my arms and snuggle
him, forget all of this. But we have to have this talk. I need to
know where we stand.

St.
Clair watches me, careful.
“So
do you understand now? Why I do it?”

“I
think I do,”
I
say slowly. “But
that doesn’t
change the fact that you’re
stealing from people, and breaking the law. Sooner or later, that’s
going to catch up with you. What happens to us then?”
I
ask, my voice twisting. “You’ll
go to jail, and maybe I will too.”

“That
won’t
happen.”
St.
Clair takes my hand, reassuring.

I
pull it away. “You
can’t
promise that. Lennox is on your trail now, and getting closer. And
I’ll
never know where you are, what you’re
doing, and if—when—you
get caught—”

“Grace—”

“I
just can’t
think about building a life with someone on those terms—always
waiting for the axe to fall, for you to be taken away from me.”
My
voice cracks and I can feel the lump rising in my throat. “I’ve
lost too many people already; I can’t
lose you too.”

St.
Clair’s
face splits in a huge smile.

“Do
you think this is funny?”
I
can feel anger rising up alongside the hurt. “I’m
being serious.”

His
grin doesn’t
falter. I’m
talking about life or death hypotheticals and he looks like he just
won the lottery. “You
think about building a future with me?”
he
says. “Really?”

I
relax a little. “Of
course,” I
admit. “I
love you, you know.”

He
looks down, reaches his hand out again and sets it halfway between
us. “I
was afraid you’d
changed your mind,”
he
admits.

“I
wanted to. God, I wish I could have just marched out of here and gone
straight to the police, but it’s
not that easy.”
Now
I’m
the one to take his hand, and twine our fingers together. I place the
knot against my chest, against my heart. “I
guess I’m
learning the world isn’t
just black and white anymore. I can love you, and be mad as hell at
you for taking these risks, too. That’s
why I’m
so worried about you.”
Tears
well up in my eyes, but I try to blink them back. “I
can’t
even stand the
idea
of something happening to you. I already lost my mom, and I know I
didn’t
know my dad, but he left me, too, and if you got arrested and ended
up in some foreign prison being tortured or got shot by police
running from a heist…”
My
voice breaks and a hot tear spills down my cheek.

“Sweetheart,
it’s
okay.” He
closes the distance between us in a heartbeat and wraps his arms
around me. I let myself be held, sink into the strength of his
embrace.

I
whisper into his chest, “It’s
just too much, Charles. I can’t
do it, not like this. I’m
sorry.”

I
feel him take a deep breath. I brace myself, ready for the beginning
of the end. God, this is going to hurt like hell.

Then
St. Clair’s
voice comes, strong and certain. “So
I’ll
stop.”

I
sit up straight as an arrow. “What?”

St.
Clair looks back at me, his gaze steady and warm. “You’re
right—this
life I lead doesn’t
have a future. And I want one. With you.”

Wait.
I can’t
believe it. Is this for real?

I’m
getting another flash of the
‘this-is-too-good-to-be-true-so-he-must-be-lying’
fear. I stare at him, try to see behind his charm. “Is
this another line you think I want to hear?”
I
ask, afraid he’s
just hoping and may not be able to follow through. “Can
you really give up the thrill, the challenge, the…opportunity
to right the wrongs?”

“I
guess I’ll
just have to find another way to get my thrills.”
His
eyes rake suggestively over my body, but I’m
not so easily convinced by his teasing. This is serious.

“But
what about helping people –
I
thought that was the reason you were doing all this in the first
place.”

He
leans in so his forehead rests against mine, our noses touching.
“Grace.
You are more important to me than any masterpiece or adrenaline rush
could ever be. From now on, no more robberies. I’ll
be a good, law-abiding citizen, I swear it. Please trust me.”