Reckless Harvest

9781483506777

Chapter One

"Il n'est rien de réel que le rêve et l'amour "

Nothing is real but dreams and love

- Anna de Noailles

It hadn’t magically disappeared. This wasn’t a dream. There it was, Lydia’s latest and greatest success, sensational enough to merit a major spread in the newspaper of record, the New York Times Sunday Edition, headlining the lifestyle section with pictures galore. She’d read it twice already and the giddiness was still with her.

Montana girl makes good, she thought. Real good. Lydia turned back the pages and began again from the top. The article was correct in almost every detail, describing her yearlong search for a long lost 20th century icon. She had succeeded where many others before her had failed. And there it was, the prize, the holy grail of the modern age, captured in a rare color photograph decorating page 11B. The special edition Porsche roadster driven by Steve McQueen in the movie 24 Hours at Le Mans. Only a handful had ever been produced, making the vehicle a rare collector’s item in and of itself. But Lydia’s query carried the added aura of having as its pilot the sheer embodiment of 20th century masculinity and that made it priceless. Now there is a man, she thought. Lydia discovered the car in mint condition in a decrepit, abandoned dairy stall surrounded by broken Cyprus trees in a desolate corner of Provence in the south of France, her search financed by an eclectic Internet billionaire with money to burn and a passion for very exclusive trophies. The ecstatic client was now having it painstakingly restored, paying tens of thousands of dollars to reproduce worn out parts that Porsche hadn’t produced in thirty-five years. The NYT went on about how the one of a kind machine magically disappeared after filming was completed in 1968 and auto fanatics had been searching for it ever since. But she had found it.

Re-reading the article, Lydia was surprised at how romantic and exciting it appeared—the travel, the dogged search and the privileged world of European motor racing. Funny, she thought. For every hour I spent in a luxury hotel, I spent twenty up to my elbows in grease, grime and grunge, following up innocuous clues in junkyards, garages and tired old race courses all over France. Add in the weeks of research in musty archives, the countless hours spent pouring over Internet sites, the leads that went nowhere, the frauds, the seedy charlatans of the 1% crowd...and the glamour seemed to dry up and disappear. Glamorous.... she chuckled tiredly, as she studied a grease stained crevice in her fingernail. How many days would it take to get rid of it this time, she thought?

Speed reading through the rest of the article, she was satisfied that most of the facts were accurate. If you can’t trust the Old Grey Lady, whom can you trust? she mused. As she skimmed to the end, she knew that one fact would forever be left out. Her name. Anonymity and restraint were a fundamental dictate and service of Finders LLC, a company she built from scratch and bitterness and very hard work. Most of her clients were eager to avoid the spotlight and the last thing they wanted was publicity of this kind. With the exception of a certain media-obsessed Internet mogul, she thought. And though she’d cooperated with the NYT correspondent, she did so only after an ironclad guarantee that she would remain nameless. Lydia accepted work only through referrals now, all the more reason to respect her clients’ wishes for discretion, but she was happy with the quote used to end the article. She can find anyone or anything at any time, it read. Except for a man, Lydia quipped, carelessly tossing the newspaper into a puddle of water on the porcelain tiles of her bathroom floor.

Lydia sank back down into the bathtub, letting the warm, soapy water form a circle around her chin, careful not to dampen her long, straight hair. She closed her eyes, allowing her thoughts to drift to the coming evening and the vague disappointment she felt. Happy to see her best and dearest friend Kristin again after months of separation, Lydia was bummed she was being invited to what boiled down to a blind date, no matter how hard Kristin tried to sell it as a business dinner.

Eyes closed, Lydia went through her mental Rolodex, picturing the honor roll of doctors, lawyers, TV news anchors, business titans and musicians that Kristin had tried to match her with over the past few years. In varying degrees they were all handsome, intelligent, witty, successful, courteous...and wrong for her she thought as she turned the faucet to add warm water.

As if on cue her I-Phone vibrated silently on the windowsill. Text Message. ‘Hey, if you’re in town let me know, we could hang out...’ It was Florian again. God, she thought, what ever happened to actually asking a girl for a date? She restrained herself from replying, ‘shave your trendy-two-day beard and grow a pair first.’ Instead she threw the phone aside and sank back beneath the bubbles, meditating. The few men she’d actually felt attracted to since moving to New York hadn’t shown much interest in her, probably because she wasn’t up to their stunning-supermodel fantasies. Lydia sighed. She loved The City, it was her home now, about as far removed as you could get from Wisdom, Montana and the ranch she grew up on. Maybe you really couldn’t take the country out of the cowgirl. She’d never undergone a Pygmalion personality makeover, wasn’t much for irony and nuance. Frank honesty and no nonsense were inherited traits that contributed to her professional success, but as for her social life...if not the truth then at least bite your tongue, she thought. Kristin’s mantra that most men feared the combination of feminine beauty, professional success and intelligence was cliché-ridden to be sure, but perhaps there was a kernel of truth to it. Still, she allowed herself a secret smile. Tonight she would go all out to accentuate the positive. If I’m not beautiful, she thought, at least I can dress beautifully, country girl or not.

Treating herself to a shopping spree after each successful find had become a ritual and this time she’d stopped over in Milano for a weekend of outrageous self-indulgence. Well...indulgence for her. Her mother had always told her it was better to have one splendid dress in the closet than five bargain basement buys for the same price. This time she bought two spectacular statements, both by Alberta Ferretti. You’ll snap some necks with these, the saleslady promised. The indulgence was fueled by a slow burning desire to finally lay claim to her very own personal style. It wasn’t new, rather a finely honed minimalist look grounded in the timelessness of the classics. She could still see the quote in bright red lipstick on her bedroom mirror, written when she was sixteen, Fashion fades, only style remains the same.—Coco. Coco Chanel, the patron saint of haute couture, she reflected. Buoyed by the thought of slipping into her new favorite, she was aware that she was putting more effort into her appearance tonight than she’d allowed herself since...well, don’t let those memories ruin everything again, she reminded herself. It had been four years, time to quit thinking about it. It’s a simple invitation, she thought. A favor for your friends, make the best of it.

Reluctantly, Lydia broke out of her warm, soapy cocoon and into a textured linen towel. Time for the butterfly effect, she thought. The balconette bra and La Perla undies felt smoothly sensuous against her skin as she rolled the sheer stockings carefully over her knobby knees. But the Ferretti, she knew, provided the icing on this cake, an elegant dark gray evening dress that accented her eyes perfectly.

Lydia slipped into her heels and frowned as she did a final check in the mirror. She didn’t recall the dress being so...well, revealing, when she’d tried it on in Milano. You can screw a pipe onto a horse’s head but that still doesn’t make it a unicorn, she thought, chuckling despite herself at one of her father’s many platitudes. The thought of her father instantaneously brought back the yearning she’d been feeling for some time, of turning her back on The City and heading back to the ranch, the very wellspring of her strength, a place where guys had still had names like Randy and Justin and Tex and who weren’t afraid of being turned down for a date. She hadn’t been home in over a year and the realization only intensified her longing. Well, nothing she could do about it now. She was due at the Jaeger home in thirty minutes.

Lydia could hear the screaming even as she exited the elevator and wondered fleetingly what decibel level could possibly penetrate the thickly insulated walls. She pressed the doorbell and heard its mellifluous tone, followed by a cacophony of joyful cries.

The door didn’t float open, it jerked and shuddered, revealing four year old Rebecca, her dirty blond hair damp with exertion and brown eyes sparkling with excitement, laughter pouring from her young lips. Before Lydia could react the little girl took flight, followed by her perplexed Honduran nanny, discarded kiddie clothes in hand.

I’m a naked girl, I’m a naked girl! Rebecca screamed joyously, her tiny legs a blur of kinetic movement as the matronly maid huffed and puffed behind her. Down the hallway the mini-streaker ran but as she sought refuge in the living room, a side door slid open and Ken appeared, all six feet three of him, sporting the graying, balding hairline and the dark eye shadows of a man who sleeps too little. Seeing him, Rebecca let out another shriek of mixed surprise and delight.

I’m gonna get her! he yelled and with a war whoop, disappeared through the living room, trailing his beloved daughter.

Santa Maria, this is a madhouse, muttered the maid in Spanish as she caught her breath and trundled slowly back towards Lydia to collect her coat.

Lydie! Is that my Lydie? A warm, melodic yet powerful voice reached her long before its master turned the corner into the brightly lit entrance. At 30, Kristin was truly a woman, at least in Lydia’s eyes. The usual affectations, the desire for eternal youth, were lost on Kristin. The warmth she exuded was of someone who has found her comfort zone and was loving it.

Oh my God, look at you, what a beauty, glowed Kristin. You’re...glamorous this evening, simply glamorous!

Lydia threw a mock look over her shoulder as if to see whom Kristin was talking about. Hi Kristie, I missed you so much, she replied as they shared a long overdue hug.

Kristin was always the first to show affection and lots of it. Reticent, Lydia should have become used to her friend’s ebullience by now, but it always took her by surprise and before she could react she’d been kissed on both cheeks and was in the grips of yet another a soul-warming hug.

Hey, I could have sworn I read an article about you in the paper today! Why don’t you just take up the whole newspaper next time, Kristin laughed, cupping Lydia’s cheeks as if she were about to drink her up.

You must be mistaking me for someone who would spend a year of their life looking for a stupid car, Lydia replied, smiling. Of course she was proud. Who wouldn’t be? But the pride turned to perplexity as Kristin glided to a small table and picked up not the Times but the New York Post and flipped open the front page where the headline blazed, 27 year old socialite Weds 17 year old Neighbor Boy.

Now what was this about a car? Kristin asked innocently, dazzling eyes betraying her practical joke.

Lydia snatched the newspaper from her friend, pretending to read the article. I’m not that desperate yet, she sighed. Just enough to accept blind dates from my friends.

Lydia knew Kristin was teasing but her innocuous joke touched a sore spot. Somehow, against her will, Lydia had slipped into the role of thoroughly modern-multi-tasking womanhood. But Lydia saw the frenetic schedule for what it really was, a diversion that kept her mind off an overriding feeling of loneliness that sometimes verged on despair. Seeing Ken and Kristin together should have given her hope but instead it only increased the longing. And Kristin’s matchmaking, though well meaning, always made Lydia uncomfortable.

Kristin snickered. Lydie, it’s not a date...you’re helping us seal a business deal. C’mon, let’s have a drink.

Somewhere in the background, peals of helpless child laughter issued forth along with Ken’s muffled voice.

I’ve got her now! He exulted, emitting a Vincent Price-like laugh that was more funny than frightening.

Ken, stop tickling that child, yelled Kristin, with a bellow that almost made the walls shake. She winked and smiled at Lydia as the flat fell momentarily silent. From somewhere above them an only slightly cowed Ken muttered, If you won’t let me tickle Rebecca I’m going to come down and start on you.

The shrieks of child laughter began again, along with the muffled guffaw of a Daddy trying to sound evil. Kristin checked her urge to yell again and turned to Lydia with a resigned smile.

He stops as soon as she wets her pants a little, explained Kristin, slipping a loving arm inside Lydia’s and guiding her towards the kitchen.

And when does he stop with you?

When we’re finished, replied Kristin, with a sexy smirk that exposed a line of perfectly white teeth.

The vast kitchen, devoted to pure geometry and simplicity, was punctuated with marble counters and stainless steel appliances—the usual trendy aesthetic, but the color and life of the kitchen was covering the bamboo floor. Rugs, some were small and uneven, and others more complex. It was a succession of brilliant textures and patterns, one more intriguing than the next. Kristin’s passion for weaving, the good along side the experiments as she referred to them, were laid out for everyone to see. Yep, she said, I’m still warping and wefting, but I’ve graduated from rugs that resemble an hourglass to, well,...rugs that look like rugs. With the press of a button the Ipad on the kitchen counter lit up, exposing a textile of exquisite perfection, of bold colors and breathtaking geometry. The rhythm of nature...the appeal to their gods...I’d give anything to create such emotion in my work, said Kristin, wistfully. It’s by Mary Black, a Hopi in northern Arizona, the best and most famous of them all. Ken’s trying to finagle a way for me to spend a week with her, but the Tribe has to OK it. We’ll see."

Kirstin, you have a knack for finding the one thing that makes you happy and going after it. I’ve always admired that about you. I can see the passion and the care in each new piece. Extraordinary, Lydia thought, this city girl yearning for inspiration from the West. She understood the allure all too well. As they strolled through the kitchen, Lydia paused in front of her favorite painting depicting a lovely, hauntingly sad woman sitting at a sidewalk bistro table...alone. It was as if the woman was frozen in time, trapped in perpetual sadness with no chance of escape. It was silly she knew, but Lydia sometimes desperately wished to see the woman smile. Things Decided in Restaurants, she thought as she read the title for the hundredth time, and as always her mind conjured up scenarios as to why this beautiful woman seemed so empty and solitary.

But her melancholy was short lived. Kristin passed Lydia a delicate crystal flute filled with sparkling champagne and the two friends exchanged a clanking toast. Lydia was not a wine aficionado but felt the fine bubbles tingle in her throat as she sipped. They sat comfortably as Kristin quizzed her about the amazing odyssey through France, Germany, Switzerland and even Turkey in search of the elusive Steve McQueen Porsche. And Lydia, relieved to confide in her most trusted friend, told all. By the time she finished, Ken had swooped through, barked out his hellos, downed his glass of champagne in one gulp, tickled Kristin in her secret spot, raising his fists in triumph as drops of champagne lept from her glass. He then retreated smugly to change for dinner amidst a flurry of half-meant epithets from his lovely wife.

As the girls emptied their second glass, it was Lydia’s turn to ask questions. So if it’s not a blind date tonight, what kind of business deal are we talking about?

It was a question that caught Kristin by surprise and Lydia knew at a glance she wasn’t acting this time. We’re selling the Krajewskis...the whole collection, Kristin admitted.

No! You can’t!

Lydia leapt from her chair in stunned surprise, searching her friend’s face for a twinkle, a quivering lip or any sign that this was another practical joke. It wasn’t. What it felt like was...betrayal, though Lydia was instantly ashamed of her feeling. Trancelike, she was drawn back to her treasured painting of the sad but determined woman, seated at a bistro table with a spoon balanced between her fingers. Things Decided in Restaurants. Lydia gazed into the woman’s eyes, attempting for the thousandth time to divine the source of her sadness. She was not one for maudlin fantasies and yet she vaguely believed she saw in the haunting woman a reflection of herself. It was a painting that she didn’t own, couldn’t afford and yet felt inextricably bound to. The thought that it would soon disappear from her life forever felt almost like a physical loss.

Oh no, she muttered, sensing Kristin’s presence beside her.

Lydia slowly turned through the kitchen and into the living room where the larger of the Krajewskis were on display. She was instantly and acutely aware of how attached she was to the paintings that adorned the walls of the Jaeger household, each so disparate in theme, each a mysterious and alluring masterpiece in its own right, each holding its own intricate, enigmatic riddle. They appealed to Lydia’s inquisitive mind and her imagination. Her eyes trained on the great red mural depicting a dancing couple being observed by three party guests whose expressions ranged from delight to bemusement to disgust.

Oh no, Lydia repeated, in a slightly calmer tone. Why?

Kristin smiled softly, as she grabbed a pen and began writing on a post-it note.

I’ve been wondering whether you tolerated me just for the paintings, she said, laughing.

Kristin separated the note from the rest of the pack and slapped it down in front of Lydia. On it was a dollar sign followed by eight figures. Lydia gasped.

That’s his latest offer. I kept saying no, no, no, but he just kept upping the price and finally Ken started saying, yes, yes, yes. Kristin said. And honestly, she continued, At that price I almost threw myself in for the bargain. In fact after he left, I treated Ken to a night to remember, if you know what I mean.

Lydia caved to Kristin’s charm, laughing as she accepted yet another bear hug from her friend.

And you expect me to make polite conversation with a man who’s stealing my painting?

Buying, not stealing Lydia. But really, he’s very charming, if you go in for short chubby men, she said, almost singing. He’s impossibly confident for a man who is prematurely balding, but apparently he’s considered quite the playboy in Europe.

Really? Well, I got to know the Formula One crowd pretty well over the past year and I can tell you for certain Kristin, there’s no accounting for taste.

Ken whisked through the kitchen again, laughing as Kristin did her best to re-adjust his badly knotted tie. In a Faux British accent betraying his Bronx-born roots, he blurted out, Oh yaaaas, Mr. Sean Berwick. Bit of a stiff I might say. But he came through the door and within five seconds my wife was drooling uncontrollably and my four year old daughter was running around screaming ‘I’m a naked girl!’

You’re lucky it wasn’t the other way around, quipped Kristin, nudging his paunch.

What was Kristin up to, Lydia thought wearily. The dinner was sounding more dreadful by the minute. She had it bad. She’d just earned a small fortune, at least in her eyes, for finding a stupid car and her exploits were written up in the New York Times, for God’s sake! I should be on top of the world, she thought. So why do I feel so...so trapped? She glanced again at her painting, looking for the smile that was not there and never would be. And in that very second, Lydia made the final decision. She would return to her Montana roots. She drained her flute and sighed.

Come on you two, let’s get this over with. For a fleeting second she considered returning home and pulling the covers over her head. But she had made Kristin a promise.

A thousand hugs and kisses later, Lydia had successfully gotten her Goddaughter, Rebecca, into her brand new fluffy flannel pajamas from the place where the Eiffel Tower is. As the grownups left, the little girl was reading a bedtime story to her attentive Honduran Nanny. From a picture book. Upside down. In French.

Chapter 2

Impossible de bien réfléchir, de bien aimer, de bien dormir si on n'a pas mangé bien.

One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.

- Virginia Woolf

Bernegger’s, their restaurant choice for the evening, boasted New European Cuisine along with two Michelin stars. Nestled among the chic eateries and trendy shops of TriBeCa, Bernegger’s was small but deliciously appointed with an intimate charm and a waiting list rumored to extend well into next year. Lydia enjoyed entering such establishments in the accompaniment of Kristin and Ken. The cool pretentiousness of the staff melted in the light of the couple’s dazzling, blue-collar billionaire charm. Invariably they were greeted like old friends and shown to the best tables as their fellow guests wondered who they might be and why they ranked such special treatment. Tonight was no different. Klaus Bernegger, the impeccably dressed Teutonic Austrian owner of this establishment, and its namesake, stepped forward to personally greet the trio. But Ken’s backslap and booming laughter put an instant end to his haughty European aloofness.

The manly Austrian, he boomed, doing a comic imitation of a German accent that turned heads in the small dining room. Kill some fatted calves for us tonight, Ja?

Kristin jumped in as well. Leave it to an Austrian to open a restaurant right between Little Italy and Chinatown. It sounds like an invasion.

The only invasion he’s interested in is demonstrating to every available girl in New York the true meaning of Schadenfreude, added Ken. Lydia noted the first titters from the guests at nearby tables and now Klaus’s whitewashed teeth were on full display as he trained his smile on Lydia.

Is this your special guest? Klaus asked, extending his hand to the statuesque beauty standing next to Kristin. He hoped to offer his trademark hand kiss and was surprised when Lydia shook his hand instead. He took silent note of her powerful grip, concluding that here was a woman who spent far too much time at the gym.

Lydia is a special guest, countered Kristin, locking arms with her closest friend. But we are expecting another in a few minutes. We wanted to drain a couple of your famous martinis before he shows.

As Lydia expected, Klaus personally escorted them to the best table the small but lush establishment had to offer. It was situated in a corner flanked by picture windows offering a view of the city lights lining Sixth Avenue to Rockefeller Center and beyond. A view only New York City can offer, she thought.

Three of Bernegger’s trademark cocktails appeared, but before they could enjoy the first sip, a smart phone peeped respectfully in Ken’s suit pocket. Stung by Kristin’s laser glare, he threw up his hands in an innocent gesture.

I warned you, Kristin, this is the one call I have to take. Three minutes and I’ll shut it off.

He stood, pulled out the phone and as he walked out towards the atrium Lydia was fascinated at how smoothly and instantaneously he could step between the personas of jocular family man and hard-nosed financial titan.

He did warn me, Kristin admitted. He’s putting in a bid to buy Saudi Arabia.

In his absence, Kristin leaned closer to Lydia and soon the two were immersed in a particularly salacious piece of scandal involving one of Ken’s business associates whose considerable fortune had just been wiped out.

He couldn’t keep it in, Kristin whispered. The women in the secretarial pool, maids wherever he traveled, even a laundry woman at the racket ball club. Seduction on that scale takes time so he let his portfolios run themselves. He’s not the first of course, but what an idiot. Ken is picking up the pieces now, that’s the phone call he just took.

Lydia loved Kristin’s penchant for bawdy gossip and was eagerly engrossed in the next tale when Lydia suddenly sensed an unseen but irresistible force that wiped Kristin’s saucy story and all else from her mind. For the rest of her life, she would remember her delight at Kristin’s steamy anecdote in the very same moment that she felt Sean Berwick’s presence for the first time.

His bearing was not subtle, like the faintest hint of an Italian cologne or the seductive stealth of a panther. It was more like an unforeseen thunderclap sending a supercharged mixture of electricity and adrenalin surging through Lydia’s body even as it froze her into place. Kristin, never at a loss for words, stuttered to a standstill, gossip forgotten as she turned towards the entrance.

That’s him, keep your eyes trained on me and pretend we’re still talking, Kristin whispered like a schoolgirl.

This sudden excitement, this exhilaration coursing through her...where did it come from and who was that man who seemed responsible for it? Without warning Lydia was on edge as she hadn’t been in...years? No. Never. In this instant she felt as if her very soul was in motion, transported to a strange new place of wonder and possibility, and, yes, danger. She was floating even while anchored to her seat.

OK. Very, very slowly. Turn around...now, commanded Kristin.

Lydia knew that not much more than a second had passed and yet she savored the curious cocktail of emotions taking hold of her senses. Curious, she shifted slightly in her seat, and in doing so let go entirely of the image she’d conjured up earlier of a tired, middle-aged aristocrat with too much family money. She was not prepared for this. There was no way she could be. Lydia could do little more than smile and nod as she kicked her friend lightly under the table whispering, That’s him? Kristin was delighted.

Sean was tall and sturdy but her first impression was of his proud, confident stride. His thick black hair cropped close and conservative exposing the stone cliff features of his face...handsome?...not really. Rugged...definitely, along with the seductive gestalt of a forceful personality. Whew, she shuddered. He probably read my reaction like a neon sign. She could feel her cheeks burning.

Lydia’s pique over his looming purchase of the paintings evaporated, as did her desperation to survive a boring evening. Those eyes.... brown or black? They were hard eyes she thought, but also kind and they said, quietly and clearly, that this was a man who rarely compromised. She imagined her reflection in those deep, dark eyes and then corrected herself. Stop it, get a grip, she screamed inside. Turning away, she gulped her martini, buying time to think. I need clarity, she thought anxiously, taking one more gulp from the glass she gripped like a life preserver. No pretense, no silly banter, just be yourself, this is man who can see through anything. Be yourself, she repeated in her mind. But who am I? The cowgirl or the city girl? It was an ongoing dialogue that spiked her anxiety, especially given the life-altering decision she’d made just moments before. It was if the fates were seizing a delicious opportunity to taunt her. She reeled as the schizophrenic internal world in