On the day of the unveiling, she picked Owen up at the train station shortly after one. He wore a rumpled red Cornell shirt, his overnight bag slung over one large shoulder. He opened the Mercedes’ back door, tossed it in, then dropped into the front passenger seat. “Hey, mom.”

“Hey, sweetie,” she said. She hugged him, her seatbelt digging into her shoulder. “Thanks for coming on such short notice. It means so much to your father.”

“Come on, mom,” he said. “I came to keep you company while dad schmoozes. And for free lobster and shrimp buffet. Hopefully.”

Hailey laughed and rubbed the buzzed down stubble on the back of his head. “I missed you,” she said. She pulled away from the station. They drove in silence a few minutes, Owen’s gaze flickering between the neighborhood and his phone. “Don’t you get carsick?” she asked.

“The answer’s still no, mom,” he said, smiling.

“Are you talking to your school friends?”

“I’m just making plans for later with Ritchie.” A high school pal. “Hey, um, mom.” He put down his phone. “I can still come home for the summer.”

“Do you want to come home? Of course, your father and I would love to have you—”

“No, it’s like . . . I don’t know,” he said, slumping. “You sounded pretty sad when I told you on the phone. I didn’t—”

“Oh, sweetheart, no,” she said. “The only thing you should be worrying about is what you want to do. If you want to spend the summer at school, then that’s what you should do. You always loved sleepaway camp, so I probably should’ve seen this coming.”

“But—”

“Owen,” she said, “I don’t want you to feel bad about this. Your father and I can take care of ourselves. We’ll miss you, but we have to adjust.”

“Okay,” he said. “As long as you’re cool with it.”

“I’m cool with it,” she said.

“Well, in that case,” he said.

“Uh oh,” she said.

“I wanted to stay with my friends. One of their roommates is going home for the summer so I can just rent the room. I don’t know anybody staying in the dorms. Please, mom.”

“What friends are these?” she asked.

“Luc and Caspar,” he said.

“I don’t think you’ve mentioned them.”

“Luc’s short for Lucien,” he said. “He’s Canadian.”

“What do they study?”

“They’re film majors,” he said. “They got me into Tarantino. And Linklater. And Jim Jarmusch. And I was even thinking I might take some classes, or try a double major, or . . .”

“What about sports law?” she asked.

“Actually,” he said, “I don’t feel like talking about it.” He looked back to his phone.

They arrived at the gate at the end of the drive. Hailey rolled down the window, punched in the code, and it whirred open. She drove the quarter mile to the three-story modern mansion, splayed out stark and white across a hilltop. She parked in the garage. “This is why I don’t wanna live in the dorms,” Owen said as they got out. He grabbed his bag. “Too small.”

“I can’t imagine you’ll be living like a king with two roommates,” Hailey said.

“It’s a three bedroom,” he said. “There’s a huge den with a really big TV.”

“Now it makes sense,” she said. “Entertainment and privacy.”

“It’s not that big a deal,” he said, looking away, thumbing the strap of his bag.

Had she hit a nerve? “I’m sure your father will be fine with it,” she said. She unlocked the door to the house and stepped in.

Max was on the phone, pacing in the living room in his shirtsleeves, black dress socks, and gray boxer briefs that showed off his legs. When he spotted them, he said, “El, hold on a sec.” He lowered the phone, pulled Owen into a hug. “Hey kid, how’s it going?”

“Nice look, dad,” Owen said.

“I’m a fashion pioneer,” Max said. “Think it’ll go over?”

“Totally,” Owen said.

“I’ve got to finish this call, but then let’s catch up. Play a few rounds of Titanfall?”

“Hell yeah, dad.”

“Language,” Hailey said.

“Come on, mom, I’m almost nineteen,” he said. “I should be able to say ‘hell.’”

She looked to Max, but he was already back on the phone. “Just don’t say it often,” she told him. She glanced at the deco wall clock: almost two o’clock. Owen wandered into the open kitchen, rummaged in the spotless steel fridge. “Can I make you something, honey?” she asked.

“I got it,” he said, piling bread, cheese, cold cuts in his arms.

“Okay,” she said. She walked over, kissed him on the head. “I’m going to start getting ready. We’re leaving by five, all right? Make sure your father puts his pants on.”

Owen grinned. “No promises.”

                                                *          *          *          *          *

Their limo stopped at Madison and 24th Street, outside the New York EDITION Hotel, formerly the MetLife Tower, its clock and steeple aglow in the night. Modeled after the Campanile in Venice, Max had once told her. The city burned against the dark: cars, storefronts, billboards, apartment windows—a patina of artificial light.

The driver piled out and opened the curbside door. Max, in his tux, exited first, cameras flashing. He took Hailey’s hand and she stepped out after him, minding the long skirt of her silver open-back dress. Owen exited last, slipping his phone into the pocket of his slacks. They posed for a few minutes on the red carpet. The air seemed to carry substance, electricity, her body conducting amps and volts. For a moment she let herself imagine this was all for her. Then reporters shoved their microphones in Max’s face, dispelling it.

She and Owen waited patiently while he answered questions. Then she felt a hand clamp on her shoulder. “Hey there, gorgeous,” said a gruff voice.

“Uncle Carl,” Owen exclaimed.

“Kiddo,” said the old man, stooped and grinning. “Look at you, real ladykiller.”

“I hold my own,” Owen said. He already had his phone back out.

“And Hailey, darling, beautiful niece-in-law,” he said. “A vision to behold, more radiant every time I see you.”

“And your flattery gets more extravagant,” she said.

“Never, ever get complacent,” Carl said. “That’s the secret to long life. Besides, we all know who the real beauty is here.” He spun in his tux, showing off diamond-studded cufflinks.

“Max told me you helped make this work,” she said. “Thank you.”

Carl waved it off. “I made a phone call. He did all the real work.”

“Hey, mom,” Owen said. “I’m kinda hungry. Can I go in?”

She nodded. “Save some for the rest of us,” Carl said.

“Every man for himself,” Owen replied. He disappeared into the hotel.

“Good kid,” Carl said.

“He really is,” Hailey said.

Carl gestured to Max, now shaking hands with the Mayor of New York. “You know, I have never known anybody who’d try to get out of a hole by digging another one,” he said. “Except for your Max.” He chuckled.

Hailey laughed politely, but the comment didn’t settle well. “What do you mean?”

He cocked his head, hesitated, then said, “Not a thing. A lousy joke by a demented old man.” He offered his arm. “Why don’t we head in? Let hubby enjoy pressing the flesh a while.”

While Carl’s remark still bothered her, she accepted and let him lead her through the glass doors, where they were ushered by uniformed hotel staff to a grand suite of open rooms drenched in soft beige, with tall windows looking out on Madison Park. A cocktail hour was already in effect, more glamorous than any wedding reception Hailey had attended, with an on-the-spot sushi chef, platters of crudités, paté, and other hors d’oeuvres. She saw steaming buffet trays; a pizza station; a table covered in plates of mini-burgers and franks with fries; more.

Carl took her to the bar, stocked with top shelf fare. “Best cabernet you got, and . . .”

“Lagavulin,” Hailey said. “Neat.”

“My, oh my,” Carl said. “I switched to red wine for the ol’ ticker. Back in the day you’d have been a woman after my own heart. If I was a few years younger, I’d steal you.”

“Try a few decades.” Max appeared, the crowd parting. He came up beside Hailey, whispered, “How about a sneak peek?”

“But don’t you have to . . . ?” She gestured at all the people.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I excused myself.” 

“What about Owen?” she asked, looking around. But then she spotted him on the long line for make-your-own pizza, idly devouring a plate of fries. “Never mind.”

Max took her hand, led her through the crowd, to a side chamber cordoned off by velvet rope. He lifted it for her, then followed. They entered a dark mid-sized room. Max switched on one overhead, leaving the space dim, ruddy orange, as if suffused in candlelight. On display were a Donatello bronze, a voluptuous Rubens female, an early Titian of a young red-haired woman, a Manet and a LaTour, and opposite, a dizzying Jackson Pollack which she knew belonged to Carl. She even recognized the Rousseau and Cassatt from Max’s office. But her gaze finally settled on a beige curtain, draped across the room’s far end.

“Most of these belong to Vandeveer,” Max said. “Figured we’d turn it into a real exhibit. But that’s not what I wanted to show you. Come on.” He brought her to the curtain, but rather than open it, he slipped behind it, bringing her along. They were momentarily draped in shadow, but then Max’s phone lit like a flashlight. He turned the beam towards the wall.

A foot in front of them stood the four paintings, a girl with a violin. She didn’t understand what made them special, only that they were beautiful, rich with color. She twined her fingers in Max’s, his attention fixed on the paintings, wonderstruck. She knew well that expression of his, immense and somehow sad, painful, as if he would come apart from the sheer fullness of it. It was the look that first made her think she would love him. She leaned her head on his shoulder. He slipped an arm around her waist.

“They’re incredible,” she said. “I can’t wait to see them in the light.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Hey, I know it’s usually the artist that dedicates his work. But I want to dedicate this find to you.”

“Max . . .”

“Really,” he said. “I know things haven’t been great lately, but I want to make it up to you. You’re what matters. You and Owen. You’re it.” He kissed her. She held him tight.

Suddenly, the lights went on outside the curtain. Laughing, they hurried out. The hotel staff began letting in patrons, a few at a time. “Seems the guest of honor has arrived,” Max said.

“I thought you were the guest of honor,” Hailey said.

“Not even close,” Max replied.

An odd assortment began filtering in, ranging in age and manner of dress, from casual, to unkempt, to positively outlandish. “Who are they?” Hailey asked.

“Vandeveer’s menagerie,” Max replied. “He’s into old school arts patronage. I think he just wants to pretend he’s a king.”

A pallid young woman with stringy black hair entered, though she wore a clean white shirt and black vest. She carried a violin, began to play a haunting strain, as the crowd parted, revealing Forrest Vandeveer. Dressed in a red velvet tux, tall and erect with pure white brush-cut hair and an immaculate mustache, he mugged for the crowd, who applauded. Uncle Carl entered just behind him, and the two traded air punches, then fell upon each other, howling with laughter. Max sighed. The violin girl played on. Owen walked in dazedly in the wake of it all, still polishing off some pepperoni pizza. Hailey waved to him, and he meandered over.

Vandeveer took position before the curtain; a hotel employee handed him a cordless microphone. Quiet fell. “A good evening to all,” he said in his grandfatherly tenor. “And thank you all for coming. Now I’m certain everyone is absolutely dying to have a look at our reason for being here tonight. But before we draw back the curtain, I’d like to say a few words about someone very special. Maxfield Reynolds.”

More applause. Hailey kissed Max’s cheek. People took photos.

“I didn’t see Max on Colbert last night,” Vandeveer said. “He wasn’t on Jimmy Fallon, or the other Jimmy, either.” Mild laughter. “The cameramen outside, photographers, their footage won’t blanket the twenty-four hour news. The event we celebrate tonight will enjoy some mention, but to most, it is no World Series upset, no Super Bowl win. However, to us, Max is the Most Valuable Player in recent history. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, Maxfield Reynolds.”

Vandeveer sauntered over, clapped Max on the shoulder, and handed him the microphone. Hailey overheard him whisper, “A six million finder’s fee. That’s my offer, Max.”

Max, stunned, accepted the mic. “Um, wow,” he managed, stepping to the fore. “This is just incredible. Really.”

“Sweetie, your father’s speaking,” Hailey murmured to Owen, who held his phone low. She glanced at his screen. He was texting, with Luc. There were little heart icons.

He caught her looking, clicked off his screen. “Inside joke,” he muttered.

“I didn’t say anything,” she replied. Was Luc actually girl? Or . . . “Let’s just listen to your father.” She squeezed her son’s hand.

“So in reality,” Max was saying, “I can’t take credit for this. It’s thanks to fate, and Mr. Vandeveer’s unending generosity. I was little more than a man in the right place at the right time, who knew the right thing to do.” He offered a self-deprecating grin, and the crowd devoured it. “But anyway, I’m sure you’ve heard enough talk. On with the show!”

Max handed off the mic, and a hotel employee drew back the curtain, revealing the four paintings, each near-identical, yet completely unique. The crowd gasped.

Then, a cell phone rang, loud, shrill. Everyone traded looks. Vandeveer reddened, the moment ruined. More phones began to ring, buzz, including Owen’s. He checked it.

“Oh, shit,” he said.

“Language,” she said.

“Look!” He showed her an article: “Holocaust Survivor Claims Reynolds’ Masters.”

“Oh, God,” Hailey said. She spotted someone showing Vandeveer, his face purpling. Angry murmurs rolled through the crowd.

Max hurried over. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Wordlessly, Owen handed him the phone. Yet before he could look, someone began playing footage from MSNBC’s All In.

“I have here with me ninety-four year-old Holocaust survivor Maurice Weisberg,” said Chris Hayes, the host. Everyone crowded around, paintings forgotten, all eyes on the miniscule screen. The camera shifted to a thin, bald, liver-spotted old gentleman in an oversized brown sweater, somehow proud despite his drooping posture, his nose large and hooked, his ears and neck sagging. “Mr. Weisberg, can you tell us why you’re here, tonight?” the host asked.

“I’m here,” the old man replied, in a half-faded French accent, “because of a crook named Maxfield Reynolds.”