Hanna burst out laughing. “Only if you volunteer to play yourself.”
“Done,” Mike said. “Now, come here and hug me so we can make up for the few hours I have until I have to catch a train back to soccer camp.”
Hanna ran up to him and fell into his arms, squeezing him as tightly as she could. It was incredible. In one fell swoop, everything was right again. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if things would just . . . stay this way?
A new sensation blossomed inside her. Hanna basked in the unfamiliar feeling. It was so unknown that at first she couldn’t even put a name to it.
But then she realized what it was. Hope.
33
NO PRESS IS BAD PRESS
Aria parked on a side street in Old Hollis and looked around. The same beat-up Mercedes, vintage Jaguar, and bright orange VW bus surrounded her at the curb. The same potted plants sat on the front stoop of the large Victorian across from the gallery, and the same rainbow g*y pride flag waved over the front porch of the Tudor-style house next door. The neighborhood was unchanged. . . . It was only Aria who was different.
An older couple walked out of the gallery hand in hand. Aria crouched down behind a bush, not quite wanting anyone inside to see her yet. She wasn’t ready to do this.
She looked at her phone again. PRETTY LITTLE FRAUD, read the front page of the New York Post. Frank Brenner, the reporter who had called her yesterday, had written about the fake transaction using John Carruthers’s name as a publicity stunt of Aria’s. “‘My mother took the call, so I had to disguise my voice,’” Brenner quoted Aria as saying. He’d also said that Aria had seemed very “distraught” on the phone when he’d called her, clearly because “she was horrified that she’d actually gotten caught.”
The story also said that a banking institution was tracking down the source of those funds, implying that Aria had randomly used someone’s account. In a normal world, that would be a good thing—the account would lead back to Maxine Preptwill. But Aria knew Ali was too smart to be sloppy; she’d probably used Aria’s name and Social Security number at the bank. Because she was just that devious.
Everything was such a mess. Patricia, Aria’s agent, had called her a zillion times, but Aria hadn’t picked up, way too embarrassed to have the inevitable conversation. She couldn’t even bring herself to listen to Patricia’s messages. There were other ramifications, too. How would this affect Ella? Her mom had facilitated the sale; what if the press thought she was involved in Aria’s get-famous-quick scheme? What if Carruthers sued her? Would Ella’s boss fire her mom? What if she was blacklisted from the art world? What if the whole gallery shut down because of this stupid—and untrue—scandal?
And then there were the texts from Harrison. Last night’s were full of concern; he’d wondered where Aria had disappeared to. The ones this morning were a bit more circumspect: Saw the post. Is that why you ran off last night? Can we talk? I like you no matter what the truth is.
She stared at the latest one from him. It was sweet for Harrison to say he’d stand by her, but the thing was, Aria didn’t want him to be her boyfriend. Not-very-deep-down, Aria knew she felt nothing for him. She wished she did. It would be so much easier. But her feelings were her feelings.
Sighing, she composed a reply. “It’s not the truth, but I can’t get into it right now. To be honest, I kind of need my space. I’m sorry. Good luck with everything.” Then she hit SEND. It was ironic, she realized, how much her text sounded like what Noel had said to her only two weeks before. But she sent it off anyway, just needing it to be done.
Taking a deep breath, Aria started up the sidewalk. Every step to the gallery was painful. She pushed the door open, wincing at the cheerful bell chimes. Her mother was standing at the desk, looking at some papers. She looked up, straight into Aria’s eyes. Heat filled Aria’s cheeks. Here goes.
Ella swept up to her. “Guess who had two more sales today?” she chirped happily. She waved some faxed papers in Aria’s face. “A buyer from Maine and someone in California. Not for as much as the Ali painting sold for, but still—congratulations!”
Aria blinked. Her mother’s excited demeanor was heartbreaking. This was even worse: She didn’t know yet.
Wordlessly, Aria passed over the phone and pushed the icon for Safari. The Post article was still up. “You should see this.”
Ella glanced at it, then shrugged. “I already have.” She straightened Aria’s hair behind her shoulders. “Your agent told me. I hope that’s okay—she was trying to reach you, but you weren’t picking up, and your voice mail was full. Is this the real reason you ran off last night? You should have just told me, Aria.”
Aria blinked, then nodded. She had found out last night. It seemed like as good an excuse as any to explain her mysterious absence.
Ella looked at the phone again. “Your first Post article—and front page, too! I’m so proud.”
“Mom!” Aria cried. She couldn’t believe how oblique her mom was being. “The story is awful. And untrue. I didn’t pose as Carruthers’s assistant or get anyone else to. I had nothing to do with that sale at all—to be honest, I’m horrified that Ali painting sold. I was going to burn it.”
Ella looked at her intently. “Aria, of course I know you didn’t have anything to do with it.” She placed the papers back on the desk. “Are you truly worried about that article? If you’re serious about being an artist, you’re going to have all kinds of crazy things written about you, a lot of it negative criticism, much of it lies. My guess? Someone used Carruthers’s name because he or she didn’t want to admit who they were. Maybe it’s someone notorious. Or maybe it’s a celebrity!”