Grace Cries Uncle Read Online Free PDF Page B

manage my wealth and plan for my demise. Thanks to the two of you, I am invigorated, I am stronger, and I am happy.” He touched his glass to mine. “You are my family.” He touched his glass to Tooney’s. “You are my friend. May good fortune keep company with us all.”
    *   *   *
    After dining, as we enjoyed café au lait and macarons, our conversation eventually turned to the upcoming Fine Art and Antiquity Collectors’ convention.
    â€œThat starts a week from today, doesn’t it?” Tooney asked. Before I could confirm that it did, he went on. “I’m surprised the organizers didn’t want to host it at Marshfield.”
    The Fine Art and Antiquity Collectors’ convention, or FAAC, drew an upscale crowd of collectors and antique dealers from around the globe. The convention’s location changed from year to year, keeping its wealthy clienteletraveling from Amsterdam to Zephyrhills in their pursuit of rare treasures.
    The FAAC produced documentaries that were broadcast on travel channels and advertised on public broadcasting stations. The format was similar to that of the popular
Antiques Roadshow
, except that most attendees were experts themselves, and items reviewed on camera were generally valued in the millions rather than the thousands.
    â€œThey approached us,” I said, “but they have very specific space requirements because of the lighting equipment, cameras, and security. While Marshfield Manor has plenty of room, we would have had to close the house to tourists for the duration of their stay.”
    â€œThat’s why they’re taking over the two biggest hotels in town?” Tooney asked.
    â€œThree, from last I heard.”
    Bennett had been silent through all of this, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth.
    Tooney gave a half smile. “January isn’t exactly the most tourist-friendly time of year for Emberstowne. Guess we got lucky that the FAAC decided to host it here this time.”
    â€œWe did,” I said. “The Marshfield Hotel is booked up, too, and that rarely happens in the winter.” Turning to Bennett, I said, “You’re very quiet. I would have expected you to have plenty to say. What days do you plan to be there?”
    His eyes held an alertness I didn’t understand. As though he wanted to join in our conversation but was holding himself back. I couldn’t imagine why.
    â€œI . . .” He drew the word out. “I will not be attending this year.”
    Tooney seemed as surprised as I was. “You always make time for the FAAC convention,” I reminded Bennett, “and the last two were out of the country. This one is, literally, in your backyard. Why
wouldn’t
you go?”
    Shaking his head, Bennett pulled his napkin up to pathis lips. “No desire this time. Too many people, and you know how much I dislike crowds.”
    In the world of fine art events, the word
crowd
was less like the press of humanity attempting to exit after a Disney extravaganza, and more like a fancy cocktail party where everyone smelled good, wore thousand-dollar ensembles, and chitchatted about one-of-a-kind finds.
    â€œYou love that sort of thing.” I took a sip of coffee. “I can’t believe you’d want to miss it.”
    His napkin on the table before him now, he worried it with the fingers of both hands. “I’ll not be missing it entirely.” He cleared his throat. “I’m hosting a small reception on the last night of the FAAC.”
    I lowered my china cup into its saucer so quickly it clattered. “Reception?” I repeated. “I don’t know anything about that. Where are you hosting it?”
    Bennett’s cheeks grew a faint shade of pink. “Marshfield. A week from Tuesday.”
    â€œAt Marshfield?” I asked, continuing to repeat Bennett’s words as though doing so would help them sink in