He hadn’t noticed. When did you become the adult in this family? He asked. Somebody had to. He put his arm around her and she leaned into him and they sat there on the broken porchstep in the desert dark while the fridge groaned inside the house and the stars burned overhead, patient and indifferent and very far away.
The auction was held in a converted warehouse on the west side of Manhattan, three blocks from the Hudson River. Harrove and Associates had transformed the space into something that looked like a cross between a museum gallery and a high-end nightclub. polished concrete floors, track lighting angled to make the vehicles glow, and rows of upholstered chairs arranged in a gentle arc facing a low stage where the lots would be presented.
There were 14 vehicles in the catalog. The pinnacle Mustang was lot number 11. Ethan arrived in New York the day before wearing the only suit he owned, a navy blue thing he’d bought for Rachel’s funeral 5 years ago and hadn’t put on since. It didn’t fit right anymore. The shoulders were slightly too tight, and the pants were half an inch too short.
And Lily had pointed both of these things out on the plane with the gentle brutality that only a 12-year-old could manage. “You look like you borrowed it from someone smaller than you,” she’d said. “I bought it when I was smaller than me.” “Can we buy you a new one?” “With what?” “With the money we’re about to have.
” “We don’t have it yet.” She’d rolled her eyes, another one of Rachel’s moves, and gone back to her ocean book. Catherine Leang met them at the hotel. She was taller than Ethan expected, mid-40s, with short black hair and a handshake that meant business. She walked them through the timeline. Preview hours in the morning, auction starting at 2:00 in the afternoon.
The Mustang expected to come up around 4:30. There are 47 registered bidders, she said. That’s unusually high for a private event. 17 are bidding by phone. The rest will be in the room. Is that a lot? Lily asked. Catherine looked at her. For most lots, we’d have 8 to 12 serious biders. 47 is exceptional. Some of them are here specifically for your father’s car and nothing else.
Is Aurora Veil one of them? Ethan asked. She’s registered. Number 31. He nodded. He’d expected that. Aurora wasn’t the kind of person who lost gracefully or gave up easily. She’d offered 2 million, then five, then seven. She was going to be in that room and she was going to bid and she was going to try to win.
What’s the reserve? Lily asked. Catherine raised an eyebrow. You know what a reserve is? I’ve been reading about auctions for the past week. The reserve is the minimum price you’ll accept. If the bidding doesn’t reach it, the car doesn’t sell. Catherine looked at Ethan. She’s something. Tell me about it. The reserve is set at 8 million, Catherine said, turning back to Lily.
That means if no one bids at least 8 million, the car stays unsold. But you think it’ll go higher, Lily said. I think it’ll go significantly higher. But I’ve been wrong before, and I’ll tell you the same thing I told your father. Auctions are unpredictable. The car is extraordinary. The documentation is airtight. The providence is clean.
But at the end of the day, the price is determined by who’s in the room and how badly they want it. That night, Ethan couldn’t sleep. The hotel room was nicer than anywhere he’d stayed in his life. Catherine had arranged it, and he was trying not to think about the cost, but the bed was too soft, and the city was too loud, and his brain wouldn’t stop running numbers. 8 million at minimum.
Catherine thought it would go higher. Hail had mentioned 12. The collectors calling his phone had been talking in ranges that made his vision blur. After Harrove’s 12% commission and whatever taxes he’d owe, the remaining amount was still a number so large it felt fictional, like something from a movie about someone else’s life.
He got up and walked to the window. Manhattan at night was a wall of light. Buildings stacked on buildings, windows glowing, traffic moving in streams far below. It was the opposite of Red Creek in every possible way. Red Creek was dark and quiet and spread out. This place was dense and bright and suffocating.
He missed his garage. He missed the heat. He missed the sound of the box fans pushing hot air around. He missed his father. That was the thing nobody talked about. In all the excitement, in all the phone calls and articles and offers and logistics, nobody had stopped to say, “This is Henry Cross’s car.” Henry Cross, who fixed engines and went home and didn’t make a fuss about anything.
Henry Cross, who could have sold this car at any point in 30 years and didn’t. Who could have told his son about it and didn’t? Who kept the secret in a locked case under a pile of magazines and took it to his grave? Ethan pressed his forehead against the cool glass and closed his eyes. “What would you do, Dad?” he whispered.
But the city noise swallowed the words, and no answer came. The auction hall was already filling up when Ethan and Lily arrived at 1:30. Catherine had given them seats in the third row, close enough to see the stage, but not so close that they’d be on camera. A documentary crew had been authorized to film portions of the event.
Another thing Catherine had arranged. Another thing Ethan was trying not to think about. The people in the room looked like money. Not the flashy kind, the quiet kind. Men in tailored suits that fit properly, unlike Ethan’s. women in understated dresses and jewelry that didn’t need to be large to be expensive.
