I stood my ground. Ludington’s had been my idea. My dream. He’d own it over my dead body. “Deal.”

Diya fretted. “You’re both making a mistake.”

“So be it. I’m entitled to make mistakes. You’ll have each other, and I’ll have the company.”

“Fine. If Trey wants a million, I want five hundred thousand.”

“We’ll talk about it later.” When she stopped pulling numbers out of her… “I have to go greet guests.”

I hurried away from them, willing the night to be a sparkling success.

I’d arranged for finger food catered by André Milano, LA’s newest celebrity chef. There’d be clinking crystal and glinting diamonds, stars in designer gowns. I’d planned for a Violet’s kind of event.

I called her on my way to the front of the hotel. “I miss you already.”

“I miss you too, honey. How was the interview?”

“Positive. But they brought up your stroke. I’m sorry. I don’t know if they’ll put you in their article. I wanted to give you a heads-up.”

“Did they ask about my sordid past?”

“Is the media a den of vipers? Lucky I’m a ninja-level expert at deflecting personal questions.” I didn’t want her to worry. “Any proposals today?”

“One of the second-floor patients, Louis, has potential. Cuban jazz musician. He gave a concert at lunchtime out in the hallway. He plays the saxophone like a dream, and he’s a decent poker player.”

“Strip poker?”

“Would you disapprove?”

“Only if he wears tighty-whities.”

Violet laughed. “It’s nice to have support from one’s family.”

“Talking about family…” As soon as I started the sentence, I regretted it, but at that point, I had no way to go except forging ahead. “Did you ever lose Mom when she was a child?”

“Don’t be silly. Of course not. Did she say I did?”

“Like, in a museum?” I went around the corner and almost ran headfirst into an overpacked luggage cart.

“I let her wander so she could discover what she liked. Some parents drag their kids around, telling them what each painting means. Make them memorize artists and titles and, for heaven’s sake, dates, instead of letting art speak to those open young hearts. I wanted your mother to think that the Met and MoMA were her playgrounds. We went there to visit friends, to have fun. I let her explore. I hope she did the same for you.”

“Mom held my hand wherever we went until I was ten. I had more fun when I was with you. Remember when you took me to the Met in fifth grade? The staff recognized you, and they treated us as if we were rock stars.” I’d wanted to be just like her when I grew up.

“Remember the Guggenheim?”

Oh yes. “I wrote in the visitors’ book that I was disappointed they didn’t have your paintings.”