‘The Longest Ride’ Chapters 31-33 and Epilogue

“We were the last people to see him,” she said. “It doesn’t say that, but I know it’s true. His wife was dead, they had no kids, and he’d pretty much become a hermit. He died alone, and the thought of that just breaks my heart. Because . . .”

When she trailed off, Luke drew her near, thinking about the letter Ira had written to his wife.

“I know why,” Luke said. “Because it kind of breaks my heart, too.”

Chapter 32

Sophia

Sophia had just finished putting in her earrings on the day of the auction when she saw Luke’s truck come to a stop in front of the house. Though she’d teased Luke earlier about having only a single suit, in truth she owned only two, both with midlength skirts and matching jackets. And she’d purchased those only because she’d needed something classy and professional to wear to interviews. At the time, she’d worried that two wouldn’t suffice, what with all the interviews she’d no doubt line up. Which made her think about that old saying . . . how did it go? People plan, God laughs, or something like that?

As it was, she’d worn each of them once. Knowing that Luke’s suit was dark, she’d opted for the lighter of the two. Despite her early enthusiasm, she now felt strangely ambivalent about going to the auction. Discovering that it was Ira’s collection made it more personal somehow, and she feared that with every painting, she’d recall how he’d appeared as she’d read his letter in the hospital. Yet to not go seemed disrespectful, since the collection obviously meant so much to him and his wife. Still feeling conflicted, she left her room and went downstairs.

Luke was waiting just inside the foyer.

“Are you ready for this?”

“I guess,” she temporized. “It’s different now.”

“I know. I thought about Ira most of the night.”

“Me too.”

He forced a smile, though there wasn’t a lot of energy behind it. “You look terrific, by the way. You’re all grown up.”

“You too,” she said, meaning it. But . . .

“Why do I feel like we’re going to a funeral?” she asked him.

“Because,” he said, “in a way, we are.”

+++

They entered one of the enormous exhibition rooms at the convention center an hour before noon. It was nothing like she’d expected. At the far end of the room was a stage, surrounded by curtains on three sides; on the right were two long tables on elevated daises, each bearing ten telephones; on the other side stood the podium, no doubt for the auctioneer. A large screen formed the backdrop on the stage, and at the very front stood an empty easel. Approximately three hundred chairs faced the stage in stadium formation, allowing the bidders an unobstructed view.

Though the room was crowded, only a few of the seats were taken. Instead, most of the people wandered the room, examining photographs of some of the most valuable art. The photographs stood on easels along the walls, together with information about the artist, prices of the artist’s work achieved in other auctions, along with estimated values. Other visitors clustered around the four podiums on either side of the entrance, piled high with catalogs that described the entire collection.

Sophia moved through the room, Luke by her side, feeling slightly stunned. Not just because this was once all Ira’s, but because of the collection itself. There were works by Picasso and Warhol, Johns and Pollock, Rauschenberg and de Kooning, exhibited side by side. Some were pieces that she’d never read or even heard about. Nor had the rumors of their value been exaggerated; she gasped at some of the estimates, only to discover that the next set of paintings was worth even more. Through it all, she found herself trying to reconcile those numbers with Ira, the sweet old man who’d written about nothing but the love he still felt for his wife.

Luke’s thoughts seemed to mirror her own, for he reached for her hand and murmured, “There was nothing in his letter about this.”

“Maybe none of this mattered to him,” she said, baffled. “But really, how could it not?” When Luke failed to answer, she squeezed his hand. “I wish we could have helped him more.”

“I don’t know that there was any more that we could have done.”

“Still...”

His blue eyes searched hers. “You read the letter,” he said. “That’s what he wanted. And I think that’s why you and I were meant to find him. Who else would have waited around?”

When the announcement was made for people to take their seats, Luke and Sophia found a couple of empty ones in the back row. From there, it was almost impossible to see the easel, which disappointed Sophia. It would have been great to be able to see some of the paintings up close, but she knew those seats should go to prospective buyers, and the last thing she wanted was for someone to tap her on the shoulder and ask her to move later. A few minutes after that, men and women in suits began to take their seats behind the phones on the elevated tables, and slowly but surely, the overhead lights began to dim as a series of spotlights beamed down to illuminate the stage.

Sophia scanned the crowd, spotting her two art history professors, including her adviser. As the clock approached one, the room slowly grew quieter, the hushed murmur gradually fading out completely when a silver-haired gentleman in an exquisitely tailored suit strolled to the podium. In his hands, he held a folder and he spread it wide before reaching into his breast pocket for his reading glasses. He propped them on his nose, adjusting the pages as he did so.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to thank all of you for coming to the auction of the extraordinary collection of Ira and Ruth Levinson. As you know, it’s unusual for our firm to host such an event in venues other than our own, but in this case, Mr. Levinson didn’t leave us much choice. It’s also rather unorthodox for the particulars of today’s auction to have remained somewhat vague. To begin, I’d like to explain the rules regarding this particular auction. Beneath each of the seats is a numbered paddle, and . . .”

He went on to describe the bidding process, but with her thoughts drifting to Ira again, Sophia tuned it out. Only vaguely did she hear the list of those who’d chosen to attend the auction—curators from the Whitney and MoMA, the Tate, and countless others from cities overseas. She guessed that most of the people in the room were representatives of either private collectors or galleries, no doubt hoping to acquire something extremely rare.

After the rules were outlined and certain individuals and institutions thanked, the silver-haired gentleman focused the attention of the audience again. “At this time, it is my pleasure to introduce to you Howie Sanders. Mr. Sanders served as Ira Levinson’s attorney for many years, and has prepared some remarks he’d like to share with you as well.”

Sanders appeared then, a bent, elderly figure whose dark wool suit hung off his bony frame. Slowly, he made his way to the podium. There, he cleared his throat before launching into his speech in a voice that was remarkably vigorous and clear.

“We’re gathered here today to participate in an extraordinary event. After all, it is very unusual for a collection of this size and significance to go unnoticed and unremarked upon for so many years. Until six years ago, I suspect that very few in this room even knew of the existence of this collection. The circumstances of its creation—the how, so to speak—were described in a magazine article, and yet I admit that even I, the man who served as Ira Levinson’s attorney for the past forty years, have been astounded by the cultural importance and value of this collection.”

He paused to look up at the audience before going on. “But that is not why I’m here. I’m here because Ira was explicit in his instructions regarding this auction, and he asked me to say a few words to all of you. I confess that this is something I would rather not have been asked to do. Though I am comfortable in a courtroom or in the confines of my office, I am rarely required to face an audience of this nature, where many of you have been charged with the responsibility of securing a specific piece of art for a client or an institution at a price that even I have difficulty comprehending. And yet, because my friend Ira asked me to speak, I now find myself in this unenviable position.”

A few good-natured chuckles were audible from the audience.

“What can I tell you about Ira? That he was a good man? An honest, conscientious man? That he was a man who adored his wife? Or should I tell you about his business, or the quiet wisdom he exuded whenever we were together? I asked myself all these questions in an effort to discern what it was that Ira really wanted me to say to all of you. What would he have said if he, not I, had been standing before you? Ira, I think, would have said this to you: ‘I want all of you to understand.’ ”

He let the comment hang, making sure he had their attention.

“There is a wonderful quote I came across,” he went on. “It’s attributed to Pablo Picasso, and as most of you probably realize, he’s the only non-American artist whose work will be featured in today’s auction. Years ago, Picasso was quoted as saying, ‘We all know that art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize truth, at least the truth that is given us to understand.’ ”

He faced the audience again, his voice softening.

“Art is a lie that makes us realize truth, at least the truth that is given us to understand,” he repeated. “I want you to think about that.” He scanned the auditorium, searching the faces of the hushed audience. “I find that statement profound on a number of levels. Obviously, it speaks to the way in which you might view the art that you will examine here today. Upon reflection, however, I began to wonder whether Picasso was speaking simply about art, or whether he wanted us to view our own lives through that prism as well. What was Picasso suggesting? To me, he was saying that our reality is shaped by our perceptions. That something is good or bad only because we—you and I—believe it to be so, based on our own experiences. And yet, Picasso is also saying that it’s a lie. In other words, our opinions and our thoughts and feelings—anything we experience—need not define us forever. I realize that to some of you, it may seem that I’ve strayed into a speech about moral relativism, while the rest of you probably think I’m just an old man who’s gone completely off the rails here...”

Again, the audience laughed.

“But I’m here to tell you that Ira would have been pleased by my selection of this quote. Ira believed in good and evil, right and wrong, love and hate. He’d grown up in a world, in a time, where destruction and hate were evident on a worldwide scale. And yet, Ira never let it define him or the man he strove daily to be. Today, I want you to view this auction as a memorial of sorts to all that he found important. But most of all, I hope you understand.”

+++

Sophia wasn’t quite sure what to make of Sanders’s speech, and glancing around, she wasn’t sure that anyone else was, either. While he spoke, she’d noticed a number of people texting on their phones while others studied the catalog.

There was a short break then as the silver-haired gentleman conferred with Sanders before the auctioneer returned to the podium. Again he put on his reading glasses and cleared his throat.

“As most of you are aware, the auction has been scheduled in phases, the first of which will be happening today. At this point, we have not determined either the number or timing of the subsequent phases, as those will no doubt be affected by the progress today. And now, I know that many of you have been waiting for the parameters of the auction itself.”

Almost as one, the crowd began to lean forward in attention.

“The parameters, again, were set by the client. The auction agreement was quite specific in a number of . . . unusual details . . . including the order in which the pieces would be offered today. Per the instructions that all of you received in advance, we will now adjourn for thirty minutes to allow you to discuss the order with your clients. As a reminder, the list of paintings that are definitively being offered today can be found on pages thirty-four through ninety-six of the catalog. They are also represented in the photographs along the walls. In addition, the auction order will be listed on the screen.”

People rose from their seats, reaching for phones; others began to confer. Luke leaned over to whisper in Sophia’s ear.

“Do you mean that no one here knew the order of the works? What if the one they wanted didn’t come up for sale until the end? They could be here for hours.”

“For such an extraordinary opportunity, they’d probably wait until the end of time.”

He motioned toward the easels lining the wall. “So which one do you want? Because I have a few hundred dollars in my wallet and a numbered paddle beneath my seat here. The Picasso? The Jackson Pollock? One of the Warhols?”

“I wish.”

“Do you think that the sale prices will approach the estimates?”

“I have no idea, but I’m pretty sure the auction house has a good handle on that. It’ll probably be close.”

“A few of those paintings are worth more than twenty of my ranches.”

“I know, right?”

“That’s crazy.”

“Maybe,” she admitted.

He swiveled his head, taking in the scene. “I wonder what Ira would think about all this.”

She recalled the old man she’d met in the hospital, and the letter, which never mentioned the art at all. “I wonder,” she said, “whether he would even care.”

+++

When the break was over and everyone was back in their seats, the silver-haired gentleman stepped toward the podium. In that instant, two men gingerly carried a covered painting to the easel on the stage. While Sophia expected a palpable buzz of interest now that the auction was getting under way, she realized when surveying the room that only a few people seemed to care. Again, she saw them tapping away on their phones while the speaker prepared his introduction. She knew that the first major work, one of the de Koonings, was scheduled to go second and that the Jasper Johns was scheduled to go sixth. In between were artists Sophia had a harder time identifying, and this was no doubt one of them.

“First up is a painting that can be found on page thirty-four of the catalog. It is oil on canvas, twenty-four by thirty inches, that Levinson, not the artist, called Portrait of Ruth. Ruth, as most of you are aware, was Ira Levinson’s wife.”

Both Sophia and Luke snapped to attention, focusing on the easel as the painting was unveiled. Behind it, magnified, was the painting projected on-screen. Even with her untrained eye, Sophia could tell it had been painted by a child.

“It was composed by an American, Daniel McCallum, born 1953, died 1986. Exact date of the painting is unknown, though it is estimated to date anywhere from 1965 to 1967. According to Ira Levinson’s description of the item, Daniel was a former student of Ruth’s, and it had been gifted to Mr. Levinson by McCallum’s widow in 2002.”

As it was described, Sophia stood to get a better view. Even from a distance, she knew it was the work of an amateur, but after reading the letter, she’d found herself wondering what Ruth had looked like. Despite the crudeness of the rendering, Ruth still appeared to be beautiful, with a tenderness of expression that reminded her of Ira. The speaker went on.

“There is little else known about the artist, and he is not known to have created additional pieces. For those who did not make arrangements to view the piece yesterday, you are allowed at this time to approach the stage to study the painting. Bidding will commence in five minutes.”

No one moved, and Sophia knew that no one would. Instead, she could hear the rise of conversation, some people chatting while others quietly suppressed the nerves they were feeling at the next item up for bid. When the real auction would start.

The five minutes passed slowly. The man at the podium showed no surprise. Instead, he thumbed through the papers in front of him, seemingly no more interested than anyone else. Even Luke seemed disengaged, which surprised her, considering that he, too, had heard Ira’s letter.

When the time was up, the speaker called for silence. “Portrait of Ruth by Daniel McCallum. We will commence the bidding at one thousand dollars,” he said. “One thousand. Do I hear one thousand?”

No one in the audience moved. At the podium, the silver-haired man registered no reaction. “Do I hear nine hundred? Please note that this is a chance to own part of one of the greatest private collections ever assembled.”

Nothing.

“Do I hear eight hundred?”

Then, after a few beats: “Do I hear seven hundred? . . .

“Six hundred?”

With every drop, Sophia felt something slowly begin to give way inside her. Somehow, it wasn’t right. She thought again of the letter Ira had written to Ruth, the letter that told her how much she’d meant to him.

“Do I hear five hundred dollars? . . .

“Four hundred?”

And in that instant, from the corner of her eye, she saw Luke raise his paddle. “Four hundred dollars,” he called out, and the sound of his voice seemed to ricochet off the walls. Although a few people in the audience turned, they appeared only mildly curious.

“We have four hundred dollars. Four hundred. Do I hear four hundred and fifty?”

Again, the room remained silent. Sophia felt suddenly dizzy.

“Going once, going twice, and sold . . .”

+++

Luke was approached by an attractive brunette holding a clipboard, who requested his information before explaining that it was also time to settle. She asked for his banking information or the form he had filled out earlier.

“I didn’t fill out any forms,” Luke demurred.

“How do you wish to settle?”

“Would you take cash?”

The woman smiled. “That will be fine, sir. Please follow me.”

Luke walked off with the woman and returned a few minutes later, holding his receipt. He took a seat beside Sophia, a sly grin on his face.

“Why?” she asked.

“I’d be willing to bet that this painting was the one that Ira liked best of all.” He shrugged. “It was the first one up for sale. And besides, he loved his wife and it was a portrait of her and it didn’t seem right that no one wanted it.”

She considered that. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were becoming a romantic.”

“I think,” he said slowly, “that Ira was the romantic. I’m just a washed-up bull rider.”

“You’re more than that,” she said, nudging him. “Where are you going to hang it?”

“I don’t know that it really matters, do you? Besides, I don’t even know where I’ll be living in a few months.”

Before she could respond, she heard a gavel come down before the speaker leaned in to the microphone again.

“Ladies and gentlemen—at this time and before we go on, per the parameters of the auction, I’d like to reintroduce Howie Sanders, who wishes to read a letter from Ira Levinson, in Ira’s own words, regarding the purchase of this item.”

Sanders emerged from behind the curtain, shuffling in his oversize suit, an envelope in his hand. The silver-haired gentleman stepped aside to make room at the microphone.

Sanders used a letter opener to slit open the top before pulling out the letter. He took a deep breath and then slowly unfolded it. He scanned the room and took a sip of water. He turned serious then, like an actor readying himself for a particularly dramatic scene, before finally beginning to read.

“My name is Ira Levinson, and today, you will hear my love story. It isn’t the kind you might imagine. It’s not a story with heroes and villains, it is not a story of handsome princes or princesses yet to be. Instead, it’s a story about a simple man named Ira who met an extraordinary woman named Ruth. We met when we were young and fell in love; in time we married and made a life together. A story like so many others, except Ruth happened to have an eye for art while I had eyes only for her, and somehow this was enough for us to create a collection that became priceless to both of us. For Ruth, the art was about beauty and talent; for me, the art was simply a reflection of Ruth, and in this fashion, we filled our house and lived a long and happy life with each other. And then, all too soon, it was over and I found myself alone in a world that no longer made any sense.”

Sanders stopped to wipe his tears, and to Sophia’s surprise, she heard his voice begin to crack. He cleared his throat and Sophia leaned forward, suddenly interested in what Sanders was saying.

“This wasn’t fair to me. Without Ruth, I had no reason to go on. And then, something miraculous happened. A portrait of my wife arrived, an unexpected gift, and when I hung it on my wall, I had the strange sense that Ruth was watching over me once more. Helping me. Guiding me. And little by little, the memories of my life with her were restored, memories that were tied to every piece in our collection. To me, these memories have always been more valuable than the art. It isn’t possible for me to give those away, and yet—if the art was hers and the memories were mine—what was I supposed to do with the collection? I understood this dilemma but the law did not, and for a long time, I didn’t know what to do. Without Ruth, after all, I was nothing. I loved her from the moment I met her, and even though I’m gone, you must know that I loved her with the final breath I took. More than anything, I want you to understand this simple truth: Though the art is beautiful and valuable almost beyond measure, I would have traded it all for just one more day with the wife I always adored.”

Sanders studied the crowd. In their seats, everyone had gone still.

Something was happening, something out of the ordinary. Sanders seemed to realize this as well, and perhaps in anticipation, he seemed to choke up. He brought a forefinger to his lips before going on.

“Just one more day,” Sanders said again, letting the words hang before going on. “But how can I make all of you believe that I would have done such a thing? How can I convince you that I cared nothing about the commercial value of the art? How can I prove to you how special Ruth really was to me? How will you never forget that my love for her was at the heart of every piece we ever purchased?”

Sanders glanced at the vaulted ceiling, before coming back to all of them.

“Will the individual who purchased Portrait of Ruth please stand?”

By then, Sophia could barely breathe. Her heart was pounding as Luke rose to his feet. She felt the attention of the entire audience on him.

“The terms of my will—and the auction—are simple: I have decided that whoever bought the Portrait of Ruth would receive the art collection in its entirety, effective immediately. And because it is no longer mine to offer, the rest of the auction is hereby canceled.”

Chapter 33

Luke

Luke couldn’t move. As he stood in the back row, he sensed a stunned silence in the room. It took several seconds for Ira’s words to register, not only for Luke, but for everyone present.

Sanders couldn’t have been serious. Or if he had been serious, then Luke had misunderstood him. Because what it sounded like to Luke was that he’d just acquired the entire collection. But that wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible. Could it?

His thoughts seemed mirrored by the audience itself. He saw baffled expressions and frowns of incomprehension, people throwing up their hands, faces showing shock and confusion, maybe even betrayal.

And then, after that: pandemonium. It wasn’t the chair-throwing variety of riot witnessed so often at sporting events, but the controlled rage of the entitled and self-important. A man in the third row in the center section stood and threatened to call his attorney; another cried that he’d been brought here under false pretenses and would be calling his attorney as well. Still another insisted that fraud had been committed.

The outrage and anger in the room began to rise, first slowly and then explosively. More people rose to their feet and began shouting at Sanders; another group focused their attention on the silver-haired gentleman. On the far side of the room, one of the easels crashed to the ground, the result of someone storming from the room.

And then, all at once, faces began to turn to Luke. He felt the mob’s anger and disappointment and betrayal. But he also sensed in some of them a pointed suspicion. In still others, there glinted the light of opportunity. An attractive blonde in a form-fitting business suit edged closer, and then all at once, seats were pushed aside as throngs of people began to rush toward Luke, everyone calling out at once.

“Excuse me...”

“Can we talk?”

“I’d like to schedule a meeting with you...”

“What are you going to do with the Warhol?”

“My client is particularly interested in one of the Rauschenbergs...”

Instinctively, Luke grabbed Sophia’s hand and pushed back his chair, making room for their escape. An instant later, they were dashing toward the door, the audience in pursuit.

He pushed open the doors, only to find six security guards standing behind two women and a man wearing badges of the sponsoring auction house. One of them was the same attractive woman who had taken his information and almost all the cash he’d had in his wallet.

“Mr. Collins?” she asked. “My name is Gabrielle and I work for the auction house. We have a private room for you upstairs. We anticipated that it might get a little hectic, so we made special arrangements for your comfort and security. Would you please follow me?”

“I was thinking of just heading to my truck . . .”

“There’s some additional paperwork, as you can probably imagine. Please. If you wouldn’t mind?” She gestured toward the hallway.

Luke looked back at the approaching crowd. “Let’s go,” he decided.

Still clutching Sophia’s hand, he turned and followed Gabrielle, flanked by three of the guards. Luke realized that the others had remained behind to keep the audience from following them. He could vaguely hear them shouting at him, bombarding him with questions.

He had the surreal impression that someone was playing a practical joke on him, though to what end, he had no idea. It was crazy. All of this was crazy . . .

Their group turned the corner and headed through a door leading to the staircase. When Luke turned to peek over his shoulder, he realized that only two of the guards remained with them; the other stayed behind to guard the door.

On the second floor, he and Sophia were led to a set of wood-paneled doors, which Gabrielle opened for them.

“Please,” she said, ushering them into a spacious suite of rooms, “make yourselves comfortable. We have refreshments and food inside, along with the catalog. I’m sure you have a thousand questions and I can assure you that they will all be answered.”

“What’s going on?” Luke asked.

She raised an eyebrow. “I think you already know,” she said, without directly answering the question. She turned toward Sophia and offered her hand. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

“Sophia,” she said. “Sophia Danko.”

Gabrielle tilted her head. “Slovakian, yes? A beautiful country. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Then, turning to Luke again: “The guards will be posted outside the room, so you don’t have to worry about anyone disturbing you. For now, I’m sure you have a lot to think about and discuss. We’ll leave you alone for a few minutes to review your collection. Would that be all right?”

“I guess,” Luke said, his mind still spinning. “But—”

“Mr. Lehman and Mr. Sanders will be in shortly.”

Luke lifted an eyebrow at Sophia before surveying the well-appointed room. Couches and chairs surrounded a low, round table. On the table stood an assortment of drinks, including a bucket of champagne on ice, a platter of sandwiches, and a sliced fruit and cheese selection on a crystal dish.

Next to the table lay the catalog, opened to a particular page.

Behind them, the door closed and Luke found himself alone with Sophia. She glanced at him, then cautiously approached the table and studied the open catalog page.

“It’s Ruth,” she said, touching the page. He watched as she ran her finger lightly over the photograph.

“This can’t really be happening, can it?”

She continued to stare at the photograph before turning toward him with a dazed and beatific smile. “Yes,” she said, “I think it’s really happening.”

+++

Gabrielle returned with Mr. Sanders and Mr. Lehman, whom Luke recognized as the silver-haired gentleman who’d presided over the auction.

After Sanders introduced himself, he took a seat in the chair and blew his nose in a linen handkerchief. Up close, Luke noticed the wrinkles and bushy white eyebrows; he suspected the man was somewhere in his mid-seventies. Yet a hint of mischief underlay his expression, making him seem younger.

“Before we begin, let me address the first and most obvious question that I’m sure you’ve been pondering,” Sanders began, resting his hands on his knees. “You’re probably wondering, Is there a catch? Did you, by purchasing the Portrait of Ruth, indeed inherit the entire collection? Am I correct?”

“That’s pretty much it,” Luke admitted. Ever since the commotion in the auditorium, he’d felt utterly at sea. This setting . . . these people . . . nothing could have felt more foreign to him.

“The answer to your question is yes,” Sanders said in a kindly voice. “According to the terms of Ira Levinson’s will, the purchaser of that particular piece, Portrait of Ruth, was to receive the entire collection. That is why it was offered for sale first. In other words, there is no catch. There are no strings attached. The collection is now yours to do with as you wish.”

“So I could ask you to just load it up in the back of my truck and I could bring it all back to my house? Right now?”

“Yes,” Sanders answered. “Though considering the size of the collection, it would likely take a number of trips. And given the value of some of the artwork, I would recommend a safer mode of transportation.”

Luke stared at him, dumbfounded.

“There is, however, an issue which you will have to consider.”

Here it comes, Luke thought.

“It concerns estate taxes,” Sanders said. “As you may or may not be aware, any bequest in excess of a certain amount is subject to taxation by the United States government, or the IRS. The value of the collection is far in excess of that amount, which means that you now have substantial tax obligations that you will have to meet. Unless you’re worth a fortune—and a large fortune at that—with substantial liquid assets to cover these taxes, you will most likely have to sell a portion of the collection to meet them. Perhaps even half of the collection. It depends, of course, on which pieces you choose to sell. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I think so. I inherited a lot and I’ve got to pay taxes on it.”

“Exactly. So, before we go any further, I’d like to ask whether you have an estate attorney with whom you prefer to deal. If not, I am happy to make recommendations.”

“I don’t have anyone.”

Sanders nodded. “I suspected you didn’t—you’re rather young. That’s fine, of course.” He dug in his pocket for a business card. “If you call my office on Monday morning, I will provide a list. You are not required, of course, to use any of the names I suggest.”

Luke inspected the card. “It says here that you’re an estate attorney.”

“I am. In the past, I served in other areas, but estate work suits me these days.”

“Then could I hire you?”

“If you wish,” he said. He motioned toward the others in the room. “You’ve already met Gabrielle. She’s a vice president of client relationships at the auction house. I also wanted you to meet David Lehman. He’s the president of the auction house.”

Luke shook his hand and exchanged pleasantries before Sanders went on.

“As you can probably imagine, arranging the auction in this manner was . . . challenging in many respects, including a financial one. Mr. Lehman’s auction house is the one that Ira Levinson preferred. While you are not obligated to use them in the future, as Ira and I were working out the details, he asked me to request that the purchaser strongly consider his preexisting relationship with them. They are considered one of the top auction houses in the world, which I think your own research will bear out.”

Luke searched the faces surrounding them, reality slowly sinking in. “Okay,” he said. “But I couldn’t make that kind of decision without talking to my attorney.”

“I think that’s a wise decision,” Sanders said. “Though we’re here to answer any questions, I would recommend you retain an attorney sooner rather than later. You will benefit from a professional to guide you through what will likely be a rather complicated process, not just concerning the estate, but other areas of your life as well. After all, you are now, even after you pay the taxes, an incredibly wealthy man. So please, ask any questions you wish.”

Luke met Sophia’s eyes, then turned back to Sanders.

“How long were you Ira’s attorney?”

“Over forty years,” he answered with a trace of wistfulness.

“And if I hire an attorney, that attorney would represent me to the best of his or her ability?”

“Since you are their client, they would be obligated to.”

“So maybe,” Luke said, “we should just get that out of the way right now. How do I hire you? In case I want to talk to Mr. Lehman here?”

“You’d need to provide me with a retainer.”

“How much would that be?” Luke wrinkled his brow in concern.

“For now,” Sanders said, “I think a single dollar would be sufficient.”

Luke drew a long breath, finally coming to terms with the enormity of it all. The wealth. The ranch. The life he could create with Sophia.

With that, Luke pulled out his wallet and inspected its contents. There wasn’t much left after purchasing the portrait, just enough to buy a couple of gallons of gasoline.

Or maybe less, since he used part of it to retain Howie Sanders.

Epilogue

In the months that followed the auction, Luke sometimes felt himself to be acting out a part in a fantasy that someone else had scripted for him. On David Lehman’s recommendation, another auction had been scheduled for mid-June, this time in New York. Yet another had been scheduled for mid-July, and another in September. The sales would include the majority of the collection, more than enough to cover any taxes that were due.

On that first day, with Gabrielle and David Lehman in the room, Luke also explained the situation with the ranch, watching as Sanders took notes. When Luke asked if there was any way he could access the money he needed to pay off the mortgage, Sanders excused himself from the room, only to return fifteen minutes later, where he calmly explained to Luke that the senior vice president of the bank with whom he had spoken was open to extending the lower payments for another year and perhaps even deferring the interest payments entirely for the time being, if that was Luke’s preference. And in light of Luke’s newly affluent circumstances, the bank would consider extending a line of credit for any improvements he wanted to make as well.

All Luke could do was choke out a couple of words. “But . . . how?”

Sanders smiled, that glint of mischief surfacing again in his eyes. “Let’s just say that they would like to strengthen their relationship with a loyal customer who has suddenly come into means.”

Sanders also introduced him to a number of money managers and other advisers, sitting next to him during the interviews, asking questions that Luke barely understood, much less thought to ask. He helped Luke begin to grasp the complexities that went along with wealth, reassuring him that he would be there to assist him in all that he would need to learn.

Despite how overwhelmed he sometimes felt, Luke was the first to admit there were far worse problems to have.

+++

Initially, his mom didn’t believe him, nor would she believe Sophia. First she scoffed, then after he reiterated what had happened, she grew angry. It wasn’t until he called their local bank and asked for the senior vice president that she began to accept that he might not be kidding.

He put her on the phone with the bank officer, who reassured her that she needn’t worry about the loan for the time being. While she showed little emotion during the call, answering in monosyllables, after she hung up she drew Luke into her arms and wept a little.

When she pulled back, however, the stoic mother he knew was once again in place.

“They’re being generous now, but where were they when I really needed them?”

Luke shrugged. “Good question.”

“I’m going to take them up on their offer,” she announced, wheeling around. “But once that loan is paid back in full? I want you to find another bank.”

Sanders helped him with that, too.

+++

Sophia’s family came down from New Jersey for her graduation, and Luke sat with them on that warm spring day, cheering as she crossed the stage. Afterward, they went out to dinner, and to his surprise, they asked if they could visit the ranch the following day.

Luke’s mom put him to work all morning, both inside and outside the house, tidying up while she made lunch. They ate at the picnic table in the backyard, Sophia’s sisters alternately gaping at their surroundings and staring at Sophia, no doubt still trying to figure out how Luke and Sophia had ended up together.

Yet they all seemed remarkably comfortable together, especially Sophia’s mom and Linda. They talked and laughed as they toured the ranch, and when Luke turned toward the garden, it warmed his heart to see the straight, neat rows of vegetables that his mom had just planted.

+++

“You could live anywhere, Mom,” Luke said to her later that night. “You don’t have to stay on the ranch. I’ll buy you a penthouse in Manhattan if you want one.”

“Why would I want to live in Manhattan?” she asked, making a face.

“It doesn’t have to be Manhattan. It could be anywhere.”

She stared out the window, at the ranch where she’d been raised.

“There’s no place I’d rather live,” she said.

“Then how about you let me get things fixed up around here. Not piecemeal, but all at once.”

She smiled. “Now that,” she said, “sounds like a first- rate idea.”

+++

“So, are you ready?” Sophia asked him.

“For what?”

After graduation, Sophia had gone back home to stay with her parents for a week before returning to North Carolina.

“To tell me what happened in South Carolina,” she said, fixing him with a determined expression as they walked into the pasture in search of Mudbath. “Did you ride Big Ugly Critter? Or walk away?”

At her words, Luke felt himself flashing back to that wintry day, one of the bleakest points in his life. He remembered walking toward the chute and staring at the bull through the slats; he recalled the current of fear surging through him and the taut bowstrings of his nerves. And yet, somehow, he forced himself to do what he’d come to do. He mounted Big Ugly Critter and adjusted his wrap, trying to ignore the pounding in his chest. It’s just a bull, he told himself, a bull like any other. It wasn’t and he knew it, but when the chute gate swung open and the bull exploded out of the gate, Luke stayed centered.

The bull was as violent as ever, bucking and twisting like something possessed, yet Luke felt strangely in control, as if he were observing himself from some distant remove. The world seemed to move in slow motion, making it feel like the longest ride of his life, but he stayed low and balanced, his free arm moving across his body to maintain control. When the horn finally sounded, the crowd surged to its feet, roaring its approval.

He quickly undid the wrap and jumped off, landing on his feet. In a replay of their prior encounter, the bull stopped and turned, nostrils flaring, his chest heaving. Luke knew that Big Ugly Critter was about to charge.

And yet, he didn’t. Instead, they simply stared at each other until, incredibly, the bull turned away.

“You’re smiling,” Sophia said, interrupting his thoughts.

“I guess I am.”

“Which means...what?”

“I rode him,” Luke said. “And after that, I knew I was ready to walk away.”

Sophia nudged his shoulder. “That was dumb.”

“Probably,” Luke said. “But I won myself a new truck.”

“I never saw a new truck,” she said, frowning.

“I didn’t take it. I took the cash instead.”

“For the ranch?”

“No,” he said. “For this.”

From his pocket he removed a small box, and dropping to one knee, he presented it to Sophia.

He heard her sharp intake of breath. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Open it,” he said.

She did, slowly opening the lid and focusing on the ring.

“I’d like to marry you, if you think that would be okay.”

She looked down at him, eyes shining. “Yeah,” she said, “I think that would be okay.”

+++

“Where do you want to live?” she asked him later, after they’d told his mom. “Here on the ranch?”

“In the long run? I don’t know. But for now, I like it here. The question is, do you?”

“Do you mean, do I want to live here forever?”

“Not necessarily,” Luke said. “I was just thinking we might stay until things get settled. But after that? The way I figure it, we could live just about anywhere we want. And I’m thinking now—with a major bequest or gift, let’s say—you could probably get a job in the museum of your choice.”

“Like in Denver?”

“I’ve heard there’s a lot of ranch land out that way. There’s even ranching in New Jersey. I checked.”

She cast her gaze upward before coming back to him. “How about we just see where life takes us for a while?”

+++

That night, as Sophia lay sleeping, Luke left the bedroom and wandered out to the porch, relishing the lingering warmth from the day. Above him, half the moon was visible, the stars spreading across the sky. A light wind was blowing, carrying with it the sound of crickets calling from the pastures.

He looked upward, staring into the dark reaches of the heavens, thinking about his mom and the ranch. He still had trouble fathoming the path his life had suddenly taken, nor could he reconcile it with the life he once had lived. Everything was different, and he wondered whether he would change. He found himself being drawn frequently to memories of Ira, the man who changed his life, the man he never really knew. To Ira, Ruth meant everything, and in the quiet darkness, Luke pictured Sophia asleep in his bed, her golden hair spread over the pillow.

Sophia, after all, was the real treasure he’d found this year, worth more to him than all the art in the world. With a smile, Luke whispered into the dark, “I understand, Ira.” And when a shooting star passed overhead, he had the strange sense that Ira had not only heard him, but was smiling down on him in approval.

—The End—

From The Longest Ride by Nicholas Sparks. Copyright © 2013 by Willow Holdings, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Grand Central Publishing, a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc., New York, NY, U.S.A. All rights reserved.