I Bought a Junk Painting, Lied It's Worth Millions, Father-in-Law Froze

You reek of money!

Ethan Pruitt slammed his chopsticks down on the rosewood table with a sharp crack.

The air in the private room froze on the spot.

I was still holding that thick stack of cash envelopes, about to hand them out to the aunts and cousins on the Pruitt side, and the smile locked onto my face. I couldn't hand them out, and I couldn't put them away.

The relatives around us traded glances. Some dropped their heads and drank their tea to cover the awkwardness; others just wore the look of people settling in to watch a show.

Sitting beside me, my wife, Yolanda Pruitt, went red with distress and gave her father's sleeve a quiet tug under the table. "Dad! Today's supposed to be a happy day, our dinner as a married couple. In front of all these relatives, what are you doing?"

Ethan Pruitt, veteran professor in the History Department at Sterling University, and a well-known "old scholar" in the antique world.

He pushed the gold-rimmed glasses up his nose and shot me a cold glance, the kind of look you'd give a badly made fake.

"A family dinner? Looks to me like you came to show off your money."

Ethan pointed at the envelopes in my hand, his voice heavy with grief and reproach. "Dick Finch, I know you've made a bit of money out there running your business. But look at yourself now. Every other word out of your mouth is a sales pitch, and you reek of new money from head to toe. This is a family of scholars, not your marketplace. Throwing cash at people? You think money buys respect? You think it buys culture?"

I drew in a deep breath and forced that whole bellyful of anger back down.

What could I do? He was the professor who'd flunked me in history four years running. And I was the one who'd carried off the precious daughter he'd spent more than twenty years raising.

Yolanda and I were college classmates.

Back then I was the notorious slacker, skipping class every day to run a startup and hawk goods from a street stall. And Ethan was the notorious "enforcer" of a professor, who took attendance every single class.

He failed me four times. I sat the makeup exam four times.

He liked to say, "Rotten wood cannot be carved."

And yet, of all people, his proudest daughter, that model student Yolanda, fell hopelessly in love with a piece of "rotten wood" like me.

The day we graduated, I proposed to Yolanda. Ethan was so furious he nearly threw an inkstone at me, and swore, "As long as I'm alive, don't you dare set foot in the Pruitt household!"

To prove myself, I worked like a madman those three years after graduation.

I caught the e-commerce wave, started from one small warehouse, and built the company up to over a hundred million a year in revenue.

I thought that once I had money, once I could give Yolanda the best life, Ethan would see me differently.

But reality slapped me hard across the face.

In his eyes I was still the class-skipping, uncultured slacker, now with a fresh label slapped on top: the man who reeked of money.

"Dad, Dick meant well..." Yolanda was still defending me.

"Meant well? Good intentions, bad results!" Ethan gave a cold snort. "Culture and refinement aren't something you can pile up with a few filthy dollars. Dick, if you really want me to think better of you, read more books and cut out all this flashy, empty nonsense!"

That dinner tasted like chewing wax from start to finish.

In the end, the envelopes I'd prepared never left my hand. I slunk them back into my bag.

On the drive home I kept my mouth shut, the new Cayenne humming under my hands.

The air in the car was heavy.

Yolanda sat in the passenger seat, sneaking glances at me. She peeled an orange, careful and quiet, and held a segment up to my lips.

"Honey, don't be upset. My dad's just like that. A lifetime of teaching turned him into a stiff old thing, way too high and mighty. But deep down he does approve of you. If he didn't, he never would've agreed to us getting married."

I bit into the orange and let out a bitter laugh. "Yol, do you think I really am kind of tacky?"

"Who says that!"

She fired back at once. "I love that you're tacky! What good are people who only know how to bury their heads in books? Can any of them do what you did, build a life with their own two hands, put me in a big house, give me a good life? And besides, in this world, without money you can't take a single step. My dad's thinking is straight out of the last century. Just ignore him."

Hearing my wife say that, a lot of that heaviness in my chest lifted.

But that's the thing about me. There's a stubborn streak buried deep.

The more Ethan Pruitt said I had no culture, the more he said I stank of money, the more I wanted to prove him wrong.

"No. I need to raise the cultural level of this house."

We got back to our new place, the one we'd just moved into, in the Royal Cove Estates, some of the priciest land in Sterling City.

I'd bought it as our wedding home, a flat over five thousand square feet, decorated to the hilt. European leather sofas, crystal chandeliers, marble floors, everything shouting I've got money.

But looking at it now, Ethan Pruitt wasn't entirely wrong.

The place did look a bit like a showroom for new money.

Especially that huge feature wall in the living room. We'd covered it in expensive imported wallpaper, and still it looked empty, missing some kind of soul.

"Babe, don't you think our wall here is missing something?" I pointed at it.

Yolanda took a look. "It is a little bare. How about we hang up our wedding photos?"

"Too tacky." I shook my head. "Since your dad says I've got no culture, let's put up something with culture. What about a piece of calligraphy or a painting? Ideally the kind that looks really old, with real depth to it. An ink-wash landscape!"

Yolanda laughed. "You know how to pick paintings? Don't let someone cheat you."

"Please. My eye for people is spot on. How far off could I be reading a painting? Tomorrow I'll go dig one up at the antique market. Then when your dad comes over, he can see I've got artistic taste too!"

Back then, I was acting purely out of spite and a need to show off.

I knew nothing about paintings. I couldn't even tell one category of traditional ink painting from another.

All I knew was that I wanted an old piece to hang on the wall, ward off bad luck, and shut my father-in-law up while I was at it.

But it never once crossed my mind that this fit of spite would stir up all the chaos that came after.

The next day happened to fall on the weekend.

I drove alone to the largest antique market in Sterling City.

The place was a mix of everything, honest and shady side by side. Guys with stuff spread on the ground, guys with real storefronts, all of it for sale. Fake bronzes, fake jade bangles, ceramics doctored to look old, piled up everywhere you looked.

I don't know antiques, but I know people.

Those fancy shops with the expensive fit-outs were obviously there to fleece guys like me, the kind wearing designer labels, the fat sheep. If I wanted something cheap that still had class, I had to hit the stalls on the ground.

I wandered the stall area for a good while, sweating through my shirt.

The stuff here looked absurdly fake. Some of the "antiques" had "microwave safe" stamped on the bottom. Some of the paintings were on paper so white it looked fresh off the factory line, like a stack of printer paper.

Just as I was about to give up, in a corner nobody was paying attention to, I spotted an old man.

He was wearing a ratty undershirt, dozing off. In front of him he'd laid out an oilcloth, and on it sat a messy heap of old books, lapel pins, and a few grimy-looking painting scrolls.

I picked up one of the scrolls.

The wooden roller was cracked, the paper yellowed and darkened, the edges chewed up by insects. I opened it and saw a few mountains, a few trees, the ink faint, almost blurred out. There were a couple of red seals stamped on it too, crooked and smudged, the characters impossible to read.

Honestly, the thing looked terrible.

At an auction house, this junk wouldn't have made it through the door.

But to me, that was exactly the proof it was real.

All the fakes were painted bright and gaudy. This one alone carried that beaten-down look of something that had been through it all.

That's what you call the beauty of imperfection.

"Old man, how much for this beat-up painting?" I nudged his little folding stool with the toe of my shoe.

He opened his eyes, the cloudy pupils rolling around, and held up five fingers. "Five grand."

"Five grand? You might as well rob me."

I tossed the painting on the ground. "Fifty."

"Kid, you even know how to haggle?" He got worked up. "This was handed down from the old dynasty! Fifty bucks wouldn't cover the paper it's printed on. Three grand, lowest I'll go!"

"A hundred."

"Two grand!"

"A hundred and fifty. Take it or I'm walking." I made like I was leaving.

"Hey, hey, hey! Come back!" He grabbed a fistful of my pant leg, looking pained. "I can tell you know your stuff, and I'm eager to close up and go home to my grandkid. Two hundred! Take it for two hundred! Can't go any lower than that!"

I laughed to myself.

Just like I figured. This whole market was pure fluff.

I cheerfully pulled out two bills and tossed them to him.

With those hands of his, caked in dirt, he stuffed the money into his pocket fast, like he was afraid I'd change my mind, then rolled up that ratty painting any which way, shoved it into a black plastic bag, and handed it over.

"Hold onto it now. All sales final."

I carried the black plastic bag home like I'd struck gold.

Two hundred bucks for an "old-dynasty antique." Sure, it was definitely fake, but a piece with this look hanging on the wall would be more than enough to fool an amateur.

As for the experts?

Who's got time to stand there studying the painting on my wall with a magnifying glass?

When I got home, Yolanda was arranging flowers in the living room.

She saw me walk in holding a ratty plastic bag and made a face. "What is that, groceries? Or did you go dumpster-diving?"

I gave a little laugh and set the bag down on the coffee table with an air of mystery.

"Yol, you've got no eye for this stuff. This is what they call a hidden treasure. You know the type. Cost me a fortune to track this baby down."

I carefully unrolled the beat-up painting.

The landscape was still a blur, the paper still yellowed, and it even carried a whiff of mildew.

Yolanda pinched her nose and leaned in for a look. "This? It's just some junky old painting. Look, the paper's practically rotted through. And this is a treasure?"

I thought of Ethan Pruitt and that condescending face of his, and a mischievous little urge rose up in me.

Yolanda didn't know anything about paintings anyway, so why not have some fun and let her be a little in awe of me for once.

I cleared my throat and started spinning nonsense with a completely straight face.

"Yol, this is where you don't get it. This painting came from a collector who'd fallen on hard times. Word is it's a genuine work by, oh, what's his name, a real old master."

"An old master? Like a legend?" Yolanda's eyes went wide.

"Exactly! That's the one!"

The more I made up, the smoother it came. "Look at these ink tones, this brushwork. This is what they call a brush that moves like a dragon! Sure, the paper's a little damaged, but that just proves how old it is! The seller needed the money fast to pay for his kid's medical bills, so he sold it to me even though it broke his heart."

Yolanda still thought the painting was ugly, but seeing how serious I looked, she actually started to buy it.

"So how much did you pay for it?"

I held up three fingers.

"Three thousand?" Yolanda asked.

"Think bigger."

"Th-thirty thousand?"

"Amateur!" I shook my head, lowered my voice, and put on a deep, weighty tone. "Three million!"

"How much?!"

Yolanda gasped so hard she nearly dropped the vase in her hands. "Three million?! For this piece of garbage?! God, are you out of your mind!"

"Shh! Keep it down!"

I clapped a hand over her mouth. "This is an investment! This is art! A painting like this could go for ten million at auction! I scored a steal, understand? This is our family heirloom, something to pass down to our son someday!"

Yolanda looked at the painting, and her whole expression changed in an instant.

From the disdain of a moment ago to something like reverence now.

She reached out a careful finger, wanting to touch it but not quite daring. "My God, three million. That's a whole Ferrari right there. Honey, you're amazing. You can even dig up a treasure like this."

Watching my wife look at me like that, my vanity was thoroughly satisfied.

"Of course. I'm your husband, aren't I."

I rolled the painting up, pleased with myself. "All right, this thing's far too valuable. We'll pick a good day, find a top master to have it mounted, then hang it on the wall. For now I'll put it away so it doesn't get damp."

Truth was, I was worried mounting would cost too much. Spending two thousand to mount a two-hundred-dollar painting made no sense. My plan was to go online later, buy one of those cheap frames for a few bucks, and just do it myself.

I stuffed the painting into a cabinet in the study and put the whole thing out of my mind.

Little did I know what kind of time bomb that offhand lie of mine had just planted in sweet, trusting Yolanda's heart.

About three days later.

That day something came up at the office, and I worked late, not getting home until past eight.

The moment I walked in, I felt it. Something was off.

Every light in the living room was blazing. On the coffee table sat a steaming pot of the finest aged whiskey, poured out and warm.

And there, planted dead center on the sofa, was that grim, humorless father-in-law of mine, the man who'd chewed me out just a few days ago until I didn't know which way was up. Ethan Pruitt.

Yolanda sat beside him like a good daughter, peeling grapes for him.

When Ethan saw me come in, he gave a cold snort and didn't so much as lift an eyelid.

Something in my chest dropped.

What was the old man doing here? What was this? A surprise inspection? Or had the last chewing-out not been enough, so now he'd come to my place for overtime?

"Dad, you're here."

I changed my shoes and forced myself over. "Have you eaten? I could have the housekeeper"

"No need."

Ethan cut me off, flat. "I didn't come here to eat."

He raised his head, and through those thick lenses his sharp eyes locked onto me, a mocking smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Dick. I hear you've done well for yourself lately?"

"Huh?" I was completely lost. "Dad, where's this coming from? I'm the same as I've always been."

Just then Yolanda cut in, her face lit up with excitement.

"Dad! Stop keeping him in suspense! I told Dick you're an expert, so I wanted you to come take a look!"

A bad feeling rose up in me.

"Take a look? A look at what?" My voice was shaking.

Yolanda stood, took my arm, and said proudly, "Honey, last time you said that painting was too valuable, that neither of us knew how to care for it. Dad happened to call today, so I mentioned it. The second he heard you'd spent three million on a genuine Taylor Hughes original, he got in a car and came right over!"

Boom.

A bolt of thunder split my skull.

I froze where I stood.

Three million? Taylor Hughes?

I was joking, wife! I was messing with you! How could you take that seriously? And then drag over your expert of a father!

I was finished.

This was swinging a broadsword in front of a master swordsman, waving an axe outside a carpenter's door.

If Ethan saw the two-hundred-dollar piece of junk I'd bought, and heard me brag it was a three-million-dollar original, he'd tear me apart. That label, no taste, showing off, getting fleeced like a pig at slaughter, I'd never live it down.

"About that, Dad. Yol heard wrong."

Cold sweat was running down my back. I threw Yolanda every desperate look I could, but she didn't catch a single one. "That's just something I grabbed off a street stall, some cheap knockoff, thirty, forty bucks. It's no original. Ha ha ha, I was joking"

"Joking?"

Ethan's face darkened. "Dick, three million and you call that a joke? Do you think money grows on trees, or do you just think Yol and I are easy to fool?"

"No, Dad, really, that's not it"

"Enough!"

Ethan slapped his thigh and put on his full expert bearing. "Whether it's the real thing, one look will tell. I've spent my whole life on historical relics, and I've never once been fooled. If it truly is a Taylor Hughes original, then you've done something remarkable this time, and I'll see you in a whole new light. And if it's a fakehmph."

He didn't finish. But that one hmph was more terrifying than anything.

"Honey, go get it, quick!" Yolanda urged. "Let Dad see it. This is your chance to prove your eye!"

I was riding a tiger with no way off, stuck coming and going.

Bring it out? A dead end.

Not bring it out? The way he looked, Ethan wasn't leaving until he saw that painting. He'd think I had something to hide.

"What's the dawdling for? Do I have to go fetch you myself?" Ethan was losing patience.

"Finefine, I'll get it."

Like a condemned man walking to the gallows, I shuffled into the study.

I opened the cabinet. The black plastic bag was still lying there, alone.

I looked at it, past tears.

God almighty, this wasn't a painting. This was my death warrant.

Nothing for it. Might as well treat a dead horse like it's still alive. When I brought it out, I'd swear up and down the seller had cheated me, take my punishment, own it. Even a full-blast tongue-lashing beat this standoff.

I carried the plastic bag back to the living room.

When Ethan saw the black plastic bag in my hand, the kind you'd toss trash in, his brows knotted tighter and the contempt in his eyes thickened.

"A three-million-dollar painting, and you keep it in that?" He sneered.

"Thisit's moisture-proof." I made it up on the spot.

I took the painting out, laid it on the coffee table, steeled myself, and shut my eyes. "Dad, take a look. Let me say up front, if I misjudged, don't be angry."

Yolanda leaned in at once and carefully helped unroll the scroll.

The scroll spread open, inch by inch.

That yellowed, damaged paper, that blurry, indistinct landscape, that crooked, lopsided seal, all of it laid bare under the bright lights.

Head down, I didn't dare look at Ethan's face. I'd braced myself for a storm of ridicule.

I could already picture him jabbing a finger in my face. "Idiot! This isn't worth two hundred bucks! It's street-stall garbage!"

One second.

Two seconds.

Ten seconds passed.

The living room was dead silent.

The scolding I'd expected never came.

Even Yolanda felt something was wrong. "Dad? Why aren't you saying anything? Is the painting a fake? I said Dick got cheated"

Confused, I lifted my head.

And when I did, I stopped short.

Ethan sat frozen on the sofa, as if some pressure point had locked him in place.

The mockery on his face was long gone. In its place was a shock I'd never seen from him before, something closer todread?

His eyes were round and staring, fixed hard on one corner of that ruined painting.

The hand that had been so composed a moment ago, steady as a mountain, was trembling violently now.

He reached toward the painting, then stopped, hand hovering in the air, shaking, as though he feared damaging some priceless treasure.

His breathing turned ragged, his chest heaving, his face flushed red.

"Dad? What's wrong? Don't scare me!" I was starting to panic. Please don't let the old man be having a stroke over this.

Ethan's head snapped up, his eyes bloodshot, and he stared straight at me, his voice rasping like a man who'd gone three days without water in the desert.

"Wherewhere did you get this painting?"