The Stroke of Winter(32)

“Yes,” Tess said. “They all fit. Closed and locked.”

“Good,” Indigo said. “Don’t do anything with them. Just leave them in there. They sat inside Dad’s studio for all of these years undisturbed. They can sit in the safe a little longer until your mother and I can make the trip back to Wharton. We can make arrangements to come just as soon as—”

Tess shook her head. “Dad, this weather has been crazy. The worst winter here in a long time. You stay put until we can make sure you’re not going to get caught in another blizzard driving all the way to Wharton from the airport in Minneapolis.”

Indigo sighed aloud. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “I was thinking—the sale of these paintings is going to substantially change the foundation. I’ll meet with Eli to talk about it when we get there, but what I think we should do is bolster your and Eli’s personal accounts—your mother and I don’t need anything—and then figure out with Eli how best to use the rest of those funds. You should be in on those conversations, too. You get a say in how we use this money. And it goes without saying, honey, but I’m paying for all of the renovations on the house. That shouldn’t come out of your pocket.”

“Oh, Dad, no, I—”

“I don’t want to hear another word about it, okay? You just hire whoever you need to hire to transform that studio into an owner’s suite for yourself. You have my blessing to do it. It’s about time.”

Tess’s stomach knotted at the thought of it. Yes, renovating the studio had been her plan. But after the previous night? Now she wasn’t so sure. And what the foundation was going to do with the money from the sale of the paintings was the last thing on her mind.

But she said, “Thanks, Dad,” anyway.

“So, what are the images in the paintings?”

Tess’s stomach tightened. The words caught in her throat as she tried to get them out. “Scenes from Wharton,” she said, her voice wavering just a bit. “Streetscapes at night. There’s a portrait of a woman. And an image of the cliff at night. They’re kind of . . .”

“Kind of what?”

“Disturbing, I guess you’d say.”

“Hmm,” Indigo said. “It’s true Dad could get a little dark. Maybe he was exploring that side of his creativity.”

“Maybe,” Tess said. “And you’ve never seen them before? You didn’t know they were in there?”

“I had no idea, honey,” her father said. “If I had, they’d have been in the safe or sold long ago.”

That made sense. But why would her grandmother have stashed them away? She was going to ask her father, but for some reason, she bit her tongue. Not now. When he was here, in person, and could see them for himself.

“Now,” Indigo began. “You said you had something else to mention.”

Tess cleared her throat. And down the rabbit hole she went. “Okay, you might think this is a strange thing to ask, but, Dad, is this house haunted?”

Her father huffed. “Haunted? No. Not that I know of. I’ve certainly never thought—I mean, sweetie, you know I grew up there.” And then, to Tess’s mother: “Tess thinks La Belle Vie is haunted.” The tone of his voice was one of amusement.

“Haunted?” she heard her mother say. And then laughter.

So, that was how it was going to be, then. Tess understood the subject was closed. Her parents had a certain set way about them. Talk of hauntings, ghosts, or anything unexplainable wasn’t exactly on their roster of acceptable conversation. Another reason to not mention more about her thoughts about the paintings.

So, she chatted with her parents for a bit about other things—doings in Florida, what Eli had been up to, the latest news of the world, something about a bridge tournament they were participating in—and soon they hung up.

Tess pushed herself up from the sofa and wandered over to the window. It looked cold outside. The snow had the sort of bluish hue that always seemed to reflect out on the coldest of days. Not a single car was driving down the streets that Tess could see. It was like Wharton was a ghost town.

She made her way back into the kitchen and turned on the flame under the kettle. Tea sounded like just the thing. And then what?

Tess looked around for Storm. He was usually by her side. But now he was nowhere to be seen. She carried her tea mug up the back stairs, somehow knowing where he would be. She found the dog lying in the hallway outside the still-open door to the studio. Not growling. Not threatening. Just lying there. A sentry.

She peered over his shoulder into the studio. With the paintings gone, it was just a room in disarray.

“What do you think, Storm?” she asked the dog, scratching behind his ears. “Should we clean it up?”

A moment later, she was opening the closet at the end of the hall, at the top of the back stairs. Her family always kept cleaning supplies there for the second floor so they wouldn’t have to haul brooms and dust mops from the kitchen all the way up the stairs.

She grabbed a spray bottle of wood cleaner, a broom, and several bags and started back down the hall. Storm scrambled to his feet and followed her into the studio, where she set about gathering all the bottles, dried paint canisters, papers, and other debris that had been strewn around the room. She made the executive decision to throw away the glasses—many were broken anyway—instead of washing them. It felt a bit unseemly to think of using them again. They had been shut up, out of time, for decades. Who knew what might come from drinking out of them now?