Heroes Are My Weakness(94)

Annie collapsed in a chair, sick to her stomach. How had this gone so wrong? Or maybe it hadn’t. Even now, Jaycie could be lying to her.

But she wasn’t. Annie knew that.


ANNIE COULDN’T STAY AT HARP HOUSE, and she walked back to the cottage. Hannibal greeted her at the door and followed her into her bedroom, where she got rid of the gun. She picked him up and carried him to the couch. “I’m going to miss you, fella.”

Her eyes were scratchy from lack of sleep, and her stomach churned. As she stroked the cat for comfort, she gazed around her. Almost nothing was left for her to take when she left the island. The furniture was Theo’s, and without a kitchen of her own, she had no need for the cottage’s pots and pans. She wanted some of her mother’s scarves and the red cloak, but she’d leave the rest of Mariah’s clothes on the island. As for her memories of Theo . . . Somehow she’d have to figure out a way to leave them behind, too.

She blinked her eyes against the pain. Giving Hannibal one more scratch under his chin, she set the cat down and went over to the bookshelves, bare except for some tattered paperbacks and her old Dreambook. She felt defeated. Empty. As she picked up the scrapbook, one of the Playbills she’d saved fell out, along with some magazine photos of models wearing sleek hairstyles that, in a fit of teenage delusion, she’d thought she could achieve.

The cat wrapped himself around her ankles. She flipped through the pages and found a review she’d written herself of a play in which she’d been the imaginary star. All that youthful optimism.

She crouched down to retrieve the rest of the things that had fallen out, including two manila envelopes where she’d kept various certificates she’d earned. She looked inside one and saw a heavy piece of drawing paper. She pulled it out and gazed at a pen-and-ink sketch she couldn’t remember ever having seen. She opened the second envelope and found a matching drawing. She carried them toward the front window. Each had a signature in the bottom right corner. She blinked. N. Garr.

Her heart skipped a beat. She studied the signatures more closely, took in the sketches, looked at the signatures again. There was no mistake. These sketches had been signed by Niven Garr.

She began frantically searching her memory for what she knew about him. He’d made his mark as a postmodern painter, then ventured into photorealism a few years before his death. Mariah had always been critical of his work, which was odd considering that Annie had found three books with photographs of his paintings right here at the cottage.

She laid the sketches on the table where the light was the brightest. These drawings had to be the legacy Mariah had told her about. And what a legacy!

She sank into one of the spindle-backed chairs. How had Mariah gotten these, and why all the mystery? Her mother had never mentioned knowing him, and he certainly hadn’t been part of Mariah’s social circle in the days when she’d still had one. Annie examined the details. The drawings were dated two days apart. Both sketches were realistic renderings of a nude female, but despite the boldness of the ink lines and the precision of the shading, the depth of tenderness in the woman’s expression as she gazed at the artist gave the drawings a dreamy quality. She was offering him everything.

Annie understood this woman’s emotions as if they were her own. She knew exactly what that kind of love felt like. The model was long limbed—handsome, but not beautiful—with a strong-boned face and a mane of straight hair. She reminded Annie of old photographs she’d seen of Mariah. They had the same—

Annie’s hand flew to her mouth. This was Mariah. Why hadn’t she recognized her right away?

Because Annie had never seen her mother like this—soft, young, and vulnerable, her hard edges gone.

Hannibal jumped into Annie’s lap. Annie sat quietly, tears springing to her eyes. If only she could have known her mother back then. If only . . . Once again, she took in the date of the sketches—the year, the month. She calculated.

These were done seven months before she was born.

“Your father was a married man. It was a fling. Nothing more. I didn’t care for him at all.”

A lie. These were the drawings of a woman deeply in love with the man capturing her image. A man who, according to the dates, must have been Annie’s father.

Niven Garr.

Annie sank her fingers into Hannibal’s fur. She remembered photos she’d seen of Garr. His wildly curly hair had been his trademark—hair so unlike Mariah’s, so like Annie’s own. Annie’s conception hadn’t been the result of a fling, as her mother had said, and Niven Garr hadn’t been married at the time. His only marriage had come many years later, to his longtime male partner.

It all became clear. Mariah had loved Niven Garr. The tenderness evident in his depiction of her suggested he’d felt the same. But not enough. Ultimately he’d had to make peace with his true nature and leave Mariah behind.

Annie wondered if he knew he had a daughter. Had Mariah’s pride—or maybe her bitterness—caused her to conceal the truth from him? Mariah had been so dismissive of Annie’s childhood drawings, so disparaging of Annie’s curls and her childhood shyness. They’d been painful reminders of him. Mariah’s acrimony toward Garr’s paintings had nothing to do with his work and everything to do with the fact that she’d loved him more than he’d been able to love her.

Hannibal wiggled from Annie’s grip. These beautiful drawings of a woman in love would solve all her problems. They’d bring Annie more than enough money to pay off her debts several times over. She’d have the time and money to prepare for the next part of her life. The drawings would fix everything.