The Art of Inheriting Secrets(14)

Happy? She had always been so private, so utterly practical about things, that happiness would have been superfluous. “She seemed to be. Her paintings were very successful, and she had her friends and me.”

“Your father?” She sat straight up. “Sorry. Too far?”

“No. I’m glad to talk about her.” I sipped the hot, strong tea. “He died when I was a child. I don’t really remember him.”

“More tragedy. I’m so sorry.” Her face showed genuine regret, a bowed head. “She didn’t have the happiest childhood, you know.”

I was tired of saying all the things I didn’t know about my own mother, but no one would flee a happy life. I nodded.

“Helen!” a girl called from the counter. “Problem!”

“There’s my cue,” Helen said. “Come see me, love. I’d love to talk more about your mother. I adored her.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I will.”

I sipped my hot, sweet, milky tea, feeling myself settle, center. I couldn’t possibly stay in a state of high emotion, and there was a lot to get through in the next few days or weeks. Right this minute, I could enjoy this table in a bakery in a small English village. The place was clearing out, and the chelsea bun beckoned. It was a coil of pastry laced with currants and a hint of lemon zest, quite sweet. I gave it the attention it deserved, since a person couldn’t be pigging out on pastries and eggs and bacon all the time. Not me, anyway. Unlike my slender mother, I was built of rounder stuff, and I hadn’t been able to walk as much as was my habit.

In the meantime, the tea was excellent, served in a sturdy silver pot with a mug that didn’t seem to match any other mug on the tables. The room smelled of yeast and coffee and cinnamon and the perfume of a woman who had walked by. Light classical music played quietly. From the kitchen came voices engaged in the production of all the goods in the case. A rich sense of well-being spread through me, and I realized that my leg didn’t hurt at all.

As I stirred sugar into my second cup, a woman with dark hair came over. “I’m sorry to intrude,” she said, “but I am so excited to meet you, and Sam said you wouldn’t mind if I introduced myself if I saw you in town.”

“Sam?”

“I’m sorry—my brother. I’m Pavi Malakar.” Now that she said it, I could see the resemblance. Her hair was heavy and thick, though hers was straight, swinging in a bob that swept her shoulders. It was the same intense black, and she had the same enormous liquid eyes. “He said you were the editor of Egg and Hen magazine until recently. I am such a fan.”

“Wow.” I grinned, taking her hand. “I am so happy to meet someone who wants to talk to me about that world—I can’t even tell you.”

She grinned, and it gave her eyes a tilt. “I love your columns when you write about just one ingredient. The one about yams was amazing.”

“Thank you. That was one of my favorites, too, honestly.”

“I’ve always thought you should write one on coriander.”

For a moment, I let the idea settle, then deflected. “Ah, that’s right—you have a restaurant, don’t you?”

“I do.” She settled her second hand over mine. “You should come, let me cook for you.”

“I would love that.”

“How about Tuesday? It’s a slow night for us, usually.”

“Sure.”

“That’s great!” There was a musical lilt to the British accent that I hadn’t heard in Sam’s, and I wondered what made the difference. “Come at seven, yes? Do you know where it is?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. I can’t wait.” She swirled away to the counter, sending me a wave.

As I pulled on my coat, I wondered if Sam would be there. Samir, which he said he liked better.

At any rate, it would be great to get out, have a glass of wine, eat some non-pub-style food. It had been a while since I’d had a social evening of any ilk.

Haver’s office was located down a narrow alley that angled into an even narrower passageway. The pathways underfoot were cobblestones, uneven and slippery in the fog, and I kept a hand on the wall to be sure I didn’t lose my footing. It would be irritating to start feeling better and then reinjure the traumatized leg.

Anyway.

Haver’s office was at the dark end of the passage. The door was painted bright blue, as if to ward off the gloom. An older woman in a tidy, pale-yellow shirtwaist let me into the office and showed me to the two chairs tucked against a wall in the tiny room. “He’ll be right out. It’s been such a palaver getting caught up from the storm!”

“I can imagine. Thank you.” I pulled out my phone for something to do, but there was no Wi-Fi, and data would cost a fortune, so I tucked it back in my purse. Maybe it would be wise to look into a local phone if I planned to stay any length of time. “Can you tell me if there’s an electronics store close by?”

“Not in the village. You’ll have to go to Letchworth for that.”

“How far is that?”

“Only a few miles. Half hour, perhaps.”

I waited. Mulled over the information about the estate that I’d found online. Wondered how long it would take the prints of the paintings to arrive. I had an email that they’d been packed and readied for shipping. Nancy had arranged for a moving company to pack everything else in the house and settle it in a storage facility. The open house would be next weekend, Sunday. A week, then, to give myself a chance to figure out my next steps. I didn’t want to stay in the hotel forever—