The Art of Inheriting Secrets(55)

“She must have been much younger when she did these,” Helen said. “It’s a very simple form of the kind of detail work she did later.”

We went through them, not every single page, but getting a feeling for each one and what my mother had been working on with each. Here were fields, trees, clouds. This one continued the study of birds and squirrels, going into much more detail. Another held eyes of all sorts—human and animal. Here was where the study of the black-and-white cats had begun, I thought. Their eyes looked out from page after page, often with a whimsical expression. I wondered how she’d captured that and studied one for a long moment before turning the page.

And there were my own eyes, looking up at me. I cried out, startled, but of course they weren’t mine. They were my grandmother’s, penetrating, direct, and yet guarded. Eyes that hid secrets, I thought.

“Why did Violet divorce her second husband?”

“It’s no secret. They were extremely incompatible. The fights were legendary. He finally grew weary of her and divorced her.”

“I wonder if he’s still alive.”

“Doubtful. He was older than Violet, and she’d be . . . almost a hundred by now.” She sucked in her breath. “Look at this.” She held up the sketchbook to show a densely drawn page of a dark forest—alive with eyes. Eyes in the leaves. Eyes in the trunks. Eyes in the very rocks on the ground.

It was terrifying.

What was in the forest?

On my way back to the flat, I walked over to the small local supermarket that served the village. It was always busy, at its worst late in the afternoon when everyone crowded in on the way home from work and school runs to pick up milk and bananas and cereal for breakfast. All I wanted today was strawberries, and there they were—the same robust beauties Helen had served. I filled two bags with them and lugged them to the counter. The woman in front of me eyed them but didn’t say anything.

As I carted the berries down the street to Coriander, dark clouds gathered over the soft green hills behind the main street. I’d walked there several times now along the grassy crest, with views of the surrounding countryside for miles. It amazed me how empty the area appeared from there—I knew well there were thousands and thousands of people, but the topography and the trees hid them from view, offering instead the illusion of nothing but farmland and sheep.

The back door of Coriander was propped open to the breeze, as I’d learned. In the kitchen, the radio was tuned to an alt-rock station. A prep cook skinned garlic cloves, and a dishwasher stacked plates. “Upstairs,” the prep cook said, pointing with his knife.

“I’m here,” Pavi said, appearing from the stairway. “Oooh, what did you bring me?”

“Strawberries.” I settled one of the bags on the counter. “I’m not sure these will be as great as the ones Helen picked up from the farm stand, but holy cow, they are amazing.” I plucked one out and tasted it. Closed my eyes. “Yep.” I gave her one. “Taste.”

Her eyes shone with laughter as she complied. As she tasted it, she nodded. “It is a good strawberry.”

“But?”

“It tastes like a strawberry to me. Am I missing something?”

“No! I think it’s me who has been missing something. Forever. This, these.” I held one up. “I’m going to eat nothing but strawberries until the season is over.”

She laughed. “Give me those. I’ll make some lassi for my dad.” Tying a yellow apron around her body, she said, “Have you learned to drive yet?”

“Nope. Which means I have to beat the rain. Bye.”

“Bye.”

On the way out the door, I saw Samir strolling toward the door in his loose-limbed way. I lifted a hand and turned abruptly left, heading away so that he didn’t feel cornered.

In my pocket, my phone buzzed. I took it out and read, A quiver of cobras.

I turned around. He had his phone in his hand. A breeze rustled his hair, tumbling the curls this way and that. Holding his phone one hand, he thumbed a text.

It popped up on my screen. A lamentation of swans.

Something about that plucked my heart, and I held the phone in my hand, looking at him across the space. Both of us frozen. Confused, probably. I typed, I’m lamenting your absence.

Me too. Your friendship.

I looked at him. Stop being mad at me.

He typed back, I’m over it.

Good, I typed. I really need someone to come inside that big creepy house with me.

He laughed, and I could hear it across the parking lot, the sound as welcome as a song. It broke the freeze, and at the same moment we walked toward each other, meeting in the middle. My stomach ached a little with looking at him, and I couldn’t help flashing back to the way I had sunk into his mouth, how my blood had changed with that kiss. Against my throat, I felt the ghostly imprint of his thumb.

I said, “A leap of leopards.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Have you been saving that?”

“Yes.” The wind blew my hair in my face, his hair in his face, and we both reached for the offending locks and pushed them away. “I’ve also been ever so casually dropping by the restaurant most days, hoping I would run into you.”

“You did? You could have texted me. Called me.”

“I tried that. Took a person a long time to respond.”