The Art of Inheriting Secrets(56)

He looked down. “Sorry.”

“Really, I’m the one who is sorry. I just—”

He held up a hand. “You can’t be mad at me for making a pass at a beautiful woman.”

I snorted, looked away, thinking of how much faster my skin would wrinkle than his, how much older I would look in ten years. It stung a little and seemed so foolish and roiled up my emotions all over again. Thunder rolled across the hills. “Can you teach me to drive?”

“Sure. We can start this weekend.”

“Really?” I caught my hair in my hand, twisting it to keep it from blowing. “Thank you.”

“You can tell me what’s going on with the house.” Wind pressed his shirt to his body, outlining his shoulders, his flat belly.

“Yes, of course.” Giddy, a little off-center, I spun toward my flat. “I have to beat the rain home. See you!”

I dashed home then, heart much lighter. The problem of the driving was finally going to be addressed. And Samir would teach me. We would sit together in a car, and he would teach me to drive.





Chapter Thirteen

When I got back to the flat, the remaining strawberries in hand, my mood tumbled quickly. Waiting in the inbox were two emails from my Realtor and one from my mother’s agent.

CALL ME. URGENT.

Glancing at the clock to be sure it was an agreeable time back in the Bay Area, I dialed Nancy first. “Hi, it’s Olivia Shaw. There’s a problem?”

“I take it that you’ve not yet received any legal notifications in the past twenty-four hours?”

My stomach dropped. “Notifications?”

“Yes. Your boyfriend filed a lawsuit to take half the money of the sale of the house.”

“What? How can he do that?”

“Anyone can do anything. It’s just a matter of what the courts will see as a nuisance and what will be seen as legitimate.”

“How can it possibly be legitimate?” Overhead, a crack of thunder practically split the house in two, and I jumped, glaring upward. “It’s my mother’s house. We are not together.”

“He’s making the claim that it’s community property, that he has a right to it under palimony laws.”

“Like common-law marriage or something?”

“Similar. California doesn’t recognize common-law marriage, but there is precedent for awarding a live-in partner settlements under a different set of laws.” She paused. “I suggest you get a lawyer immediately.”

“How? I’m thousands of miles away!” Blistering anger rose behind my eyes. “How dare he!”

“It’s a rotten move. If I were you, I’d be sure I was doing whatever I could to protect myself. We have a little time before closing, but don’t wait.”

“How much time?”

“It’s set for June 15.”

Just under a month. “All right. Thanks for the heads-up, Nancy.”

“You’re welcome. I’m sure you’ll get the official notification soon enough.” She sighed. “Keep me posted.”

“Will do.” I hung up and immediately called my mother’s agent. “Mary, what’s up?”

“I’ve received an injunction to forbid the movement or sale of any of your mother’s work. What the hell is going on?”

“I’ve broken it off with my boyfriend, Grant, and he’s going after my assets.”

“That loser. This is why I tell my women clients to never get involved with other artists. They’re always so damned self-centered.” The bitterness burned across the miles. Personal. “And Grant Kazlauskas is a piece of work.”

“I have to make some phone calls, find a lawyer to represent my interests there while I’m trying to figure things out here. I’ll give you a call as soon as I know what’s going on.” I thought of the triptych in my apartment, my mother’s best work, and it was mine. Tears stung the back of my eyes. “That bastard.”

“If it’s up to me, he won’t get another show anywhere in this town.”

“I’ll be sure and relay that information,” I said. “I’ll call you as soon as I can find someone to represent me.”

“A good divorce lawyer is William Veracruz. He handled the Bellingham divorce. She’s one of my clients, and he managed to work out a very favorable settlement. You can tell the office that I referred you.”

“Thanks.”

When we hung up, I fired up my laptop and ran a Google search for the lawyer’s name. The web page named an upscale office building, and I called immediately. The office assistant would not put me through, of course, so I left a message.

And then I called Grant, who answered on the second ring. As if he’d been waiting. “Hello, Olivia. I guess you’re not calling to reconcile.”

“Not in your wildest dreams. What are you doing? You know very well that this is wrong. My mother’s estate belongs to me. And I want my damned paintings. They’re important—” I broke off, biting my lip to keep the sudden recognition in. The triptych almost certainly held clues. I needed to get it back.

Instead, I said, “You know how upset I’ve been over her death, Grant. You didn’t love her. You’re only being mercenary.”