The Art of Inheriting Secrets(57)
“So let’s talk about a settlement. The house sold for three point four million. Give me a third, and I’ll give you the paintings and walk away.”
“Why should I?” The lavalike anger rose through my esophagus, choked me. “You deserted me.”
“You’re being dramatic. All I want is the apartment, Olivia, and you know I am not as successful as you or your mom.”
“That’s not my problem. That’s yours.” My hands were shaking with emotion. “And if you don’t back off, Mary has promised you will not sell your work in any gallery in the Bay Area.”
“It’s not the only market in the world.”
And, I realized, if he had the settlement, it wouldn’t matter. He could paint and travel and show if he felt like it—at least until he ran through the money. “Whatever. You’ll hear from my lawyer.”
“You could just settle, Olivia. Let’s just hammer out an agreement between the two of us and leave all the lawyers out. You’ll get your money, and I’m off your back. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that it’s mine, Grant. The apartment was mine, and you’re living there. The paintings are mine. The house is mine. Just hanging out with me for a few years doesn’t give you any rights.”
“We’ll see.”
I hung up, too angry to speak.
Alone in my village flat, I paced to the window and back to the tiny kitchen, then back to the window, trying to pull my emotions under control. I felt betrayed and furious and like a complete idiot. I never could have predicted this vindictiveness.
Rain was pouring by the buckets over the landscape, obscuring my view across the empty street. What if I just let him have the settlement? How much would be left? Was it worth it to make him go away?
Ugh. No. The very idea made me want to punch him in the face. What a leech! And what a fool I’d been for letting him get away with it for years and years. In sudden humiliation, I realized it had always been this way—that he’d always encroached, slowly, so slowly that I hardly noticed. First the rush to move in, where he painted on the upstairs deck, and then the inexorable move into the best room in the apartment for his studio. Our meals out had often been the result of my job—an interview I was conducting, a new hot restaurant who’d offered free passes.
Before the accident, that tension had become a point of conflict between us. He was painting, but not as much as he was holding forth at arty gatherings, and he wasn’t bringing in much money at all. Last year, I’d taken a research trip to Spain and left him at home. He’d been furious, of course, but I hadn’t budged. When I’d returned, he had been contrite, changed his attitudes, and I had thought we might be on a better track.
And then I’d wrecked the car.
Resting my forehead against the cool glass window, I wondered how long the money Haver had freed would last. I wondered where I’d get more if this dragged on. How could I keep going on the restoration if there was no money?
Tomorrow was my weekly luncheon with the earl. Perhaps it was time I asked for some help.
The earl’s driver swung around the circular drive in front of Marswick Hall, and the butler hurried out with a giant industrial-strength umbrella. The rain had briefly paused once or twice, but it was still pouring.
“Watch your step, my lady,” Robert said, steering me around a network of puddles at the foot of the steps and on the steps, places where the footsteps of centuries had worn away the stone. Even inside, there were several buckets in the grand foyer, two beneath the skylight in the center, another in a far corner. I looked up to see the old-fashioned skylight dripping a steady stream. Along the french doors at the rear lay a thick roll of cloth pressed against the base, and I gathered it was to keep out the rain. “Goodness.”
“The old girl needs repairs faster than we can address them,” the earl said, wheeling himself out in his chair. I’d learned that he used a wheelchair most of the time, but not if there were many guests about. He liked to appear strong, but his health was not particularly good. I’d figured out it was mostly heart, with a few side issues tossed in for good measure. Not a giant surprise when you were eighty-five.
“The rain is like Armageddon,” I said, bending to kiss his cheek. “I can’t imagine it rains like this all the time.”
“No,” he agreed, wheeling around to lead me down the hallway, where a woman mopped another spot. “My nephew says it’s global warming. I expect he’s correct.”
We entered his study, the same room where I’d first met him. Here we would have a pot of tea; then we’d be summoned to lunch in a bright alcove I loved, with a view of the estate. I poured, as he expected, and I didn’t mind the small sexism in it. He liked one sugar and lots of milk, while I preferred two sugars and just a swirl of milk.
“How are things going at Rosemere this week?” he asked.
“The most exciting thing is that the first episode of Restoration Diva will air next week. Wednesday night at seven.”
“Oh, my. That is exciting.”
I sipped hot tea delicately, glad of the warmth in the drafty room. “The actual work is progressing very well. They’ve cleared most of the debris from the south end of the first floor; they’ll be starting on the north side later this week. I was planning to take a trip over there to see how it looks, but . . .” I gestured toward the window.