The Art of Inheriting Secrets(75)

“Remarkable! Anything interesting? Shall we get them appraised, see what’s there?”

“Yes. I brought them to my apartment for safety’s sake—there’s a window broken in that room. I’ll take a look later today, and you can have your person appraise them whenever. She’s free in June?”

“We’re going to have to move a bit faster than that. I’ve sent out feelers for someone else.”

“All right. I also want to get that room cleared, get it all into storage so that I can go through it. Some of the paintings probably are valuable, but it’s the only place in the house that I’ve found much in the way of personal memorabilia, and I’d like to take my time sorting through it.”

“And so you should. Can I send Ian over to film you in the room this afternoon, before we clear it out?”

“Sure. I’ll be there doing some other things. He can text me. And I also heard that the skeleton is hundreds of years old, so we’re free to continue working. A local archeologist wants to examine the site, but that won’t interfere with the renovation.” I sipped more coffee, feeling the caffeine start to kick in. My stomach growled. Maybe I had time to get a pastry or two from Helen’s bakery before Pavi arrived. “What’s your news?”

“A couple of things, actually. We’ve tracked down your caretakers, who are not nursing a sick mother but enjoying a holiday home on the Black Sea.”

“What?”

“I suspect they had no intention of returning. Whatever little gig they were running was over the minute you arrived.” Someone murmured to her in the background. “It might be worth following that paper trail.”

“Right.” I’d talk to the accountant I’d hired about this too. “Thanks.”

“The other bit of news is more mystery than answers. My research team has been digging into your uncle’s history, and it appears that your uncle never went to India, or he did not return to any of the places he would have been known. He seems to have disappeared the summer of 1977.”

A sudden, intense shiver of apprehension zapped the back of my neck. “He must have gone somewhere.”

“Or he’s dead, which would be more likely.”

“Dead where, though?”

“That’s a very good question.” She paused. “I wonder . . . the girl who disappeared. Is it possible they were a love match, and they ran away together?”

I frowned. “It seems unlikely. She was only fifteen.”

“Just a thought. We’ll keep turning stones over. Maybe he went to America after your mother did.”

“If he did, I never met him.” The whole thing felt tawdry and depressing.

She must have heard something in my voice, because she said, “Chin up. It’ll all be right in the end.”

“I hope so. It just feels like one damned thing after another.”

Jocasta laughed. “Oh, my dear. It is.”

Pavi and I mapped out the major placement of the picnic by pacing the lawn, and we made sketches of where the three food trucks would set up. I’d hired a pony for children to ride. Picnic tables would be scattered in the shade of the chestnut trees. There would be booths for face painting and baked goods supplied by the local women’s guild. The garden club’s plant sale would close the rectangular space. “Looks good,” I said. “I’m starting to get excited.”

“Me too.” She planted her hands on her hips. “You should be proud of yourself, Lady Shaw, for reestablishing an old tradition.”

“Let’s see how it goes before you congratulate me.”

“It will be wonderful—you’ll see.” She slung a cloth bag over her shoulder diagonally. “Show me the rose gardens, will you? I want to harvest some petals for rosewater.”

We walked in the warm sunshine. Steam rose from a field in the distance, and the air was filled with the twittering of dozens of birds hidden in trees and fields. In the pocket of my sundress, my phone buzzed with a text. My heart gave a little jolt, as if I were seventeen, and I tugged it out so eagerly, it got tangled in the fabric of my pocket.

I am useless today, it read. I can only think of your skin.

That very skin flushed as if he were trailing his fingers over it. I swallowed and, slowing to type accurately, wrote, Lips. I can only think of your lips. Kissing you. A thousand times. A million.

Mmm. What would a gathering of kisses be?

A rain of kisses.

There was a long pause. Then, I shall look forward to that rain.

I glanced at Pavi. “Sorry.” I tucked the phone back in my pocket.

“You’re blushing,” she said.

I pressed my hands to my face. “Oh, I think it’s just hot.”

“Not particularly.”

I couldn’t look at her and kept walking, not at all sure what exactly I should do. Say.

“So,” she said, “you and Samir?”

“Hmm?”

“I have eyes. I saw you in the parking lot the other day. You were both practically on fire.”

“We were?”

“Incandescent,” she said. “And he didn’t come for dinner last night.”

We entered the garden, and the smell of roses hung in the warm air, spicy and sweet. One tall white blossom, a little past its peak, offered a perfume of oranges. I touched the delicate petals, plucked one to rub between my fingers, thinking of our fingertips, mine and Samir’s, touching in the car. It made me very slightly dizzy.