The Art of Inheriting Secrets(85)

Today, I would be true to that quest no matter who disapproved of me.

It was amazing how much more attractive I looked in the mirror after thinking that, as if I were looking at myself through the eyes of my mother—which made it possible to remember Samir and the way he kissed me, as if kissing were a secret potion and the touch of lips were the only way to capture it. I thought of his reverent adoration of my body. I thought of how I felt when I was with him.

His mother’s disdain tried to creep in, but I pushed it away. I was in love with him, and he was—I was quite sure—smitten with me too. That was what I needed to carry with me, a fire lending light to my face as I confronted a man who was now my enemy.

Grant sat in the breakfast room with his phone and a full English breakfast. He’d showered and pulled himself together, so it was easier to remember what I’d once seen in him. His hair was thick and brown, his face square, strong, intelligent.

The girl on duty recognized me. “Hullo, Lady Shaw. Pot of tea?”

“Not today, thanks.” I pulled out a chair at Grant’s table. “Do you mind if I join you?”

He waved a hand toward the chair. “I don’t know what we have to say to each other after yesterday.”

“Just listen. I thought about what you said—that you’d be fair in these circumstances. Maybe I’ve been caught in my own grief and just haven’t been thinking clearly.”

He spread strawberry jam over a generous slice of toast. “Is that guy the reason you broke up with me?”

“No.” I said it as clearly and firmly as I could. “I told you the reasons, and I meant them.”

“What is he, like, twenty-five?” His gold-green eyes, once so lionlike and intriguing, met mine coldly over the toast. “The benefits of being a rich bitch, I guess.”

“Please, Grant, let’s not do this.” I kept my voice low, glancing over my shoulder at the others in the room. “Why don’t we take a walk?”

He tossed the toast down on the plate. “Fine.”

Outside, I led us, walking in stiff silence, to the churchyard with its view of Rosemere. In the bright summery sun, it was stunning, all gleaming stone surrounded with forest and fields of yellow rapeseed, so bright it looked as if cans of paint had been spilled across the landscape. I sat down on a bench. “Please join me.”

With a slight huff, he did, but the artist in him couldn’t resist the view. “God, I’d love to paint this.”

“You should.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He leaned back, weary. I felt him watching me. His fingers touched my arm. “Jesus, Olivia, I really miss you. I might have blown it, but I didn’t mean to. I still love you. We’ve been good together for a long time.”

“We were good,” I said. “I didn’t mean to blindside you, honestly. But it’s been over for a while. I thought you knew it, too, but maybe I was wrong about that.”

He nodded, brought his hands together, and laced them between his knees. “So why’d you come see me?”

“Let’s settle all of this. Nancy has sold the house. We just have to come to an understanding, and we’ll both have the money we want.”

“We?”

“Yeah. Let’s figure out something that’s fair to us both. I have repairs to do on that white elephant of a house.” I gestured toward it. “It looks so beautiful from here, but it’s a mess from top to bottom.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I’m offering a third of the West Menlo Park house, after taxes.”

He straightened, shaking his head. “Half.”

“You were willing to settle for a third the last time we talked!”

“Changed my mind. I’m going for the full half.”

I pinched my nose, trying to stay calm. “Grant, I need that money. And you know it’s technically mine.”

“Is it, though?” He made it sound so reasonable. “If we’d been married all this time, would you feel the same way?”

I took a moment to think about that. “Yes. I think I would. The house belonged to my mother, and I inherit whatever she leaves behind, and I’m offering you a third of that.”

“No, you’re offering a third of the house. That doesn’t come anywhere close to the estate. Not including this estate, which has to be worth a pretty penny.”

“It’s not. There’s no money left. It’s a wreck of a house.”

“On land that’s—what? A half hour from central London on the train?”

“Only if I sell it will there be any money in it.”

“So sell it.”

“I’m not doing that,” I said and realized that I meant it. Fiercely.

“Still, how much are your mother’s paintings worth? Another mil, easy.”

“I don’t want to sell them.”

“You’re gonna have to make some choices, Olivia. You don’t get to have everything your way.”

“You have no right to any of this!” I cried, slapping a hand on my thigh. “You practically deserted me, and now, only when there’s something in it for you do you want to make things right.” I stood. “I’m offering you a third of the house in West Menlo Park. Take it or leave it.”