The Art of Inheriting Secrets(86)

As I started to walk away, he said, “Olivia.”

I turned, hopeful.

He smirked. “I’ll leave it and see you in court.”

“Fine.”

I walked blindly, but my feet were on the path to Rosemere. I followed it through the forest my mother had painted as such a malevolent place, walking furiously at first, but at some point the exercise kicked in, and I felt the tension drain away.

There had to be some kind of answer to all of this. Something. The Monet and the Constable were clearly copies, but maybe some of the others were worth something, and they were small enough to transport to London. What if I called Peter to drive me in? It would feel better than sitting around waiting for the sky to fall.

In the back of my mind, Mrs. Malakar’s face rose, that glance of disdain and knowledge that had seared me. Were they close? He didn’t like to talk about her, which made me wonder. Had she disapproved of his marriage? Or more far more likely, his divorce?

In my pocket, my phone buzzed with an incoming call. Surprised, I stopped to take it, leaning against an oak tree that had been a sapling when bombs were dropping in the Blitz.

“Bad news,” Samir said.

“I bet I already know. Your mother is here.”

“Yes.”

“It’s not bad news—I’m sure you’re glad to see her.”

“I will, but it means we have to change our plans this evening.”

It stung, but I made sure that didn’t show in my voice. “Of course. Do whatever you need to do.”

“Don’t waste the asparagus. Eat them.”

“I’m sure I can get some more from Elizabeth. She’s been working on that bed for years. It’s prolific.”

A little pause fell between us, and I realized we’d rarely spoken on the phone.

“I’m so sorry to cancel, Olivia,” he said.

“Don’t be silly. Let me know when you’re free.”

“Is everything all right? You sound a bit . . . pinched.”

“It’s not you or your mom. I just had more bad news this morning. Looks like Haver and the caretakers have drained all the accounts.”

“All of them?”

“Looks like it.” I toed the earth, scraping away leaves to reveal the rich topsoil below. “So I’m trying to figure out the logistics of the repairs, and Grant won’t back off, and I just . . . maybe I’ll take some of the paintings into London and have them evaluated.”

“If they’re real, you’ll have no worries at all. Wouldn’t there be someone in your mother’s circle who could give you advice without all that trouble?”

“Ah. Yes, that’s probably a lot easier. Will you send me the photos you took?”

“I’ll do it at lunch.”

“That would be helpful. I’ll send them to my mother’s manager.”

“Text me if you find out anything. I’ll call you later. After dinner.”

“Okay.” Overhead, a pair of starlings flew across a sky that was growing cloudy. “I ran into Pavi and your mom at the bakery this morning. Your mother saw the books in my bag.”

“Pavi told me.”

I thought about the look on her face. “She’s really not going to like me at all, is she?”

“It doesn’t matter, Olivia. I’m the one who needs to like you, and I more than like you.”

“Thanks. I more than like you too.” Straightening, I headed up the hill. “Text me if you need distraction.”

“Will you sext me if I ask very nicely?”

“Oh, sure!” I laughed. “What could possibly go wrong?”

A little pause. “I don’t want to hang up. What are you doing?”

“Walking through the forest up to Rosemere. It suddenly occurred to me that if the caretakers are gone, their flat is available. I’m going to take a look at it.”

“But you don’t drive.”

“Yet. And anyway, the walk to the village is less than a mile. I just need . . . a home. That’s not going to be in Rosemere for a long while, although I did have a flash of what it might be like down the road. Maybe french doors along the back of the kitchen.”

“I like it.” In the background, I heard thunder. “Argh. Gotta go. Looks like a thunderstorm is on the way. We have to cover the thatch.”

“Bye!”

I hung up and started walking back toward the top of hill. A text came in, buzzing against my palm. I feel like I’ve always known you.

I typed, Me too.

As I mounted the hill, seeing the great house looming over everything and the ruins of the conservatory in the distance, it occurred to me that I was setting myself up for the world’s most devastating broken heart. It was idiotic to fling myself into this with such abandon when I knew better. Things always seemed amazing at the start. That chemical flare, that heady obsession.

But what could I possibly do? A vision of his profile, that strong nose and the goatee, rose in my mind. The sound of his sigh wafted down my spine. I flashed on his hand moving over my belly, the brush of his hair across my shoulder.

Good God. I was lost, lost in him, in us, and I hoped no one would lead the way out for at least a little while longer.