The Art of Inheriting Secrets(89)

A wave of intense sadness moved through me. Some of the other rooms had been ruined by time, the ballroom worst of all, but this was the only one that truly felt malevolent. I backed away, my nose still covered, wondering how such an old, old fire could have left such an odor.

Suddenly, I became aware of the silence left behind when the construction halted, and I turned and dashed down the hall, then down the stairs, rushing around the rooms, and through the back door—to see the last of the trucks trundling down the hill toward Saint Ives.

Great.

I was about to call Peter when a horn honked, and I saw Pavi at the wheel of her van. Her mother was in the passenger seat. “Need a ride back to town?” Pavi called through the open window.

“Please!” I dashed through the rain to clamber into the back of the van, sitting on the floor next to a box full of asparagus. “Thank you. I was just about to call Peter.”

“Peter Jenkins?” Pavi said. “He’s such a nice man. You remember him, Ma?”

“Of course,” she said. No more, no less.

I picked up a handful of asparagus from a box on the floor. “They’re gorgeous. What are you going to do with them?”

“I’m not quite sure.” The van bumped down the hill. “Countess, you need to fix your road.”

“It’s terrible, right?” I smelled the earthy green scent of the asparagus and put them back in the box, thinking I might steam mine and serve them with soft eggs and toast made from the bread I’d picked up at the bakery this morning.

Then, because I had to make conversation somehow, I asked, “Did you have a pleasant journey over, Mrs. Malakar?”

“It’s never particularly nice,” she said. “It was as expected.”

“That must be about a twenty-four-hour trip from Mumbai to London.”

She shook her head. “Oh, not at all. Only about ten, usually.”

“Oh, of course.” I shook my head. “You would fly west, not east, to London, as I do from San Francisco.”

For the first time, she swiveled her head to look at me. “Are you an American, Lady Shaw?”

“Please call me Olivia. Yes, I was born just outside of San Francisco.”

“Your accent doesn’t sound American.”

“My mother was British. Obviously, I guess.” Which sounded snotty on some level, and then I was afraid if I fixed it, it would be worse.

“Your mother was Caroline Shaw—is that right?”

“Right. Did you know her?” I leaned forward eagerly.

“No. She was gone long before I arrived. I’ve always thought she had something to do with poor Sanvi’s disappearance. Or knew something.”

“Here we are!” Pavi said brightly, and I realized that we were parked in front of the chip shop.

But I couldn’t just let the accusation lie there. “Why would you think such a thing?”

Mrs. Malakar turned back to look through the windscreen. She gave the slightest of shrugs.

“No offense, Olivia,” Pavi said, “but I’ve got to run. Get these asparagus in cold water.”

“Sure.” I climbed out, but before I closed the door, I said, “Mrs. Malakar, my mother wasn’t that kind of person.”

“No?” Her eyes, large and dark as a night sky, met mine. “She knew something.”

Pavi gave me a look over her shoulder. “Gotta go, Liv.”

I nodded. “Sorry.”

“I’ll call you later,” she said, giving me a barely perceptible shake of the head, as if to nullify her mother’s words.

I closed the door and watched the van disappear, feeling suddenly cold. Left out.

As the rain continued to pour down, I turned on the radio for company and steamed the asparagus, sliced fresh bread to make toast, and set out an egg to top it all. Wrapped in a warm sweater and yoga pants and thick socks, I tried to focus on cooking for myself, instead of feeling bereft that I had really been looking forward to cooking for Samir in his tiny but efficient kitchen. Cooking was my lingua franca, my love language. I hardly felt I could express myself fully, show him what I was feeling, if I couldn’t cook.

Instead, while I sat alone in my flat, over my egg and toast—and it had to be said, the beautiful asparagus, which tasted of every moon of winter and the first dawns of spring and the first fertile stirrings of the earth—I imagined all of the Malakars sitting down to their supper above the restaurant. Would Mrs. Malakar have done the cooking tonight, or would Pavi want to dazzle and spoil her mother?

A hollow little echo of loneliness filled my lungs.

Ridiculous. I’d only just met these people!

Trying to get myself in hand, I considered the tasks I could knock out. It was late morning in California, and I could get in touch with several people I’d been needing to talk to.

The first was the lawyer, who called me back within a few minutes. I explained the new situation with Grant and my need to get things settled as soon as possible. He didn’t seem to think it was a huge problem—California was not a community property state—but he’d have to check into options for getting the case dismissed. “If your main issue is to get the money from the house sooner, I’d try to find some common ground with your ex, see if you can come up with something you’ll both be able to live with.”