The Art of Inheriting Secrets(92)

“She is.” He stood where I’d left him, right inside the door.

I didn’t make him comfortable, not yet. Taking another bite of asparagus, I eyed him. “How was dinner?”

“It was good. She’s much healthier than she was last year. Being back in India agrees with her.”

“How long will she be here?”

One shoulder lifted. “All summer.”

I looked at the food. Set it aside. “I think I need to take a hot bath and read a book and go to bed early.”

For a moment, he was silent. “Are you all right?”

“I guess. It was a terrible day. Your mother and Grant—and I can’t figure out any of this puzzle, and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing with any of this.”

He inclined his head, his arms still folded. “Mmm.”

“What does that mean?”

With a sure, easy gesture, he took my hand and pulled me across the room to sit us both down on the couch, which smelled of years and dust. Our bodies fell close, leg to leg, hip to hip, and my shoulder nested right beneath his armpit. “You are tired,” he said, rubbing my arm. “Let me just hold you for a little while, and then I’ll go.”

I closed my eyes and rested my cheek on his chest. “Just for a little while.”

“Okay.” He stroked my hair, found the elastic that held my braid together, and tugged it out, releasing my hair to fall around my face. Tenderness swept out from his fingertips, over my head. “My mother does not hate you. She’s angry with me. She’s afraid I’ll create another romantic disaster. I more or less agreed to see if she could find someone for me.” His voice rumbled through his chest below my ear, making me sleepy.

“Like matchmaking?”

“Mmm. It’s still common enough.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“I was embarrassed by how badly my marriage ended. Everything about it was humiliating.” His fingers threaded through my hair. “I thought perhaps it could be worth a try, to meet the women she would find.”

I imagined a parade of lovely Indian women, dewy and glowy, with clear eyes and glossy hair. Jealousy stabbed me. “She was going to do that this summer?”

“Yes. So you can see why she might be a bit put out that I’ve been seeing someone.”

“I thought you had a girlfriend when we met.”

“Mmm. Not really a girlfriend. Just . . . someone I was seeing a little, here and there.”

“Are you still going to meet those women?”

“No!” He moved, bringing me around to face him. “How can you even ask that?”

“Because you are younger than me, and your mother will always hate me, and this whole—”

“Olivia.” He said it firmly.

I swallowed, embarrassed by my emotional insanity, and also defiant.

He cupped my face, stroking both sides of my cheeks, running his hands up into my hair, where he clutched handfuls of it. “Do you really believe anything you’re saying?”

I met his eyes, the starry, starry eyes, and saw in them what I’d been seeing all along. The tension in my body sluiced away. I shook my head.

“I didn’t think so.” He kissed my nose, then mouth, and I was so very glad to be with him that I kissed him hard right back. “There you are,” he murmured.

And then there was no conversation. Not with words. Only hands, mouths, breath.





Chapter Twenty-One

The rain had half stopped by morning, which meant I had to get to the estate to work with Pavi on picnic prep. She picked me up just minutes after Samir left, but if she’d seen him, she didn’t say.

“Hey,” I said, slamming the door behind me. “Thanks for the asparagus. They were amazing.”

“You’re welcome.” She drove toward the estate, dodging puddles in the road. “I cannot remember a spring with so much rain! It’s insane!”

“I’m worried about the picnic. Even the tarps won’t be enough.”

“I know. So am I.” As if to underscore the concern, it started to patter down again, just enough to obscure the countryside. “What would you think about moving the tables inside?”

“Inside where? The house?”

“Yes, the kitchen is empty enough. And nothing is dangerous in there, is it? Ceilings and floors all sound?”

“I think so.” As we bounced up the rutted back road, I hung on to the dashboard. “I have to rope this road off, however. It’s not sound enough for a lot of traffic, especially if it keeps raining. Everyone will have to come down the main approach.”

“That’s good. Let’s make sure.”

We were silent for a while. Pavi finally said, “I’m sorry my mother was so rude to you.”

I shrugged.

“I know it will probably not make it easier, but she does suffer from arthritis terribly. That’s why she goes to India during the cold months. This weather is not easy for her.”

“I’m sure.”

The silence deepened. Pavi looked at me.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Pavi. It’s understandable that you defend her, and I would have lived with her disdain for me—”