The Art of Inheriting Secrets(98)

I let go of a growling roar and jumped up out of my chair to pace the room.

The room where Samir had made me chai, naked. And teased me, his eyes glittering with genuine love, and only last night, put me tenderly to bed and loved my curvy self just as it was.

Pfft, my mother had often said over things better left alone.

I called Madeline. “Thank you.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you know it was my pleasure. I couldn’t stand for him to go after everything your mother worked so hard to give you.”

“Have they been together awhile?”

“Do you really care about that affair, Olivia?”

I sighed. “It’s kind of humiliating.”

“I know. I’m sorry. But life is just going to get better and better from here. I just know it.”

“I know. Thank you so much.”

“All right then, just go enjoy your freedom.”

Buoyed, I did exactly that. With a great deal of cheer, I ordered a summer wardrobe in a size bigger than what I had, as well as almost everything I could think of to furnish the flat. Most of it was due to be delivered Friday, but I couldn’t get some of the furniture until next week.

No problem. In the meantime, I spoke with my contractor about getting paint in that celery color I’d envisioned for the walls, and he had it onsite by afternoon, along with drop cloths and paint rollers. “Sure you don’t want some man power?”

I refused politely. It felt good to do something so physical, to open the doors to the fresh air and play tunes on my phone and sing along as I painted the walls. Samir texted midafternoon. Feeling better?

YES! Slept the clock around, and I’m over at the estate, painting the walls of my new flat. Want to come over and see?

Can’t, I’m afraid. Didn’t want to call too early, but we’re in Devon on a job. Told Tony I had to be free Saturday afternoon, but I have to be back here Sunday night.

Understood. Glad you’ll be here Saturday night. FaceTime later?

Yes, please. I’ll text you.

I went back to work on the apartment, excited for the new possibilities arising. Maybe everything would finally just be all right. Flow, like water down a mountain.

By Wednesday night, I had managed to get the cable installed in time to watch the first episode of The Restoration Diva focused on Rosemere. I made a bowl of popcorn on the AGA and poured a glass of wine, and just as I sat down, Samir texted. Are you ready?

Maybe. It’s nerve-wracking. Do you have it on?

Yes! Wouldn’t miss it.

On BBC One, the music of The Restoration Diva started. Eeek! I texted. It’s on!

Call me when it’s over.





K


To Pavi, I texted another sentiment. I hope I don’t look too FAT.

Her reply was swift. Never. My parents watching. I’m dvring. BUSY NITE!

I set the phone aside and gave myself over to the experience. Jocasta looked much the same on TV as she did in person. I was pleased to see that her makeup and hair people had done wonders for me for the opening segment, the one we’d filmed to talk about the house and the story and how I’d come to be an unsuspecting heiress.

The rest of the program dived into the first month of our work, the discussions the first day we’d met, going through the wreck of the garden and the ruined, littered rooms of the house. As I’d suspected, Ian was a gifted cameraman, lingering over the colors cast by the stained glass in the hallway, that rose blooming indoors in the parlor, the sad shimmer of the neglected pool. I wasn’t unhappy with the way he filmed me, either, though I did think it was time to get rid of some of that butt.

A task for another day.

What I had not expected was the piercing history woven in to the current-day narrative. Jocasta had focused on two characters this time, the dashing lover of King Charles II who’d won back the house after it had been seized by Parliamentarians and the earl who’d built the gardens and conservatory. I loved hearing a fuller version of each of their stories, and I thought my mother quite looked like her ancestress, the king’s mistress.

If not for her, I wouldn’t be sitting here—that much was sure.

The show ended on a dramatic note, outlining the gargantuan task of saving Rosemere and the experts they hoped to employ. The last shot was me standing with my arms crossed, the stained glass behind me, and I had to admit it was quite thrilling.

I laughed aloud.

The phone rang. “That was amazing,” Samir said. “You were smart and thoughtful and very hot.”

“I’m really happy with it. This is good for the estate, I think.”

“Yes. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you found yourself some donors.”

“Really? Do you think that could happen?”

“Yes, I do.”

I sighed. It was weird and strange and wonderful, but I thought my mom would be pleased. “I wish you were here,” I said.

“Me too.” He sighed, and I had the sense of him settling. “Instead, I’m stuck in a faceless motel that smells of old cigars.”

“Ew.”

“It’s all right.”

“Do you mind if I ask why you’re still doing that job?”

“Billi needs food.”

“But you said the books are doing well.”

“They are. I’m very pleased. But novels are not reliable. One day you’re in; the next day you’re out.”