The Art of Inheriting Secrets Read online

  We went through them, not every single page, but getting a feeling for each one and what my mother had been working on with each. Here were fields, trees, clouds. This one continued the study of birds and squirrels, going into much more detail. Another held eyes of all sorts—human and animal. Here was where the study of the black-and-white cats had begun, I thought. Their eyes looked out from page after page, often with a whimsical expression. I wondered how she’d captured that and studied one for a long moment before turning the page.

  And there were my own eyes, looking up at me. I cried out, startled, but of course they weren’t mine. They were my grandmother’s, penetrating, direct, and yet guarded. Eyes that hid secrets, I thought.

  “Why did Violet divorce her second husband?”

  “It’s no secret. They were extremely incompatible. The fights were legendary. He finally grew weary of her and divorced her.”

  “I wonder if he’s still alive.”

  “Doubtful. He was older than Violet, and she’d be . . . almost a hundred by now.” She sucked in her breath. “Look at this.” She held up the sketchbook to show a densely drawn page of a dark forest—alive with eyes. Eyes in the leaves. Eyes in the trunks. Eyes in the very rocks on the ground.

  It was terrifying.

  What was in the forest?

  On my way back to the flat, I walked over to the small local supermarket that served the village. It was always busy, at its worst late in the afternoon when everyone crowded in on the way home from work and school runs to pick up milk and bananas and cereal for breakfast. All I wanted today was strawberries, and there they were—the same robust beauties Helen had served. I filled two bags with them and lugged them to the counter. The woman in front of me eyed them but didn’t say anything.

  As I carted the berries down the street to Coriander, dark clouds gathered over the soft green hills behind the main street. I’d walked there several times now along the grassy crest, with views of the surrounding countryside for miles. It amazed me how empty the area appeared from there—I knew well there were thousands and thousands of people, but the topography and the trees hid them from view, offering instead the illusion of nothing but farmland and sheep.

  The back door of Coriander was propped open to the breeze, as I’d learned. In the kitchen, the radio was tuned to an alt-rock station. A prep cook skinned garlic cloves, and a dishwasher stacked plates. “Upstairs,” the prep cook said, pointing with his knife.

  “I’m here,” Pavi said, appearing from the stairway. “Oooh, what did you bring me?”

  “Strawberries.” I settled one of the bags on the counter. “I’m not sure these will be as great as the ones Helen picked up from the farm stand, but holy cow, they are amazing.” I plucked one out and tasted it. Closed my eyes. “Yep.” I gave her one. “Taste.”

  Her eyes shone with laughter as she complied. As she tasted it, she nodded. “It is a good strawberry.”

  “But?”

  “It tastes like a strawberry to me. Am I missing something?”

  “No! I think it’s me who has been missing something. Forever. This, these.” I held one up. “I’m going to eat nothing but strawberries until the season is over.”

  She laughed. “Give me those. I’ll make some lassi for my dad.” Tying a yellow apron around her body, she said, “Have you learned to drive yet?”

  “Nope. Which means I have to beat the rain. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  On the way out the door, I saw Samir strolling toward the door in his loose-limbed way. I lifted a hand and turned abruptly left, heading away so that he didn’t feel cornered.

  In my pocket, my phone buzzed. I took it out and read, A quiver of cobras.

  I turned around. He had his phone in his hand. A breeze rustled his hair, tumbling the curls this way and that. Holding his phone one hand, he thumbed a text.

  It popped up on my screen. A lamentation of swans.

  Something about that plucked my heart, and I held the phone in my hand, looking at him across the space. Both of us frozen. Confused, probably. I typed, I’m lamenting your absence.

  Me too. Your friendship.

  I looked at him. Stop being mad at me.

  He typed back, I’m over it.

  Good, I typed. I really need someone to come inside that big creepy house with me.

  He laughed, and I could hear it across the parking lot, the sound as welcome as a song. It broke the freeze, and at the same moment we walked toward each other, meeting in the middle. My stomach ached a little with looking at him, and I couldn’t help flashing back to the way I had sunk into his mouth, how my blood had changed with that kiss. Against my throat, I felt the ghostly imprint of his thumb.

  I said, “A leap of leopards.”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Have you been saving that?”

  “Yes.” The wind blew my hair in my face, his hair in his face, and we both reached for the offending locks and pushed them away. “I’ve also been ever so casually dropping by the restaurant most days, hoping I would run into you.”

  “You did? You could have texted me. Called me.”

  “I tried that. Took a person a long time to respond.”

  He looked down. “Sorry.”

  “Really, I’m the one who is sorry. I just—”

  He held up a hand. “You can’t be mad at me for making a pass at a beautiful woman.”

  I snorted, looked away, thinking of how much faster my skin would wrinkle than his, how much older I would look in ten years. It stung a little and seemed so foolish and roiled up my emotions all over again. Thunder rolled across the hills. “Can you teach me to drive?”

  “Sure. We can start this weekend.”

  “Really?” I caught my hair in my hand, twisting it to keep it from blowing. “Thank you.”

  “You can tell me what’s going on with the house.” Wind pressed his shirt to his body, outlining his shoulders, his flat belly.

  “Yes, of course.” Giddy, a little off-center, I spun toward my flat. “I have to beat the rain home. See you!”

  I dashed home then, heart much lighter. The problem of the driving was finally going to be addressed. And Samir would teach me. We would sit together in a car, and he would teach me to drive.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When I got back to the flat, the remaining strawberries in hand, my mood tumbled quickly. Waiting in the inbox were two emails from my Realtor and one from my mother’s agent.

  CALL ME. URGENT.

  Glancing at the clock to be sure it was an agreeable time back in the Bay Area, I dialed Nancy first. “Hi, it’s Olivia Shaw. There’s a problem?”

  “I take it that you’ve not yet received any legal notifications in the past twenty-four hours?”

  My stomach dropped. “Notifications?”

  “Yes. Your boyfriend filed a lawsuit to take half the money of the sale of the house.”

  “What? How can he do that?”

  “Anyone can do anything. It’s just a matter of what the courts will see as a nuisance and what will be seen as legitimate.”

  “How can it possibly be legitimate?” Overhead, a crack of thunder practically split the house in two, and I jumped, glaring upward. “It’s my mother’s house. We are not together.”

  “He’s making the claim that it’s community property, that he has a right to it under palimony laws.”

  “Like common-law marriage or something?”

  “Similar. California doesn’t recognize common-law marriage, but there is precedent for awarding a live-in partner settlements under a different set of laws.” She paused. “I suggest you get a lawyer immediately.”

  “How? I’m thousands of miles away!” Blistering anger rose behind my eyes. “How dare he!”

  “It’s a rotten move. If I were you, I’d be sure I was doing whatever I could to protect myself. We have a little time before closing, but don’t wait.”

  “How much time?”

  “It’s set for June 15.”
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  Just under a month. “All right. Thanks for the heads-up, Nancy.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m sure you’ll get the official notification soon enough.” She sighed. “Keep me posted.”

  “Will do.” I hung up and immediately called my mother’s agent. “Mary, what’s up?”

  “I’ve received an injunction to forbid the movement or sale of any of your mother’s work. What the hell is going on?”

  “I’ve broken it off with my boyfriend, Grant, and he’s going after my assets.”

  “That loser. This is why I tell my women clients to never get involved with other artists. They’re always so damned self-centered.” The bitterness burned across the miles. Personal. “And Grant Kazlauskas is a piece of work.”

  “I have to make some phone calls, find a lawyer to represent my interests there while I’m trying to figure things out here. I’ll give you a call as soon as I know what’s going on.” I thought of the triptych in my apartment, my mother’s best work, and it was mine. Tears stung the back of my eyes. “That bastard.”

  “If it’s up to me, he won’t get another show anywhere in this town.”

  “I’ll be sure and relay that information,” I said. “I’ll call you as soon as I can find someone to represent me.”

  “A good divorce lawyer is William Veracruz. He handled the Bellingham divorce. She’s one of my clients, and he managed to work out a very favorable settlement. You can tell the office that I referred you.”

  “Thanks.”

  When we hung up, I fired up my laptop and ran a Google search for the lawyer’s name. The web page named an upscale office building, and I called immediately. The office assistant would not put me through, of course, so I left a message.

  And then I called Grant, who answered on the second ring. As if he’d been waiting. “Hello, Olivia. I guess you’re not calling to reconcile.”

  “Not in your wildest dreams. What are you doing? You know very well that this is wrong. My mother’s estate belongs to me. And I want my damned paintings. They’re important—” I broke off, biting my lip to keep the sudden recognition in. The triptych almost certainly held clues. I needed to get it back.

  Instead, I said, “You know how upset I’ve been over her death, Grant. You didn’t love her. You’re only being mercenary.”

  “So let’s talk about a settlement. The house sold for three point four million. Give me a third, and I’ll give you the paintings and walk away.”

  “Why should I?” The lavalike anger rose through my esophagus, choked me. “You deserted me.”

  “You’re being dramatic. All I want is the apartment, Olivia, and you know I am not as successful as you or your mom.”

  “That’s not my problem. That’s yours.” My hands were shaking with emotion. “And if you don’t back off, Mary has promised you will not sell your work in any gallery in the Bay Area.”

  “It’s not the only market in the world.”

  And, I realized, if he had the settlement, it wouldn’t matter. He could paint and travel and show if he felt like it—at least until he ran through the money. “Whatever. You’ll hear from my lawyer.”

  “You could just settle, Olivia. Let’s just hammer out an agreement between the two of us and leave all the lawyers out. You’ll get your money, and I’m off your back. What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is that it’s mine, Grant. The apartment was mine, and you’re living there. The paintings are mine. The house is mine. Just hanging out with me for a few years doesn’t give you any rights.”

  “We’ll see.”

  I hung up, too angry to speak.

  Alone in my village flat, I paced to the window and back to the tiny kitchen, then back to the window, trying to pull my emotions under control. I felt betrayed and furious and like a complete idiot. I never could have predicted this vindictiveness.

  Rain was pouring by the buckets over the landscape, obscuring my view across the empty street. What if I just let him have the settlement? How much would be left? Was it worth it to make him go away?

  Ugh. No. The very idea made me want to punch him in the face. What a leech! And what a fool I’d been for letting him get away with it for years and years. In sudden humiliation, I realized it had always been this way—that he’d always encroached, slowly, so slowly that I hardly noticed. First the rush to move in, where he painted on the upstairs deck, and then the inexorable move into the best room in the apartment for his studio. Our meals out had often been the result of my job—an interview I was conducting, a new hot restaurant who’d offered free passes.

  Before the accident, that tension had become a point of conflict between us. He was painting, but not as much as he was holding forth at arty gatherings, and he wasn’t bringing in much money at all. Last year, I’d taken a research trip to Spain and left him at home. He’d been furious, of course, but I hadn’t budged. When I’d returned, he had been contrite, changed his attitudes, and I had thought we might be on a better track.

  And then I’d wrecked the car.

  Resting my forehead against the cool glass window, I wondered how long the money Haver had freed would last. I wondered where I’d get more if this dragged on. How could I keep going on the restoration if there was no money?

  Tomorrow was my weekly luncheon with the earl. Perhaps it was time I asked for some help.

  The earl’s driver swung around the circular drive in front of Marswick Hall, and the butler hurried out with a giant industrial-strength umbrella. The rain had briefly paused once or twice, but it was still pouring.

  “Watch your step, my lady,” Robert said, steering me around a network of puddles at the foot of the steps and on the steps, places where the footsteps of centuries had worn away the stone. Even inside, there were several buckets in the grand foyer, two beneath the skylight in the center, another in a far corner. I looked up to see the old-fashioned skylight dripping a steady stream. Along the french doors at the rear lay a thick roll of cloth pressed against the base, and I gathered it was to keep out the rain. “Goodness.”

  “The old girl needs repairs faster than we can address them,” the earl said, wheeling himself out in his chair. I’d learned that he used a wheelchair most of the time, but not if there were many guests about. He liked to appear strong, but his health was not particularly good. I’d figured out it was mostly heart, with a few side issues tossed in for good measure. Not a giant surprise when you were eighty-five.

  “The rain is like Armageddon,” I said, bending to kiss his cheek. “I can’t imagine it rains like this all the time.”

  “No,” he agreed, wheeling around to lead me down the hallway, where a woman mopped another spot. “My nephew says it’s global warming. I expect he’s correct.”

  We entered his study, the same room where I’d first met him. Here we would have a pot of tea; then we’d be summoned to lunch in a bright alcove I loved, with a view of the estate. I poured, as he expected, and I didn’t mind the small sexism in it. He liked one sugar and lots of milk, while I preferred two sugars and just a swirl of milk.

  “How are things going at Rosemere this week?” he asked.

  “The most exciting thing is that the first episode of Restoration Diva will air next week. Wednesday night at seven.”

  “Oh, my. That is exciting.”

  I sipped hot tea delicately, glad of the warmth in the drafty room. “The actual work is progressing very well. They’ve cleared most of the debris from the south end of the first floor; they’ll be starting on the north side later this week. I was planning to take a trip over there to see how it looks, but . . .” I gestured toward the window.

  “I see. The south would be the parlor and dining room; is that right?”

  “Yes. And I’ve talked to the garden club about doing some of the work in the rose garden. They’re absolutely delighted.”

  One of my lessons had been to enlist the village and tenants in the process as much as possible to give them ownership. “Good girl.
What’s the reward?”

  “It seems they want to be able to volunteer once the gardens are open to the public. And I suspect a couple of them want to be employed.”

  “Good. Plenty of work for them.”

  “I’m sure.” I gave a report on the homework for the week, another set of meetings, and meals with the tenants of the farm. One wanted to discuss the possibility of pig farming, which I felt would be too much just this minute, and the other, a young family, had some excellent ideas for pasturing chickens, the eggs and meat of which brought in a much higher price.

  Claudia, the niece who took care of him, popped in at one point. “How are you, Olivia?” she asked, then touched her uncle’s shoulder. “And you, Uncle?”

  He waved her away, annoyed. His cheeks were a little flushed, his color beneath it wan, but he was as well-groomed as ever—his thick hair brushed away from his face, his shirt crisp. “Leave me alone,” he growled. “I’ll call you if you’re wanted.”

  She met my eyes, and I read the message clearly. This was one of his bad days. I gave a barely perceptible nod. I’d keep an eye on him and leave early, pleading weather.

  “Lunch is ready,” she said. “Shall I wheel you?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  The usually charming alcove was as dreary as the rest of the world, though there were fresh flowers to brighten the table and snowy linens and the china that had been in the family for generations. As we settled in our places, I said, “I would like your opinion on a few things, George, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Of course, girl, of course. That’s why I’m here.”

  The soup course was a clear lemony broth dotted with parsley and scrolls of spring onion. It filled the air with a sunny fragrance, and I thought the cook was a genius to make such a dish on so dark a day. The flavor held as much sunshine as the scent. “This is remarkable,” I said and wished I could snap a photo on my phone, but I always left the phone in my purse, and the earl wasn’t exactly an Instagrammer.

  “Mmmm.” He took his cook and fabulous food for granted. “Tell me what I can help you with.”

  “The first thing I need is a reliable accountant who can look over the books at Rosemere and tell me what’s going on.”