The Art of Inheriting Secrets Read online

  “Are you hungry? Want a coffee?”

  “No, thank you. It would be best if we just get back. The traffic won’t be heavy on the way back south.” He tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear. “Pavi said to bring you to the apartment. She wants to make sure you’re fed.”

  I looked away. “What about your mom?”

  “She’ll be all right.” He stood, holding out a hand. “Come.”

  In the car, he turned the radio to the news. “Lay back and rest while I drive.”

  It didn’t take much to convince me. Within moments, I’d fallen asleep, and I didn’t awaken until he brushed his fingers over my cheek. “We’re here, Olivia.”

  I straightened, blinking hard to wake myself up. For a moment I stared out at the parking lot, trying to get my bearings. The back door to Pavi’s restaurant stood open, light falling from the kitchen through the screen. I could see staff bustling about. “Maybe I should just go home and sleep,” I said, and my voice was rough.

  “After dinner.” He took my hand, raised it to his mouth for a kiss, and I let my head fall backward, seeing him anew. The tenderness in his expression, the mouth that was so generous, the intelligent, starry eyes.

  “Okay,” I said softly. I felt wide open and raised my hand to his jaw.

  He smiled. “Let’s find you some food. I think we’re eating mulligatawny tonight.”

  “One of the tenants mentioned that. I’m not sure I’ve ever had it.”

  “You’re joking.”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, it’s quite a common dish here. Pavi has a whole little thing she wrote about it.”

  The weather was clearing, and a soft, refreshing breeze washed my face as we crossed the lot. He took my hand, tightly, and bumped my shoulder with his. I laughed a little, bumped him back.

  The dinner hour was in full swing in the kitchen. Pavi shouted orders to her staff, dressed tonight in an orange chef’s coat, her hair tight beneath a matching cotton scarf. She spied us and lifted a hand, and we slid sideways up the stairs to the apartment.

  A scent of cumin and pepper came out of the kitchen, and I realized that it was Mrs. Malakar who was cooking. She was in the kitchen, a towel tossed over her shoulder, and she was busy at the stove when we arrived, so she didn’t halt, just called out, “Hello, hello. Your father is watching the news.” Only then did she glance over and see me. “You brought the countess?”

  “Please call me Olivia,” I said, and the weariness must have sounded in my voice.

  Mrs. Malakar’s face softened. “We are eating one of my husband’s favorite foods tonight.”

  “Mulligatawny?” I said. Samir released me, gestured toward the doorway to the kitchen, and gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I’ve never eaten it. What’s in it?”

  “Ohh, a lot of things. Chicken, onions, apples, sweet potatoes, many spices.”

  I inhaled the scent. “Can I help you in some way?”

  “No, no. You sit. They told us that your friend the earl died today.”

  “Oh,” I said. That explained why she was being nice, I supposed. “All right, then.”

  Pavi clattered up the stairs, bringing spices from the kitchen downstairs. “I’m not going to be able to stop tonight—it’s so busy!” She gave me a kiss on the cheek. “You all right?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re not, but you need to eat and get a good sleep. Only three days to the picnic!”

  “Olivia, come sit with us,” Harshad said, gesturing from the living room. I joined them, sinking down into a luxuriously lush sofa. The room was bright with paintings and colorful fabrics at the windows, and along the wall to my right were family photos. With lazy curiosity, I looked at them, easily picking out Harshad as a young man, skinny but quite dashing, with a startlingly beautiful girl at his side. She was slim but womanly, her hair a shiny black curtain over her shoulder and an expression very like her mother’s in her bold expression. I didn’t want to ask if it was her even more than I wanted to ask, but I made a mental note to ask Samir.

  But Mr. Malakar must have noticed my attention. “That’s my little Sanvi,” he said. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  I nodded. “It must have been disappointing that it wasn’t her bones at the house.”

  Mrs. Malakar came into the room. “Come. The food is ready.”

  Samir stuck by me, sitting down next to me, his knee resting against mine under the table. When I glanced at him, he winked, and I let my face relax.

  Mulligatawny turned out to be a soup, or perhaps more of a stew, with chicken and carrots and chunks of apple. The broth was thick, yellow with turmeric, and delicately spiced. I tasted it, taking in the flavors, then took another slow, savoring bite. “This is wonderful,” I said. “Does Pavi use the same recipe in the restaurant?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Malakar said, reaching for a chapatti. A trio of bracelets rolled down her arm. “She took my recipe and made it more. I use her recipe now. My daughter, as you have seen, is a wondrous cook.”

  “Wondrous,” I echoed. “Yes, that’s a good word.”

  We fell to eating in easy silence. Music played quietly from the kitchen, maybe Indian pop music, though I couldn’t make out the words.

  Mr. Malakar said, “You asked about the bones.”

  I raised my head.

  “I was relieved that they were not her bones. It appears that I would rather believe she is alive in the world somewhere, and one day . . . she will walk through those doors.”

  The easy river of tears filled my eyes. “I understand that so completely. I would trade a foot to spend one more hour with my mother.” The words were unexpectedly intense, and I flushed. “Sorry.” I glanced at each of them. “I didn’t mean to be so—”

  “My mother died when I was twenty-two,” Mrs. Malakar said, “and I have missed her every day since.” She touched my hand, and again the bracelets swam down her arm. I was grateful for the kindness, for the possibility that she might not hate me forever.

  But something else caught my attention. “Look,” I said, raising my right arm to show the bracelet I’d found in Violet’s room. “My bracelet matches. Did those belong to Nandini?”

  “Yes,” Harshad said. “Where did you find that?”

  “In my grandmother’s room. They cleared it out, and I found this on the floor.” I started to take it off, but he waved a hand.

  “No, keep it.”

  “Sure?” I glanced at Samir, and he gave me a very slight nod.

  But it was Mrs. Malakar I wanted to please. I took the bracelet off and laid it on the table beside her bowl.

  She only looked at me. Shook her head. “It’s yours.”

  “Dad,” Samir said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you if you saw Caroline last summer.”

  He didn’t reply instantly. “Why would you ask me such a thing?”

  “She visited the earl,” I said, and a pain worked its way between my ribs. “She knew she was dying, and she seems to have set up a . . . treasure hunt.”

  “Is that right?” He shook his head. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  But again, I had the sense that he knew more than he was saying. “Is there anything about rainbows around here? Legends or stories or a pot of gold?”

  “I don’t know any,” he said, and I could tell he meant it. “Samir?”

  “Nor do I.”

  Rainbows, peacocks, treasure, paintings. The words echoed around and around my head, and I stared down at the bowl of soup with blurry vision, finding myself lost and—

  “Olivia,” Samir said at my side. “Let’s get you home, shall we?”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Did I fall asleep?”

  He chuckled softly. “Yes.”

  I reached for his hand without thinking, and he took it, helping me up, his other hand at my back. “Sorry,” I said to his parents. “It’s just been—”

  “It’s all right,” Harshad said.

  “Good night, Olivia,” Mrs. Mal
akar said and held up the bracelet. “Don’t forget this.”

  I slipped it on my wrist.

  I slept a solid eleven hours, falling far away into the other lands where the sleep spirits knitted me back together. When I awakened, my mind was as clear and sharp as the sunlight of the late-spring day outside my window.

  I knew three things—that I wanted to stay and try to save Rosemere, that I wanted to move to the carriage house immediately, and that I needed new clothes. My own clothes, in a size that actually fit me. I needed something for the picnic, and I wanted to furnish the carriage house flat as soon as possible.

  Unfortunately, Peter was busy, and on such a sunny day, Samir would be working, but these days, a person didn’t need to be anywhere in person. I fired up the laptop, credit card in hand, ready to shop.

  But an email from Grant waited. Call off your hounds, the subject read. I opened it curiously. I’ve dropped the suit, it read. Get Madeline off my back.

  Cautious optimism bloomed in my chest, and I scrolled down the list of emails. Sure enough, there was one from Madeline. No subject, but an attachment. I opened it.

  Please notice the date of the photos here, she’d written. I’ve forwarded them to my lawyer, and he says this is enough to remove all possibility of the common-law suit.

  The photos were from a party, dated last October. In them, Grant was shown in a series of more and more intimate poses with a young woman. I recognized her from the publicity that had surrounded her enormously successful debut last summer, an event I’d attended with my mother and Grant.

  She was exactly the kind of creature I could never be—waifish, fragile looking with pale skin and a sexy tumble of wild red hair. She’d made all the papers with her first show, and the second was promising to be gigantic.

  The second group of photos showed them in a low-lit restaurant, very intimate, just days after my accident.

  All the rage I’d been biting back roared up my spine, into my throat, and I wanted to reach through the screen and tear out his hair by the handfuls. How dared he cheat on me like that? And manipulate me for the apartment? And—

  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.”

  I laughed. “Okay, Heidi Klum.”

  “I won’t stay with it forever. But like it. Being outside all day. Minding my own business, making something beautiful.”

  In my ear, the phone buzzed, then buzzed again. “I have to go. I’m getting calls.”

  He chuckled. “The life of a famous countess.”

  “Right. I’ll see you soon.”

  “I’m proud of you, Olivia. Good night.”

  He hung up before
I could reply.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  By Saturday morning, I had accomplished enough at the flat to pack up my things and move when Pavi came by to pick me up. It was very early, just after sunrise, and she carried a lassi with her. “Try this,” she said. “It’s rose. But I think it needs a little something more.”

  “Rose lassi?” I said and smiled. “That sounds so romantic.” The taste was subtle, not as bright as the strawberry but delicious anyway.

  We dropped my suitcase at the flat, and Pavi turned in a circle. “You must have worked like a demon. This place looks amazing.”

  “It’s been a very long stretch since I had a place to call home. I was motivated.” The bed was made, and I dropped my suitcase there. “I ordered groceries for delivery,” I said, swinging open the American-style fridge. “How posh is that?”

  “You’re going to have to learn to drive,” she said.

  “I am.” I took a breath and spun around in a circle. “Yay! Home!”

  We’d left the door open, meaning only to stay for a moment, but a cat—the cat—came sauntering in. Seeing the two of us, he sat down just three steps out of reach and swung his tail in a tidy circle around his feet. “Well, hello, Meow Meow.”

  “Meow,” he said.

  “I actually remembered to buy you some food,” I said. “Wait right there, and I’ll get it for you.”

  “You’re going to feed a stray cat? He’ll never leave.”

  “He’s my cat,” I said and realized I meant it. “He’s been showing up since I arrived.”

  “Just don’t get your heart broken, sweetie. Who knows how old he is or if he’s healthy.”

  I lifted a shoulder, pulling the lid off a can of cat food, which I dumped onto a saucer and put down on the floor. “It’s all yours, Meow Meow.” I backed away.

  For a moment, he eyed me suspiciously, looked at the plate, then back to me. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision and stood, then walked over to the plate as if he did this every day.

  And wolfed down the food.

  “Oh, look, he’s starving!” Pavi cried.

  “He’s probably not starving, but it’s nice to eat cat food.” I glanced at my phone. “We should get over to the site. He can stay. I’m going to leave the door ajar.”