The Art of Inheriting Secrets

by O'Neal, Barbara

  I opened my hand. “My mother left me a key.”

  I dreamed of roses, thousands and thousands of roses, and one gigantic orange-and-peach beauty tumbling through the air. I woke up, confused about where I was. A cat on my feet padded up to my face when he realized I was awake.

  Samir’s house. His bed. He was not next to me, so I cuddled Billi, kissing his head, talking to him softly. The image of the roses tumbling through the sky wafted back through my mind. What had that rose represented to my mother? She loved them, all roses, honestly, and now I understood a little more of that piece of her. But that particular rose showed up in her paintings much more often than others. Did it have some special meaning?

  The whole crazy day wove in and out of my mind as I dozed, half waiting for Samir to come back. I thought about Grant and about the tenant who had given me asparagus, Pavi telling me her mother would not approve of Samir and me, the roses, the bedroom.

  And that key.

  I’d shared with Samir everything the earl had said—my mother’s illness, her trip to England last summer—as we drove back from Marswick Hall to Saint Ives Cross, enveloped in the night, music playing on the radio. We didn’t try to solve any puzzles, just let them be, and I realized we were both exhausted. It had been a very long day.

  “You should let me cook tomorrow night,” I said. “One of the tenants gave me the most beautiful asparagus, and I bought peas and lamb chops to go with them.” As the words tumbled out of my mouth, I worried that they sounded too domestic and started to qualify them. “I mean, it’s just—”

  But Samir covered my wrist with his hand. “I’m sorry your meal was interrupted by so much. It sounds brilliant.” His thumb moved on my inner arm. “Why don’t you bring the food to my house? It will be more comfortable to cook there.”

  “Thank you.” I turned my head. “Pavi mentioned that you didn’t show up for dinner last night. Will you tell her that I’m cooking?”

  “Does she know?” He gave me a quick glance. “About us?”

  “She was there when you texted.”

  He nodded, and I couldn’t quite tell if he was displeased.

  “Is there something wrong? I thought you said she’d know anyway.” I started to take my hand away, adding, “I wouldn’t like lying to her. She’s my friend.”

  He caught my hand before I could pull away. “I don’t want you to lie.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s just new, this thing between us. Precious.” He kept his eyes on the road but lifted my hand to press my palm to his mouth, to his cheek. “I don’t want anything to ruin it.”

  A heady surge of emotion moved in me, in my belly, my chest, my throat. “Me either, Samir. I mean it.”

  He settled my hand over his heart and, holding it there, looked at me. I nodded.

  Now, curled up in his bed with his cat, I wondered what he was doing that kept him out of bed so long, and wearing the T-shirt he’d given me, I padded out of the bedroom and saw the light on in his study. The door was cracked slightly, allowing a bar of light to fall across the wooden floor. “Samir?”

  He came to the door wearing sweats and a worn sweater and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that only made him look more amazing. He said, “So sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just couldn’t sleep, and—”

  “It’s all right. I’ll go back to bed.” I stepped close to give him a kiss. He caught my arm and then turned to push the door open.

  “You may as well know that I’m in here writing.”

  I nodded. “I saw the big stack of paper last night.”

  “It’s not another novel like the ones in the living room.” He took off his glasses, tossed them on the desk, and turned to pluck a paperback from the shelf. He placed it in my hands.

  The cover showed a starry sky with a trio of moons, two people standing in the foreground, faces upturned. Moons of Vara, the title read, by Sam Malak. “You wrote this? You write science fiction now?”

  His arms were crossed over his chest. He nodded.

  “How many have you written?” I turned the book over to read the copy, and it had a thoughtful, alien discovery tone. “I wonder if my boss has read you. He loves this kind of book.”

  His defenses were still in place, cloaking his expression. “I’ve written six, in two different series.” He shrugged. “They’re . . . somewhat popular.”

  “Can I read this one?” I held it to my chest.

  He smiled slowly. “If you like.”

  “I want to read all of your books, Samir. I want to see how your mind works.”

  “It’s not embarrassing? That I’m writing genre instead of literary fiction?”

  I gave him a look. “I love to read, and honestly, who cares what category it is? A good book is a good book.”

  He caught my face, kissed me, and then just stood there with his forehead against mine for a moment. “I am so happy we met.”

  “Me too.” I closed my eyes and breathed in his scent. “I’m going to take this back to bed and read it and let you keep working.”

  “Sure you don’t mind? I wouldn’t, but I have a deadline, and I’ve been spending a lot of time with a certain buxom beauty.”

  “Buxom, is she?”

  He cupped a breast. “Indeed.”

  I stood on my toes and kissed him one more time. “You know where to find me.”

  In the morning, I walked home across the village green, a carrier bag full of Samir’s novels, both the science fiction series and the first three. He said not to give him book reports, and I promised I wouldn’t, but I also felt that he was allowing me the history of his literary self.

  Aware of my grumbling tummy, I stopped in at the bakery to pick up a loaf of bread for later and a pastry for my breakfast. It was just after the morning commuter rush, and the line was only ten minutes long. I checked my phone as I waited.

  There were a lot of emails and voice mails. I would listen to the voice mails at home, but I scrolled through the emails as I stood in line. Another note from Grant, which I didn’t open; one from my accountant containing figures I wouldn’t be able to read on the phone; and one from my Realtor, asking if there’d been any change.

  My mood, so light and airy when I’d left Samir, started to fold in on itself as real-world obligations and problems began shoving their way in. I thought of Grant, threatening me yesterday, and wondered if I ought to just let it go, let him have the money.

  The bell rang over the door, and I glanced up idly to see Pavi, wearing a pair of jeans and a bright peasant blouse with embroidery along the neckline. Behind her was a woman in a turquoise kurta, the hem of the tunic embroidered with darker thread and a border of silver. Her hair was cut into a thick, straight pageboy, and she wasn’t as old as I’d imagined—maybe late fifties.

  Their mother. My stomach dropped.

  Pavi caught my eye and gave me a very slight shake of her head. I turned away, glad to step up to the counter and place my order. Helen spied me through the window to the kitchen and gave a vigorous wave but held up her flour-covered hands to illustrate why she could not come out. I shook my head, waved.

  Don’t look at Pavi, I thought as I took my place in the group waiting for goods. I held my phone in my palm, and my head was directed that way, but out of the corner of my eye, I couldn’t stop trying to capture more glimpses of her. She moved stiffly, and her hands were slightly misshapen, and I remembered that she had rheumatoid arthritis. Other than that, she was youthful, her face unlined, no gray in her hair.

  When the girl behind the counter called out my order, I picked it up and planned to hurry out, but Pavi caught me. “Olivia! I didn’t see you there. Come, meet my mother, here from India for her summer visit.”

  “Oh, hello. How nice to see you,” I said, coming over.

  I held out my hand as Pavi said, “Ma, this is Olivia Shaw, the Countess of Rosemere. Olivia, this is my mother, Mrs. Malakar.”

  She grasped my hand with a firm grip despite the twist
ing fingers. “How do you do.”

  “It’s wonderful to meet you,” I said. “Your family has been very kind to me since my arrival.”

  Her face showed little expression, as if she were wearing a mother-shaped mask with a shimmer for eyes. I felt my skin was marked with Samir’s touch, covering me over with fluorescent streaks, his scent imprinted over my own. How could a mother avoid knowing? Feeling slightly panicked, I turned to Pavi. “How were the asparagus, Pavi?”

  “I’ll get them today.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you cook yours?”

  “No, so many things happened. I’ll have to tell you later.” I touched her arm, gave it a squeeze, and started to split off.

  “Are you a fan of Samir’s work?” Mrs. Malakar asked.

  I flushed, even as I tried to keep my cool, and glanced at the open top of my bag, where the books showed all too plainly.

  Game on. I took a breath. Met her eyes. “I don’t know, but I’m looking forward to finding out.”

  This time, I could read the expression just fine. It was disdain.

  I had too many phone calls to return and emails to answer to spend much time brooding over Samir’s mother. I called the accountant, who returned my phone call within minutes. Not a great sign. “Lady Shaw,” he said formally. “I’m afraid I have a bit of bad news.”

  I sat down, legal pad in front of me. “Go ahead.”

  “We’ve reviewed the accounts you gave us access to, and unfortunately, aside from the current income from the rents and whatever the estate generates, there’s not so much as a farthing in any of them.”

  Farthing, I thought, my brain frozen. Who used a word like farthing? “I don’t understand. Money has been fed into those accounts for nearly forty years. I had a feeling the India monies were gone, but what about all the rents for all those years? What about the investments and—”

  “Gone.” He cleared his throat. “It has been slowly stolen for more than a decade. It’s unclear who was in charge, but I rather suspect that your caretakers and Mr. Haver were in collusion.”

  I moved my head, trying to loosen my neck. “Haver’s gone. I went by his office yesterday, and he’s supposedly on vacation in Mallorca.”

  “Skipped town, more like.”

  For a long moment, I said nothing, trying desperately to gather my thoughts. I’d had my suspicions, of course, but the realization that he’d out and out cheated me landed in my gut like a hot coal. That bastard! “What are my options, then? I’d like to recoup the money, but failing that, what are my prosecution options? Can I just call the police?”

  “Of course. But I’ll handle that on your behalf, as your accountant of record. No need for you to involve yourself in all the messy details.” He paused. “I most sincerely doubt you’ll recoup any of the money. Best to plan on simply moving forward from here.”

  “Move forward,” I echoed.

  “You’ve still got the rents, which appear to average between five and seven thousand pounds per month, a quite tidy sum, and I gather you’ve other income. I’m happy to help you in any way I can.”

  “Thank you. I really am so grateful. Please do what you can to bring the thieves to justice. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do from my end.”

  I hung up, my gut burning with this new betrayal.

  And loss. If the accounts here had been drained, I would have to find money somewhere else. It was possible the copied paintings could lead to something, but I couldn’t count on it.

  In the meantime, I was left only with the money from the sale of my mother’s house in West Menlo Park. I stood up and paced to the window, looking down at the high street, which was coming to life in the sunny morning, women out in flowered dresses, men in their shirtsleeves.

  Impulsively, I dialed the hotel. Sarah answered, and I said, “Hello, Sarah. Olivia Shaw here. Do you have a guest by the name of Grant Kazlauskas by any chance?”

  “We do. Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I’m relieved. He’s not a particularly nice man, is he?”

  “No,” I said, wondering how I’d missed that fact for so long. Or maybe he once had been nice and now had soured. “Thanks, Sarah.”

  I took a moment to email my mother’s agent, asking for digital copies of her entire body of work, or as much as she had, then jumped in the shower and dressed in an outfit I knew Grant particularly liked, a thin white linen blouse from Anthropologie over a lacy chemise and a pair of jeans that were just slightly too tight, although they hadn’t been when I’d worn them last.

  That particular recognition didn’t do a lot for my confidence. And as I looked in the speckled bathroom mirror of the sad little flat I’d rented, what I saw was a nearly forty-year-old woman with emerging crow’s-feet and an expanding ass who’d bitten off more than she could chew.

  But my mother had wanted me here. Of all the humans in all the world, my mother had loved me most unconditionally. Everything she’d done on the trip her last summer she’d done to help me in some way.

  Today, I would be true to that quest no matter who disapproved of me.

  It was amazing how much more attractive I looked in the mirror after thinking that, as if I were looking at myself through the eyes of my mother—which made it possible to remember Samir and the way he kissed me, as if kissing were a secret potion and the touch of lips were the only way to capture it. I thought of his reverent adoration of my body. I thought of how I felt when I was with him.

  His mother’s disdain tried to creep in, but I pushed it away. I was in love with him, and he was—I was quite sure—smitten with me too. That was what I needed to carry with me, a fire lending light to my face as I confronted a man who was now my enemy.

  Grant sat in the breakfast room with his phone and a full English breakfast. He’d showered and pulled himself together, so it was easier to remember what I’d once seen in him. His hair was thick and brown, his face square, strong, intelligent.

  The girl on duty recognized me. “Hullo, Lady Shaw. Pot of tea?”

  “Not today, thanks.” I pulled out a chair at Grant’s table. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  He waved a hand toward the chair. “I don’t know what we have to say to each other after yesterday.”

  “Just listen. I thought about what you said—that you’d be fair in these circumstances. Maybe I’ve been caught in my own grief and just haven’t been thinking clearly.”

  He spread strawberry jam over a generous slice of toast. “Is that guy the reason you broke up with me?”

  “No.” I said it as clearly and firmly as I could. “I told you the reasons, and I meant them.”

  “What is he, like, twenty-five?” His gold-green eyes, once so lionlike and intriguing, met mine coldly over the toast. “The benefits of being a rich bitch, I guess.”

  “Please, Grant, let’s not do this.” I kept my voice low, glancing over my shoulder at the others in the room. “Why don’t we take a walk?”

  He tossed the toast down on the plate. “Fine.”

  Outside, I led us, walking in stiff silence, to the churchyard with its view of Rosemere. In the bright summery sun, it was stunning, all gleaming stone surrounded with forest and fields of yellow rapeseed, so bright it looked as if cans of paint had been spilled across the landscape. I sat down on a bench. “Please join me.”

  With a slight huff, he did, but the artist in him couldn’t resist the view. “God, I’d love to paint this.”

  “You should.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” He leaned back, weary. I felt him watching me. His fingers touched my arm. “Jesus, Olivia, I really miss you. I might have blown it, but I didn’t mean to. I still love you. We’ve been good together for a long time.”

  “We were good,” I said. “I didn’t mean to blindside you, honestly. But it’s been over for a while. I thought you knew it, too, but maybe I was wrong about that.”

  He nodded, brought his hands together, and
laced them between his knees. “So why’d you come see me?”

  “Let’s settle all of this. Nancy has sold the house. We just have to come to an understanding, and we’ll both have the money we want.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah. Let’s figure out something that’s fair to us both. I have repairs to do on that white elephant of a house.” I gestured toward it. “It looks so beautiful from here, but it’s a mess from top to bottom.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I’m offering a third of the West Menlo Park house, after taxes.”

  He straightened, shaking his head. “Half.”

  “You were willing to settle for a third the last time we talked!”

  “Changed my mind. I’m going for the full half.”

  I pinched my nose, trying to stay calm. “Grant, I need that money. And you know it’s technically mine.”

  “Is it, though?” He made it sound so reasonable. “If we’d been married all this time, would you feel the same way?”

  I took a moment to think about that. “Yes. I think I would. The house belonged to my mother, and I inherit whatever she leaves behind, and I’m offering you a third of that.”

  “No, you’re offering a third of the house. That doesn’t come anywhere close to the estate. Not including this estate, which has to be worth a pretty penny.”

  “It’s not. There’s no money left. It’s a wreck of a house.”

  “On land that’s—what? A half hour from central London on the train?”

  “Only if I sell it will there be any money in it.”

  “So sell it.”

  “I’m not doing that,” I said and realized that I meant it. Fiercely.

  “Still, how much are your mother’s paintings worth? Another mil, easy.”

  “I don’t want to sell them.”

  “You’re gonna have to make some choices, Olivia. You don’t get to have everything your way.”

  “You have no right to any of this!” I cried, slapping a hand on my thigh. “You practically deserted me, and now, only when there’s something in it for you do you want to make things right.” I stood. “I’m offering you a third of the house in West Menlo Park. Take it or leave it.”