Noah found the home’s spare key right where Agnes told him she kept it—in an old boot on the back porch—and he slipped inside, making his way up the first flights of stairs to where the door to the attic sat wide open. He climbed the second flight, and when he reached the top step he found Tayte sitting on a dusty antique chair surrounded by a stained-glass window and several oil paintings. She seemed stunned by the art, but she was relatively undisturbed by Noah’s arrival.
“I saw you come across the yard,” she said.
“Does Agnes know you’re up here?”
Her shoulders slumped and she shook her head. “I saw the way she clutched at her chain when you asked about selling the paintings last night. Once she was asleep, I snuck into her room and stole the key. I’ve been opening crates and pulling out unbelievable treasures—paintings, sculptures, sketches, porcelain pieces.”
“What are you planning to do? You saw how she feels about these things.”
Tayte’s head spun toward him, and her shoulders squared. “What do you think I’m going to do? She’s getting worse every day, and I won’t be able to handle things alone. I need to know what my options are, and as crass as it sounds, I need money to provide those options.”
She sniffed and wiped a hand across her eyes. “Do you have any idea what she’s been hiding?” She stood and strode to the first painting. “This is an original Chagall! And this stained-glass window? If my art history serves me well, it’s over three hundred years old. Do you know what these two items alone are worth? And I haven’t even seen what’s in some of the other crates. I need to find out where they came from and why they’ve been collecting dust in the attic of an old farm, of all places. They’ll be mine someday, and if she doesn’t want to sell them, they deserve to at least be in a museum where they can be shared.
“But these,” she pointed to three paintings, “look who the artists are.”
Noah drew near and read the painted signatures, Agnes Devereaux and Angeline Keller. Angeline’s painting was an impressive still life of a bowl of fruit. The first of Agnes’s paintings was a landscape featuring a creek. Noah recognized the setting. It was Alsace Farm.
Agnes’s other painting was of a young man flanked by two beautiful young women. One of the women was clearly Agnes, captured in a self-portrait, but the other woman was altogether unknown. The man’s face seemed eerily familiar though Noah didn’t know why. Even so, he could tell all three paintings showed incredible talent.
“I never noticed the name of the artist who painted the two landscapes in the sitting room. I looked tonight. They were done by Albert Devereaux, Grandma’s father. I knew he had been a vintner, a soldier, and a diplomat, but I had no idea he was a painter or that Agnes and my mother were. I just assumed I inherited my talent from my father, not my mom’s family. Art was such a big part of my life. It could have been our common bond. Why didn’t my mother tell me? What if I hadn’t come up here? I wouldn’t have known about this link until Agnes was no longer able to give me any answers.”
“You saw how Agnes attaches pain to this room and its contents, as well as to the items’ former owners—her ghosts—and a promise her father made. That pain is the reason Agnes kept these paintings hidden all these years.”
“I can’t be sentimental about this. Not when we have so many needs.”
Noah felt his brow furrow. “What if selling them drives Agnes over the edge forever? Are a few thousand dollars worth that?”
She looked at Noah as if he were an idiot. “A few thousand dollars? We’re talking about millions. I could build her a brand new house on this property, provide her with top-notch round-the-clock care, or take her anywhere she wanted to travel. She would want for nothing.”
Noah gazed at Tayte, at the physical transformation the past few minutes had wrought upon her. The worry had lifted from her face, replaced with the hard edge she wore the first day he met her, the same look she wore whenever she was immersed in her artistic world.
“What?” asked Tayte. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“You don’t know Agnes at all.”
Tayte stood ramrod straight and crossed her arms in front of her like a shield. “She barely gets by. You and I both know things are getting worse. Her needs are increasing.”
“You don’t need to do this, Tayte. Let me help you.”
“When your uncle passes and this job ends, how long will you hang around? An extra week? A month? Good intentions aside, I can’t allow myself to count on you. I’m responsible for my grandmother. I’m in for the long haul, and the only one I can count on is me.”
Her words burned Noah like a firebrand. “You really don’t get it.” He dug his nails into the old wood of the door jamb. “Do you really think I come here, day after day, for a measly paycheck?”
“I’m not questioning whether or not you care about my grandmother.”
“Well, thank you for that.” He hoped his sarcasm penetrated her hide. He took one step forward and jutted a finger at her. “You know, maybe if you’d stop focusing on everything that’s wrong with Agnes and this place, if you’d just open your eyes and see all that’s beautiful and good here, then you’d realize . . . you’d know . . .”
“What would I know, Noah?”
Her reply was softer, but her expression remained firm. Seconds ticked by as he studied her, hoping a crack would reopen in that fortress she hid behind, but time only steeled her more.
His hand dropped to his side in defeat. He stepped back to the stairwell. “. . . that despite everything she’s forgotten, she still remembers more about loving than most people will ever know. Open your eyes, Tayte. No matter what a person lacks, Agnes makes you feel you’re enough just the way you are. That’s her gift. Not these things. I hope you figure that out.” The entire conversation was killing him, but the next words from his mouth cut him deeper than the real wounds he inflicted years ago. “Remove me from the equation altogether. Do what’s best for you and her.” His breath shuddered inside his chest. “Like you said, all this stuff is going to be yours anyway.”
He stormed down the steps when a loud bang sounded in the barnyard.
“Noah!” Tayte cried out. “Someone’s in the yard!”
When he glanced up the stairs he saw real fear in her eyes. He rushed down the steps, stopping in the kitchen to grab the best weapon he could find. Armed with the iron fireplace shovel and with Tayte close behind him, he opened the door and slipped to the barn using the glow from the dusk-to-dawn light as his guide. Another bang echoed, but this time it came from the feed barn. He raised the shovel, pressed against the outer wall to the left of the door and waited. In a few moments, the door opened and two buckets emerged ahead of a robed Agnes. When she saw the large body looming over her, she dropped her buckets and shrank to the ground with a yelp.
“Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me!” she cried.
“Agnes?” Noah dropped the shovel and scooped her against him. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were a prowler. What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”
Several moments passed before she calmed enough to recognize Noah. More were required before she felt safe enough to reply. “I was going to milk the cow like I do every day.”
“It’s not time, Agnes. It’s the middle of the night.”
She looked up at the light. “I looked out the window and saw the sun.”
Tayte’s fingers pressed against her temples. “How often has she been doing this?”
Noah held Agnes more tightly. This explained the rapidly depleting feed.
“What if she’d decided to get up and cook and she’d left the stove on all night? Or what if she’d decided to go fishing?” She shuddered at the thought. “I need to get an alarm system too. One that chimes when the doors open.”
He nodded in defeat. “That would probably be a good idea.”
“Noah, I could never have calmed her like you did. She needs you here.”
Despite being unable to sleep for
an hour after his altercation with Tayte, Noah was up early and halfway through with the feeding when Agnes came out the next morning.
“Tayte is making breakfast. She asked me to invite you in.”
“Did she now?” His tone was sharp and sarcastic, and he knew Agnes recognized it.
She placed her hands on her hips and jiggled her head at him. “Oh, what is this? Now you are the one who is mad at her. Maybe I should tell you to be nice, eh?”
He looked down at her low-cut velour top and her crimson lips, and couldn’t hold back his smile. “I’m just tired. Thanks, Agnes. I’ll be in. Give me a minute, okay?”
He purposely took his time, and when he did go inside, he headed straight for the bathroom to clean up. The bathroom was spotless and smelled of bleach. Fresh towels were laid out, and a spot had been cleared on a shelf and labeled with a note that read, “Noah’s stuff.” It was written in Tayte’s hand.
When he arrived at the table the bluster and bullheadedness he had planned to bring to the meal had abated. Instead, he nodded at Tayte and thanked Agnes for the invitation.
“Can I do anything to help?” he asked as much to Agnes as to Tayte.
“No!” She playfully smacked his shoulder. “This is the first time in many years I have had a man at my breakfast table. I just want you to sit.”
He smiled and noticed that Tayte was trying her best to hide a smile as well. A platter of French toast and another filled with scrambled eggs sat on the table. Noah was ready to dig in when he saw Agnes bow her head. She gazed up to see if the young people were likewise positioned. In short order they were, and she offered an earnest prayer uttered in a voice thick with gratitude. A warm flush raced through Noah and he shivered at the feeling.
Breakfast actually proved to be a meeting of sorts to prepare Agnes for the changes their work would bring to her routine. Noah was impressed by Tayte’s thoughtful planning.
“I’ve been commissioned to paint a portrait, Grandma. What do you think of that?”
Noah and Tayte paused, forks in midair, to see what reaction the news would get.
“I’ve seen your work. You’re very good,” said Agnes.
The praise left Tayte silent. Noah saw her blink rapidly. She muttered a soft thank you before stuffing a bite of toast in her mouth.
Noah pursued the subject further. “How about you, Agnes? Did you ever paint?”
“Oh, yes.” The memory brought pleasure to her voice and face. “An artist friend of Papa’s trained me during the war until we ran out of supplies. Papa had a new set waiting here for me when we arrived.”
“Did you teach my mother to paint?” asked Tayte.
“Angeline? Yes . . . she had promise, but she was impatient. She was like that boy she ran off with.” Agnes’s eyes narrowed, and her jaw bulged as she ground her teeth. “He lived in his car and traveled around the country sketching portraits at state fairs for twenty dollars. Angeline traded her gift to be his shill.” She shivered with distaste.
The click of Tayte’s fork hitting the plate signaled her anger. “Maybe she loved him.”
Agnes turned sharply on Tayte. “He was an opportunist. Tony had passed on, and Angeline was angry with me.” Melancholy settled over her like a veil. “She wanted money so she could run off with that cartoonist. I forbade her, but she still left me.”
Agnes rose from her seat and carried her plate and glass of milk to the sink, pausing by the window that looked out over the creek. “She called a year later . . . to ask for money. I begged her to come home, but she hung up the phone. So many lonely years wasted. She called once more to tell me that she had a child, a pretty little girl. They showed up here one day, penniless and hungry. I was so grateful to see them. When I woke up the next morning Angeline was gone. She didn’t even leave a note. Days later I realized she had taken most of my good jewelry and two of Papa’s paintings. But she left me the best treasure. Her little girl and I spent a marvelous summer here that year.” She gazed into space and smiled as if the memory were playing on the screen of her mind.
“Three months later, Angeline returned. I begged her to stay, or to leave the child with me, but she took her and more of my things, and left again in an hour.” Agnes sipped her milk and turned to Tayte. “I would have given them both a home and everything I owned. The poor child. I wonder what happened to her.”
The color drained from Tayte’s face. When she could no longer control the quivering in her lips, she fled outside. Agnes sat in her chair next to Noah’s. “What’s wrong with her?”
Noah took her hands in his and pressed them to his cheek. “Agnes, who is Tayte?”
“She is my friend.”
He closed his eyes and absorbed Tayte’s pain. “She is more than your friend, Agnes. She’s your granddaughter.” He punctuated each word. “She is Angeline’s child.”
Agnes absorbed the words and slumped as if aggravated. “So, I forgot one thing. I am over eighty years old, you know. When you are my age you will forget things too. I do pretty good for eighty.” She rose from her chair and began clearing the table. “She didn’t eat much. I’ll leave her plate. Perhaps she will want it later.”
Noah went outside to find Tayte. She hadn’t made it far. She stood by the fence and watched a calf nurse from its mother.
“She still doesn’t know me. Not really. Maybe she never will.”
“The things she said back there . . . she didn’t—”
“She was right. I didn’t know how they met, but it all fits. It all makes sense now. We moved all the time. No stable home, no family to speak of, dozens of schools when I even went to school. The reason we came here when I was eight was because my mother begged my father to finally marry her, and he refused. He said he loved her but not in that way. She told me I was the reason she stayed. She even blamed me for her unfulfilled dreams.” Tayte laughed and wiped at her eyes. “Nice thing to hear when you’re eight, right?”
She turned and spoke directly to Noah. “It galled her to see my father praise my talent after she surrendered her own opportunities to run off with him. But that wasn’t my fault.”
“No it wasn’t.” He wanted to pull her to his chest, to stroke her hair, and promise her that everything would be all right, but memories of the previous night stole his will.
“They loved the idea of being a family, but they were lousy at it. We had a chance at a good life here, and she threw it away to go back to him. Art was my only hope, my only escape, so I applied for a scholarship to an art school, and I got in. I’ll never forget what she said the day the letter came. No congratulations. No ‘I’m proud of you, Tayte.’ She said I’d gotten everything that should have been hers. So I did what she did. I left. And I hardly ever looked back.”
Noah leaned against the fence beside her. “That was the drugs speaking. You deserved better than you got, but you’re the master of your own destiny now. You just need to figure out what you really want.”
She eyed him thoughtfully. “I’m sorry for what I said last night. I know you love Agnes.”
“I care about you too.”
“We’re some pair. My degree was supposed to be my golden ticket to a better life. I thought it would change me, but after all that work and the accolades, I’m still the same messed-up little girl inside. And then there’s you. The guy who didn’t get the sheepskin still managed to do it.”
Noah wasn’t certain he’d heard her correctly. “Do what?”
“Heal. Grow. Evolve. You didn’t allow your childhood to suspend you in time. You may not have the degree, but you’re always studying and learning. I’ve watched you sneak off with a book or your computer to study. I’m impressed. You’re not content to be an invisible little boy anymore.”
Her compliment took Noah’s breath away, and he didn’t know how to respond. He saw no natural segue from this moment to one where he could follow his desire to take her hand or touch her hair. Before he had time to overcome his social inadequacies, Agnes came out car
rying a plate of French toast, ending the moment.
“I saved this for you,” she said as she headed Tayte’s way, winning a welcome hug.
“I love you, Grandma.”
“I love you too, ma chérie.”
“Say my name, please,” Tayte whispered to Agnes loud enough for Noah to hear.
Noah signaled to Agnes and mouthed the word, but she shook her head to dismiss his aid. “Tayte. You are my Tayte.”
* * *
Erasers were at a premium when Noah and Tayte sat down at the table to set a work schedule for the next four weeks. It was apparent that of equal importance to the completion of their respective projects was the need for one of them to be with Agnes as much as possible. It was nine thirty when they agreed they’d achieved a flawless master plan—so long as nothing changed.
Noah was set to run his design to the Eppleys’ for their approval that morning, and then Tayte would swap, spending the afternoon photographing the family at the grotto while Noah worked at the farm with Agnes. During the next few days, while Noah priced out the project and drew up the materials order, Tayte would create the initial portrait sketch. She’d then paint the first layer of color on the portrait at home, leaving Noah free to set the supports in the ground at the Eppleys’. The exhausting schedule flipped back and forth between the farm and the Eppleys’ house, between Noah and Tayte taking shifts watching Agnes.
“I’m going to need at least one assistant to build this deck or I’ll never finish it on time.”
“Can I see your design?”
Noah showed her his sketch and held his breath. Her initial rush of enthusiasm buoyed him, and then silence set in, followed by worry.
“I thought the Chamber of Commerce only budgeted five thousand dollars for a modest deck. Even I know there’s no way you can build this for that amount.”
Noah rolled the plans back up. “I’ll work something out. What about you? Have you decided what you’ll do about the paintings?”
She couldn’t maintain eye contact, and Noah had his answer.
“I’m not doing anything definite,” she countered, “at least not right away. I left the door to the attic unlocked and returned her key. She never checks that door anyway. I’ve taken photos of a few of the pieces to show Mr. Delacourte. I hope he’ll be able to verify their authenticity, and then I plan on figuring out how they came into Grandma’s possession.”
A SECOND CHANCE ROMANCE BOXED SET Page 19