by Jennie Lucas
Tears welled in her eyes. “But it wasn’t your fault—none of it!”
He took a deep breath, looking up bleakly as plaintive seagulls flew across the stark blue sky. “And yet, it all was.”
“No,” Daisy whispered.
“Appearance is what matters,” he said flatly. “Giannis wasn’t really my father, and my parents despised each other. But to the outside world, they pretended they were in love. They pretended they were happy.” He paused. “They pretended to be my parents.”
Tears were streaking Daisy’s cheeks.
“When my mother said there was no need for us ever to see each other again, right after she’d just been hugging me and crying in my arms, something snapped. And... And...”
“And?”
Leonidas took a deep breath. “I saw her Picasso, sitting nearby, waiting to be wrapped and placed in a crate. Something in my head exploded.” He looked away. “I grabbed some scissors from a nearby table. I heard my mother screaming. When I came out of my haze, I’d slashed the entire side of Love with Birds, right across its ugly gray heart.”
He exhaled. “My mother wrenched the scissors out of my hands, and told me I was a monster, and that I never should have been born.” He looked back at Daisy. “Those were her last words to me. A few weeks later, she died in the Turkish earthquake. Her yali was smashed into rubble and rock. Her body was found but the painting was lost.”
“So that’s how you knew the Picasso was a fake,” Daisy whispered, then shook her head. “And no wonder you wanted it so badly. No wonder you were so angry when...” She swallowed, looking away.
Looking down, he said thickly, “After I became a man, I thought if I could own the painting, maybe I would understand.”
“Understand what?”
“How they could love it so much, and not—”
His throat closed.
“Not you,” she whispered.
His knees felt like rubber. He couldn’t look at her. Would he see scorn in her eyes? Or worse—pity?
He’d grown up swallowing so much of both. Scorn from his family. Pity from the servants. He’d spent his whole life making sure he’d never choke down another serving of either one.
But he was about to become a father. His eyes fell to Daisy’s belly, and he felt a strange new current of fear.
What did he know about being a parent, with the example he’d had? What about Leonidas—either as a desperate, unloved boy, or an arrogant, coldhearted man—had made him worthy to raise a child?
“Leo,” Daisy said in a low voice. With a deep breath, he met her gaze. His wife’s eyes were shining with tears. “I can’t even imagine what you went through as a kid.” She shook her head. “But that’s all over. You have a real family now. A baby who will need you. And a wife who...who...” Reaching up, she cupped her hands around his rough jawline and whispered, “A wife who loves you.”
Leonidas sucked in his breath, his eyes searching hers. Daisy loved him? After everything he’d just told her?
“You...what?”
“I love you, Leo,” she said simply.
His heart looped and twisted, and he couldn’t tell if it was the thrill of joy or the nausea of sick terror.
“But—how can you?” he blurted out.
Her lovely face lifted into a warm smile, her green eyes shimmering with tears. “I’ve always loved you, from the moment we met. Even when I tried not to. Even when I was angry... But I love you. You’re wonderful. Wonderful and perfect.”
She loved him.
Incredulous happiness filled his heart. On the villa’s white terrace, covered with pink flowers and overlooking the blue sea, Leonidas pulled her roughly into his arms, and kissed her passionately beneath the hot Greek sun.
Hours later, or maybe just seconds, he took her hand and led her inside the villa, to the vast master bedroom, with its wide open windows overlooking the Aegean.
Taking her to the enormous bed, he made love to her, as warm sea breezes blew against gauzy white curtains. He kissed her skin, made her gasp, made her cry out her pleasure, again and again.
Much later, when they were both exhausted from lovemaking, they had dinner, seafood fresh from the sea, along with slow-baked lamb marinated in garlic and lemon, artichokes in olive oil, goat’s milk cheese, salad with cucumber and tomatoes, and freshly baked bread.
Full and glowing, they changed into swimsuits and walked along the white sand beach at twilight, as the water rolled sensuously against their legs. They stopped to kiss each other, then chased the waves, laughing as they splashed together like children in the turquoise-blue sea, the sunset sky aflame.
Leonidas watched her, the way she smiled up at him, her eyes so warm and bright. Daisy glowed like a star, her wet hair slicked back, the white bathing suit clinging to her pregnant body. His heart was beating fast.
I love you, Leo.
The setting sun was still warm on his skin as he came closer in the water. She looked at his intent face, and her smile disappeared. Taking her hand, he led her back to the villa, neither of them speaking.
Once they reached the bedroom’s en suite bathroom, he peeled off her swimsuit, then his own. He led her into the shower, wide enough for two, and slowly washed the salt and sand off their bodies.
Drawing her back to the enormous bed, he made love to his wife in the fading twilight, with the dying sun falling to the west, as the soft wind blew off the pounding surf. In that moment, Leonidas thought he might die of happiness.
I love you.
For the first time in his life, he felt like he was home, safe, wanted, desired. He and Daisy were connected in a way he’d never known, in a way he’d never imagined possible. Their souls were intertwined, as well as their bodies. She loved him. As he held her in the dark bedroom, he knew he’d never be alone again. He could finally let down his guard—
His eyes flew open.
But what if Daisy ever stopped loving him?
He felt a sudden vertigo, a sickening whirl as the earth dropped beneath him. He didn’t think he could survive.
But how could he make sure her love for him endured, when he had no idea why, or how, she could love him? Even his own mother had said Leonidas should never have been born. Whatever Daisy might say, he knew he wasn’t good enough for her.
And as for being good enough for their child...
Stop it, Leonidas told himself desperately, trying to get back to the perfect happiness of just a moment before. Squeezing his eyes shut, he held Daisy close. He kissed his wife’s sweaty temple, cradling her body with his own.
* * *
It was a perfect honeymoon. When they returned to New York a few days later, Leonidas vowed that Daisy would never regret marrying him. If he could not feel love for his wife in his cold, ashy heart, he would at least show her love every day through his actions.
And for the first three months of their marriage, she did seem very happy, as they planned the nursery, went to the theater and even took cooking and baby prep classes together. Leonidas felt like a fool as he burned every type of food from Thai to Tuscan, no matter how hard he tried.
In order to spend his days—and nights—with her, he ignored work, and did not regret it. Even when Leonidas did go in to the office, instead of focusing on sales throughout his global empire, he found himself asking his employees random questions about their lives, as Daisy did. For the first time, he was curious about their families, their goals and what had brought them to work at Liontari.
His vice presidents and board members obviously thought Leonidas was lost in some postnuptial sensual haze. But they forgave him, because the explosive global reaction to his wedding to the daughter of the man he’d sent to prison had caused brand recognition to increase thirty percent. Leonidas and Daisy had had calls for interviews on morning shows, and even four calls from Hollywood, offering to tu
rn their story into a “based on a true story” movie. Daisy had been horrified.
Leonidas had been happy to refuse. He’d discovered to his shock that he was happy working fewer hours. His heavily pregnant wife wanted him at home. She needed him at home. How could profit and loss reports compare with that?
But everything changed the day their baby was born.
On that early day in June, when the flowers were blooming outside the modern hospital in New York and the sky was the deepest blue he’d ever seen, Leonidas finally held his sweet tiny sleeping baby in his arms.
The newborn fluttered open her eyes, dark as his own. Her forehead furrowed.
And then, abruptly, she started to scream, as if in physical pain.
“She’s just hungry,” the nurse said soothingly.
But Leonidas was clammy with sweat. “Here. Take her. Just take her—”
He pushed the shrieking bundle into his wife’s welcoming arms. Holding their daughter in the bed, Daisy murmured soft words and let the rooting baby nurse. Within seconds, the hospital suite was filled with blessed silence. Daisy smiled down at her baby, touching her tiny fingers wonderingly. Then she looked up at Leonidas.
“Don’t take it personally,” she said uncertainly.
“Don’t worry,” he ground out. But Leonidas knew it was personal. His own daughter couldn’t stand to be touched by him. Somehow, the newborn had just known, as his parents had, that Leonidas was not worthy of love. Though Daisy’s kind heart had momentarily blinded her to his flaws, her love for him would not last. And it would not save him.
He was on a ticking clock. Any day now, she would realize what their baby already knew.
And by the end of the summer, his prophecy came true. As weeks passed and Leonidas refused to hold the baby again—for her own sake—he watched with despair as his wife’s expression changed from bewilderment to heartbreak, and finally cold accusation.
* * *
It was the happiest day of Daisy’s life when their baby was born in the first week of June.
At least, it should have been.
Labor was hard, but when it was over, she held her little girl for the first time. She looked up at her husband, wanting to share her joy.
But for some reason, his handsome face was pale, as if he’d just seen a ghost.
Their baby was perfect. Little hands, little feet, a scrunched-up beautiful face. They named her Olivia—Livvy—after Daisy’s mother, Olivia Bianchi Cassidy. Daisy was nervous, but thrilled to bring her back to the brownstone that had somehow become home to her, to the sweet pink nursery she and Leonidas had lovingly prepared.
It was hard to believe that was two months ago. Now, as Daisy nestled her baby close, nursing her in the rocking chair, she couldn’t get over how soft Livvy’s skin was, or how plump her cheeks had become in nine weeks. The baby’s dark eyelashes fluttered as she slept. Her hair was darker than Daisy’s, reflecting her namesake’s Italian roots, as well as Leonidas’s Greek heritage.
“Come and look at your daughter,” she’d said to him more than once. “Doesn’t she look like you?”
And every time, Leonidas would give their newborn daughter only the slightest sideways glance. “Yes.”
“Won’t you hold her?” she would ask.
And with that same furtive glance at his daughter, her husband would always refuse. Even if Daisy asked for help, saying she needed to have her hands free to do something else, like start the baby’s bath, even then he would refuse, and would loudly call for Mrs. Berry to assist, as he backed away.
Leonidas disappeared from the house, claiming he was urgently needed at work. He started spending sixteen-hour days at the office and sleeping in the guest room when he came home late.
He claimed he did not want to disturb Daisy and the baby, but the end result was that Daisy had barely seen her husband all summer. He’d simply evaporated from their lives, leaving only the slight scent of his exotic masculine cologne.
For weeks, Daisy had felt heartsick about it. Obviously, their daughter wasn’t to blame. Livvy was perfect. So it must be something else.
Back in March, during their honeymoon, when he’d told her about his tragic, awful childhood, it had broken Daisy’s heart. But it had also given her hope. Some part of Leonidas must love her, for him to be so vulnerable with her.
And so she’d been vulnerable, too. She’d told him she loved him.
For months after that, Leonidas had held her close, made love to her, made her feel cherished and adored. He’d let her draw his portrait in six different sketches, all of them in different light.
Now she felt like those sketches were all she had of him.
Had there been a shadow beneath his gaze, even then? Had he already been starting to pull away?
In the two months since Livvy’s birth, Daisy hadn’t had the opportunity to do another drawing of Leonidas. But she’d done dozens of sketches of their baby. Looking through them yesterday, she’d been astonished at how much the infant had changed in such a short time.
Mrs. Berry, seeing the sketches, had shyly asked if she could hire Daisy to do her portrait, too, as a gift for her husband’s birthday. Daisy had done it gladly one afternoon when the baby was sleeping, without charge. She’d done the drawing with her yellow dog stretched out over her feet, on the floor. Sunny had grown huge, and was always nearby, as if guarding Daisy and the baby from unknown enemies. She was particularly suspicious of squirrels.
Sunny always made her laugh.
Mrs. Berry had loved the drawing. Word of mouth began to spread, from the house’s staff, to their families. Friends who came from Brooklyn to see the baby saw the drawings of Livvy, and requested portraits of their own grandchildren, of their spouses, of their pets. Just yesterday, Daisy had gotten five separate requests for portraits. She didn’t know what to think.
“Why weren’t you doing drawings like this all along?” Her old boss at the diner, Claudia, had demanded earlier that week. “Why were you doing those awful modern scribbles—when all along you could do pictures like this?”
Remembering, Daisy gave a low laugh. Trust her old boss not to be diplomatic.
But still, it made her think.
When she’d done her painting at art school, long ago, she’d been desperate to succeed. Art had always felt stressful, as she’d tried to guess what others would most admire. Each effort had been less authentic than the last, a pastiche of great masterpieces, as Leonidas had said. The painting her husband had bought at the auction for a million dollars was still buried in a closet. In spite of its success that night, she hadn’t felt joy creating it. In spite of all her effort, the painting had never connected with her heart.
But these sketches were different. They were of people.
It felt easy to simply draw her friends—even new friends she’d just met—and see what was best in them.
Was it possible that Daisy did have some talent? Not for painting—but for people?
With a rueful snort, she shook her head. Talent for people? She couldn’t even get her own husband to talk to her! Or hold their baby daughter!
Two days ago, heartsick, she’d been thinking of how, as an agonized fourteen-year-old, Leonidas had struck out at the Picasso with scissors. And she’d had a sudden crazy idea.
What if she found the painting for him?
It was a long shot. He’d been looking for it for decades. But maybe he hadn’t been doing it the right way. Daisy had a few connections in the art world. If she could give him his heart’s desire, would it bring Leonidas back to them?
It was her best chance. A grand gesture Leonidas would never forget. She pictured his joyful face when she presented him with the Picasso. Then he would take her in his arms and tell her he loved her.
Her heart yearned for that moment!
So she called a young art blogger she knew
in Brooklyn. Aria Johnson had a huge social media following and a ruthless reputation. The woman was like a bloodhound, searching out stories about priceless art and scandals of the rich and famous. Even Daisy’s father had been a little afraid of her.
Picking up the phone, she called her and told Aria haltingly about her husband’s history with the lost Picasso.
Daisy didn’t explain everything, of course. She didn’t say a word about the way he’d been conceived. That was a secret she’d take to the grave. She just told her that Love with Birds had been lost when Leonidas’s mother had died in a big Turkish earthquake, some two decades before.
“Yeah. I know the story.” The blogger popped her gum impatiently. “People have looked for that Picasso for twenty years. Wild-goose chase. Why else would your father have thought he could forge it?”
“He didn’t—”
Aria cut her off. “They only found the woman’s body. No painting.” Daisy had flinched. The woman had been Leonidas’s mother. “Other bodies were found, though. Her household staff. A young man who no one came forward to claim.”
“Could you look into it?” Daisy said.
“A widow. With money. Hmm... Was she beautiful?”
“I guess so,” Daisy replied. What difference did Eleni Niarxos’s beauty make?
“Anything else you can tell me?”
She swallowed hard. It felt like breaking a confidence—but how else could she be sure it was the right painting? She said reluctantly, “There’s a cut in the canvas. Someone sliced the painting with a pair of scissors.”
“Someone?”
“Yes. Someone.” Quickly changing the subject, Daisy said, “If you could find it, I’d be so grateful. And I’ll pay you—”
“You can pay my expenses, that’s it. I don’t need a finder’s fee. I just need to own the story. Deal?”
Daisy took a deep breath. It felt like a devil’s bargain, but she was desperate. “Deal.”
The art blogger paused. “If I find the painting, it might not have provenance.”
Meaning, the painting might have been stolen. Which would make sense. How else could it have simply disappeared during the earthquake?
