by Jennie Lucas
Then Sunny put her chin against Daisy’s leg, her black eyes looking up mournfully, and Daisy remembered that she couldn’t fall apart. She had a baby relying on her.
Five months ago, she’d thought she was ready to raise their baby alone. She’d made plans to go to nursing school, to move to California. She’d been strong in herself. She hadn’t needed him.
Where had that strong woman gone?
She’d long since canceled her college registration. Daisy blinked fast, trying to see clearly. She stroked her dog’s soft golden fur. She took a deep breath. Strong. She had to be strong.
She looked up at Mrs. Berry. “I need to go.”
“Go?”
Daisy slowly got up. She looked around the elegant foyer. “I can’t stay here. It reminds me too much of him. And how happy we were...”
The housekeeper gave her a strange look. “Were you really?”
Staring at her, Daisy held in her breath. Had they been happy?
“I thought we were,” she choked out. “At least at first. But something happened when our baby was born...”
Across the foyer, Daisy’s eyes fell again on the framed sketch she’d done of her husband on their honeymoon. They’d been happy then. Next to that, there was a framed sketch of their baby’s smiling face and innocent dark eyes. Just like Leonidas’s—and yet nothing at all like them.
With a deep breath, Daisy lifted her chin.
So be it.
Ahead of her, the empty future stretched as wide as a vast ocean.
She could fill that terrifying void with flowers and sea breezes.
“I need to pack,” she said aloud, hardly recognizing the sound of her own voice.
By the next morning, Daisy, her baby and her dog were en route to California, in search of a new life, or at least a new place, where she could build new memories. And, she prayed, where she could heal and raise her daughter with love.
* * *
“We’ve found it, Mr. Niarxos.”
Leonidas stared at his lawyer.
“No,” he said faintly. “Impossible.”
Edgar Ross shook his head. “I waited to be sure. We were contacted two weeks ago. It’s been authenticated. There can be no doubt.”
The two men were standing in his chief lawyer’s well-appointed office, with its floor-to-ceiling windows and view of the Empire State Building.
When his lawyer had called him that morning, Leonidas had assumed that the man must have heard that he’d separated from Daisy. After all, for the last three weeks, Leonidas had been living in a Midtown hotel suite. It wouldn’t exactly take a detective to figure out the Niarxos marriage was over.
Even though he’d told his wife to go, part of him still couldn’t believe that Daisy and their baby had left New York. He’d returned to the mansion only once since she’d gone, and it had felt unbearably empty.
After that, he’d returned to the hotel suite, where he’d been riding out the scandal ever since the sordid truth about his past had been revealed on Aria Johnson’s website, in all its ugly glory. This visit to his lawyer’s office, on the thirty-fourth floor of a Midtown skyrise, was his first public outing in days. At least the scandal was starting to abate. Only two paparazzi had followed him here, which he took as a victory.
Misinterpreting his silence, his lawyer gave Leonidas a broad smile. “I don’t blame you for being skeptical. But we really have found the Picasso.”
“How can you be sure?” Leonidas’s voice was low. “I don’t want my hopes raised, only to have them crushed. I’d prefer to have no hope at all.”
Just like his marriage.
He could still see Daisy’s beautiful face in the warm Greek sun, surrounded by flowers on the terrace of his villa. I love you, she’d said dreamily. You’re wonderful. Wonderful and perfect.
So different from her agonized, heartbroken face when, on the street outside their New York home, he’d told her he was leaving her.
Leonidas couldn’t get those two images out of his mind. For the last three weeks, he’d been haunted by memories, day and night, even when he was pretending to work. Even when he was pretending to sleep.
“Would you like to see your Picasso, Mr. Niarxos?”
Leonidas focused on the lawyer. He took a deep breath, forcibly relaxing his shoulders as they stood in the sleek private office with its view of the steel-and-glass city, reflecting the merciless noonday sun. “Why not.”
With a big smile, the lawyer turned. Crossing the private office, he reached up and, with an obvious sense of drama, drew back a curtain.
There, on the wall, lit by unflattering overhead light, was the Picasso. There could be no doubt. Love with Birds.
Coming forward, Leonidas’s eyes traced the blocky swirls of beige and gray paint. His fingers reached out toward a jagged line in the upper left corner, where the image was slightly off kilter, clumsily stitched back together. In the same place where he’d stabbed it with scissors, as a heartsick, abandoned fourteen-year-old.
“How did you find it?” he whispered.
“That art blogger found it. Aria Johnson. She found a relative of your mother’s...er...last lover.” He coughed discreetly. “A twenty-two-year-old college student in Ankara. He’d taken the painting to his aunt’s house the day before he disappeared in the earthquake.”
“Took it? Stole it, you mean.”
“Apparently not. The young man told his aunt the painting was a gift from some rich new girlfriend. She never learned who the girlfriend was, and she had no idea the painting was worth anything. She only kept it because she loved her nephew.”
Leonidas stared at him, barely comprehending.
After years of fighting tooth and claw to keep her husband from taking the painting from her, Eleni had simply given it away? To a young lover she barely knew? How? Why?
And then he knew.
His mother had been broken, too. Betrayed, heartsick, desperate for love.
The thought was overwhelming to him. So it wasn’t just Leonidas who felt that way. His mother had taken young lovers and given away her biggest treasure. His father had quietly drunk himself to death. Did everyone in the world feel broken? Feel like they were desperate for love they feared they’d never find?
He looked at the jagged tear across the priceless masterpiece. Ross followed his gaze.
“Er...yes. The aunt tried to repair the cut with a needle and thread, out of respect for her nephew’s memory.” His lawyer flinched. “You see the result.”
It took Leonidas a moment to even find his voice. “Yes.”
“She nearly had a heart attack when Aria Johnson told her she’d been keeping a Picasso in her gardening shed for the last twenty years.”
“How much does she want for it?”
“The art blogger told her she’d be a fool to take less than ten million. That seemed a reasonable price to me, since she could potentially have gotten even more at auction. So as soon as it was authenticated, I paid her.”
“You’re saying the painting’s mine?”
“Yes, Mr. Niarxos.”
Leonidas took another step toward the painting. With his parents now dead, there was no longer anyone to scream at him for trying to touch it. Reaching up, he gently stroked the roughly stitched edge where he’d once hacked into it.
“We will of course send it to be properly restored—”
“No. I’ll keep it as it is.” Drawing back his hand, Leonidas looked at the treasure he’d chased all his life. Love with Birds. Looking at the gray and beige boxy swirls, he waited for joy and love to fill his heart.
Nothing happened.
“I thought you might wish to arrange something with Liontari’s PR department,” the lawyer said behind him. “Let them do outreach on social media. This will make a nice end to the soap opera story currently making the
rounds about your, er, origins. If there’s one thing the public likes more than a scandal, it’s a happy ending.”
Barely listening, Leonidas narrowed his eyes, tilting his head right and left to get a better angle as he looked at the painting, waiting for happiness and triumph to fill his heart.
All his life, he’d chased fame and fortune, luxury and beauty. He’d chased this masterpiece most of all.
Why didn’t he feel like he’d thought he would feel? This was the possession that was supposed to make him feel whole. This painting was supposed to be love itself.
But Leonidas felt nothing.
Looking at it, he saw neither love nor birds. He saw meaningless swirls and boxes of gray and beige paint.
He felt cheated. Betrayed. His hands tightened at his sides. This painting meant nothing.
“Sir?” His lawyer sounded concerned. “Is there a problem?”
Leonidas looked away. “Thank you for arranging the acquisition.” The sharp light from the skyscrapers of the merciless city burned his eyelids. His throat was tight. “You will, of course, receive your finder’s fee and commission.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ross said happily. When Leonidas didn’t move, he said in a different tone, “Uh...is there something else you wish to discuss, Mr. Niarxos?”
This was the moment to ask for his divorce to be set in motion. Leonidas had already been dragging his feet for too long. Just last week, when he’d stopped by his old house, hoping for a glimpse of his family, Mrs. Berry had told him Daisy had rented a cottage in California, three thousand miles away.
“Rented...a cottage?” he’d asked, bewildered. “I gave her this house!”
“She didn’t want it without you,” his housekeeper said quietly. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m so sorry.”
He’d felt oddly vulnerable. “I’m the one who ended it.”
“I know.” The white-haired woman had given him a sad smile. “You hated for her to love you. How could she, when you can’t love yourself?”
Hearing those awful, true words, Leonidas had fled.
He could never go back to that house or see Mrs. Berry again. Never, ever. He’d pay her off, put the house on the market—
“Ah. I was afraid of this,” the lawyer said with a sudden sigh. Turning, he sat down behind his huge desk, and indicated the opposite chair. “Don’t worry, Mr. Niarxos. We can soon get you free.”
Still standing, Leonidas frowned at him. “Free?”
Edgar Ross said gently, “It’s all over town you’ve been living in a suite at the Four Seasons. But don’t worry.” He shook his head. “We have your prenup. Divorce won’t be hard, as long as Mrs. Niarxos doesn’t intend to fight it.”
No, he thought dully. Daisy had already fought as hard as she could for their marriage. She would not fight anymore. Not now he’d made it clear there was no hope.
He’d lost her. Lost? He’d pushed her out of his life. Forever.
He looked up dully. In place of a loving, beautiful, kindhearted wife, he had a painting. Love with Birds.
“Sir?” Ross again indicated the leather chair.
Leonidas stared at it. All he had to do was sit, and he’d soon get his divorce. His marriage would be declared officially dead. He’d lose Daisy forever, and their child, too. Just as he’d wanted.
He could take the painting to join the rest of his expensive possessions, back at his empty house in the West Village, or any of his other empty houses around the world. Instead of love and legacy, instead of a family, he’d have the painting.
You hated for her to love you. How could she, when you can’t love yourself?
Leonidas had never been worthy of Daisy’s love. She’d called him wonderful. She’d called him perfect. He was neither of those things. No wonder he was scared to love her. Because the moment he did—
The moment he did, she’d see the truth, and he would lose her.
But he’d lost her anyway.
The thought made his eyes go wide. He’d sent her away because he was terrified of ever feeling that hollowness again in his heart, of wanting someone’s love and not getting it.
But he loved Daisy anyway.
With a gasp, Leonidas stared out the window. A reflected beam from another skyscraper’s windows blinded him with sharp light.
He loved her.
He was totally and completely in love with his wife. And he had been, from the moment he’d married her. No, before. From the moment he’d kissed her. From the moment she’d first smiled at him in the diner, her face so warm and kind, so beautiful and real in her waitress uniform—
Nice suit. Headed to court? Unpaid parking tickets? You poor guy. Coffee’s on me.
Daisy always saw the best in everyone. Including him.
Leonidas looked again at the Picasso. The painting was not love. It could never fill his heart.
Only he could do that.
All these years, he’d blamed his parents for his inability to love anyone, including himself. And maybe it was true.
But sooner or later, a man had to choose. Would he bury himself in grief and blame, and die choking on the dirt? Or would he reach up his hands, struggle to pull himself up and out of the early grave, to breathe sunlight and fresh air?
Leonidas chose life.
He chose her.
“I have to go,” he said suddenly.
“What?” His lawyer looked bewildered, holding a stack of official-looking papers on his desk. “Where?”
“California.” Leonidas turned away. He had to see Daisy. He had to tell her everything, to fall at her feet and beg her to forgive him. To take him back. Before he’d even reached the door, he broke into a run.
Because what if he was already too late?
CHAPTER TEN
THE BOUGAINVILLEA WAS in bloom, the flowers pink and bright, climbing against the snug white cottage overlooking the sea.
After three weeks of living there, Daisy still couldn’t get over the beauty of the quiet neighborhood near Santa Barbara. From the small garden behind her cottage, filled with roses and orange trees, she could see the wide blue vista of the Pacific. Looking straight down from the edge of the bluff, she could see the coastal highway far below, but the noise of the traffic was lost against the sea breezes waving the branches of cypress trees.
Looking out at the blue ocean and pink flowers, Daisy couldn’t stop herself from remembering her honeymoon, when Leonidas had kissed her passionately, on the terrace of a Greek villa covered with flowers, overlooking the Aegean. Even now, the backs of her eyelids burned at the memory.
When would she get over him? How long would it take for her to feel whole again?
“So? Did you decide?”
Hearing Franck Bain’s voice behind her, she turned with a polite smile. “No, not yet. I’m not even sure how long I’m going to stay in California, much less whether I’ll open my portrait business here.”
“Of course.” The middle-aged artist’s words were friendly, but his gaze roamed over her, from her white peasant blouse and denim capri pants to her flat sandals. The echo of her old boss’s words floated back to her. You know he’s in love with you.
No, Daisy thought with dismay. Franck was her father’s old friend. He couldn’t actually be in love with her.
Could he?
Franck had called her from his home in Los Angeles that morning, saying he’d heard she’d moved to Santa Barbara, just an hour to the north. He’d offered to drive up for a visit. Remembering how he’d burst in at her wedding, she’d been a little uneasy. But he’d explained smoothly, “My dear, I was just trying to keep you from making a big mistake. If you’d listened to me, you wouldn’t be going through a divorce now.”
Which was true.
Daisy did want to get to know Santa Barbara, and look at possible locations for a portrait studio. Livin
g in New York, she’d never learned to drive. When Franck offered to drive her wherever she wanted, even putting a baby seat in the back of his car, how could she refuse? Didn’t a person going through a divorce need all the friends she could get?
Divorce. Such an ugly word. Every day for the last three weeks, since she’d rented the snug cottage, she’d waited in dread for the legal papers to arrive.
But there was no point putting it off. Leonidas didn’t want her. He didn’t want Livvy. He was done with them. He didn’t care how much he’d hurt them.
Maybe Franck had been right when he’d shouted out at her wedding that Leonidas was a liar who’d killed her father.
Because there was no mercy in her husband’s soul. He’d had her father sent to prison for an innocent mistake. For Daisy’s own innocent mistake of trying to help him find the Picasso, Leonidas had cut her and their baby out of his life—forever.
With a lump in her throat, Daisy looked at their sweet, plump-cheeked baby in the sunlight of the California garden. Three-month-old Livvy had fallen asleep in the car and was still tucked snugly into her baby carrier outside.
“Thanks for showing me some of your drawings,” Franck said, smiling at her. He considered her thoughtfully. “You’re very good at portraits.”
“Thanks.” She hoped he wasn’t about to suggest that she do a drawing of him. She felt weary of his company, and a little uncomfortable, too.
The way Franck had looked at her all afternoon was definitely more than friendly. Ten minutes before, on their way back to her cottage, he’d invited her to dinner, “to discuss your business options.” Yeah, right. She’d been relieved to say no. Thank goodness she had a dog waiting at the cottage who needed to be let out into the garden!
Now Sunny bounded around them happily, sniffing everything from the vibrant rose bushes to the cluster of orange trees, checking on baby Livvy like a mother hen, then running a circle around the perimeter of white picket fence.
The only thing the large golden dog didn’t seem to like was Franck.
The dog had growled at him at first sight, when he’d arrived to pick them up in his car. Daisy had chastised her pet, and so Sunny had grudgingly flopped by the stone fireplace to mope. But even now, the normally happy dog kept her distance, giving him the suspicious glare she normally reserved for squirrels.
