by Nancy Warren
The line sounded like it came straight from one of those black-and-white movies, but corny or not, it got Tom’s attention and she didn’t like the way he was looking at her.
“Are you still trying to protect the bastard or is that the truth?”
“It’s the truth,” she said, wishing it weren’t. She hastened to explain.
“He showed up at the house that night. He was sneezing and his nose was all red so I knew—”
“My God. The allergies.”
“The only thing Eric’s allergic to is a twelve-step program.”
“It’s been hell for you, hasn’t it?”
After a moment, she nodded.
“So he showed up high.”
“Yes. I think he’d been drinking, too. He was rambling. He droned on about Grandpa’s will, and what did I know about it. I got the feeling he was desperate for money and grasping at straws. Grandpa’s estate was split between Alex and me and we’re not going to get rich off it. And it will be months before it’s all sorted out.”
“What time did he arrive?”
She thought back. “Around ten, I think ”
“Then what happened?” This felt altogether too much like an interrogation but it was happening on two levels simultaneously. Sergeant Perkins wanted to know about timing and the actions of a possible murder suspect. But, while the calm, detached voice was that of a police officer, the eyes burning with intent belonged to Tom. He was jealous of her former husband.
“Like I said, he wasn’t himself. He talked about getting back together, and about us moving into my grandfather’s house.”
“And then what?”
“And then he passed out. I know I should have kicked him out, but I put a blanket over him and left him on the couch.”
“The M.E. put the time of death at between midnight and two A.M. Are you sure he didn’t leave the couch?”
“Positive. When he’s been drinking, he snores. I couldn’t sleep with the noise even though I was in my bedroom with the door closed. I could have used my earplugs, which I did when we were living together, but—”
“But what?”
She stopped eating and pushed her plate away. “I wanted to hear him if he tried to come in the bedroom.”
Tom nodded and she saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. He wasn’t enjoying thinking about that night any more than she was thrilled to be telling it.
“I was upset, too. Riled up about everything so I couldn’t sleep. I read until around three and then I dozed for a while. About five I heard him leave.”
“He left at five in the morning?”
“He wouldn’t want the neighbors seeing him and I suppose he wanted to get back to his place and shower and change for work.”
Tom, whose plate was cleaner than bleached bone, seemed to be taking a short mental health break. He gazed out the kitchen window, a faraway expression on his face. He didn’t fidget or tap, simply sat there with his body and mind clearly in different places.
Gillian rose and cleared off the table but he didn’t seem to notice.
She scraped a good chunk of her breakfast into Lester’s dish, figuring that living with Tom, the dog probably didn’t get a lot of table scraps. Then she put the dishes in the dishwasher and mopped the counters.
Tom rose, suddenly back in the present. “What are your plans for the day?” he asked.
“I’m going to finish getting my stuff out of the house.”
“You’re not going in there alone,” he said, and she glanced up, startled at his fierce tone. “I’ve got to go into work today. I’ll give you a hand when I get off shift.”
She kissed him. “Eric’s out of town and I’ve got my cell phone. I’ll be fine.”
He drove her back to her grandpa’s house and then took his time kissing her good-bye. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said when they were both breathing heavily.
“Yes.” Tonight and every night.
27
“Do you really think this is what the original Van Gogh looks like?” Alex stared at the canvas Duncan had completed based on the black-and-white photo, using a sort of paint¬by-number technique, only with no numbers and no color chart to recreate the Van Gogh.
The artist himself came up behind her and set his chin on her shoulder, his body just brushing hers from behind. “What do you think?”
“You’re no Picasso.”
He nipped the side of her neck. “I did my best work when I sketched you.”
He was squeezing up behind her in a very suggestive way, but she hung on to her composure by a thread even as desire came along with garden shears.
“How accurate are these colors?”
“I hope to God I get a chance to find out,” he said. “You have a great ass. I’d love to paint it.” He ran a hand down her spine, cupped her bottom. “I’d pose you on that couch, nude, facing away with your head turned so you were looking back at me over your shoulder.”
“You’re going to have an entire series.” But she couldn’t deny the warmth percolating through her system at the thought of what this man could do with a paintbrush. There were artists, and then there were artists.
His hands slipped under her shirt and up, warm over her belly, hot when they closed over her breasts.
She turned in his arms, or he turned her, it didn’t matter; all that mattered was that she was now facing him.
“Here, hold on to this for a minute,” he said and placed her hands back over her head and onto the towel holder on the wall where he kept paint rags and a couple of old towels. He’d moved the table under the towel rack so she found herself arched with the back of her thighs at table height and her spine forming a bridge that was graceful, thanks to her years of dance class.
“How long do I hold on to it?”
“Until I tell you to let go.”
Then he pulled her t-shirt up and over her head, stopping when it wrapped around her elbows. She rolled her eyes at him. “Is this your idea of bondage? It’s pretty feeble.”
“I left all my black leather at home.” Then he dipped his head and licked the top of one nipple. Her arch took on balletic proportions as her body tried to follow his retreating tongue. Another lick on the other nipple and she felt tiny shudders already starting. She’d never known a man who could take her from zero to the-earth-moved in so short a time.
But he was never in a hurry. His technique was more to get her from zero to oh-please-hurry and then toy with her until the pressure reached dangerous levels. She’d complain, except that when she finally came it was an orgasm of epic proportions.
She had a little game she liked to play right back. It was to try and fool him into thinking she wasn’t nearly as close to blowing as he thought, then sometimes she could sneak one in early.
“So,” she said in as bored a tone as she could manage, “I’m really very uncomfortable in this position. With my spine bent like this, I could get rickets.”
He probably knew as well as she that rickets was caused by a vitamin deficiency but he simply said, “Don’t move,” and went to fetch a pillow. He stripped her of her jeans and underwear with swift efficiency before he pushed the pillow beneath her hips, which was, in fact, wonderfully comfortable and also put her at the perfect height for him to make a meal of her.
She hid her grin of satisfaction and tried to imagine how she must look to him. The picture excited her enough that she made a kind of growling sound when he sucked on her breast. This was a mistake because it was a cue he was bound to pick up on, so she grabbed her blasé tone back again.
“I think there’s a cobweb in the corner above the TV. You should tell housekeeping.”
“I forgot my gags at home, but I could use an old paint rag,” he said conversationally.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Don’t push me.”
He grinned down at her and she couldn’t stop the answering grin. They had so much fun together. It was too bad he’d be leaving soon. She wanted to savor ev
ery minute they had together, so she lifted her head, parting her lips in clear invitation.
He leaned slowly forward and their gazes locked. Something happened. She felt her heart start to pound and a longing swept through her so intense it made her want to cry. Why did he have to leave?
His mouth was warm and familiar when their lips met and his arms came around her to cradle her as he stretched his body over hers. The emotion sweeping through her was as sweet and poignant as perfect music. She wanted to hang on to it, to stay in that moment, but she knew it would pass.
I love you. The knowledge danced through her as she recognized the emotion.
She knew it was true the minute the thought took hold.
She loved him.
What an idiot. They had fun and games. That’s what they were good at. Sexual silliness, absurd erotic dares, laughter and teasing. They weren’t serious. They couldn’t be. Duncan was a pirate, a wanderer, the freakin’ Indiana Jones of the art world. For a man like that, there would always be another quest luring him from home, another treasure hunt.
Even if, by some amazing coincidence, he returned her love, he wouldn’t stay put any more than her father had. She wouldn’t live a nomad’s life again, wouldn’t take second place to any man’s egotistical quest.
She didn’t know if he looked at her again when he pulled away from her mouth because she’d closed her eyes. Bad enough she’d fallen in love with the man. Worse if he should read the truth in her eyes.
His lips traced the curve of her throat when she tipped her head back once more. He followed the line to her breast and she felt the chain of her necklace shift across her skin so she raised her head to look.
Perhaps he’d caught it up in his mouth by accident, perhaps on purpose, but he was using the chain to tease her nipples, wrapping the wet links around her, flicking her with the key itself.
Maybe it was his innovative use of the jewelry, maybe it was her new found knowledge that she loved him, but her whole body was crying out for him and for once he didn’t tease her beyond reason. He hooked a chair with one foot, dragged it behind him, and sat, pushing her thighs apart as he did so. Spread out on the pillow, she felt like dinner on a platter.
And he acted like a very hungry diner.
He devoured her with more need and a lot less finesse than he usually showed. Her hands gripped tighter against the towel bar as he licked and suckled until she exploded. Usually he brought her down slowly, gentling his tongue, but not today.
She was still on some fuzzy cloud somewhere when he thrust into her with deep, driving strokes. She wrapped her legs around his waist and arched against him, being driven up again almost before she’d come back down to earth.
Once more he leaned forward and kissed her hard while he pumped into her until they both cried out.
The moment was so intensely intimate that she tried for a light tone. “Can I let go now?”
“No,” he said and raised his head once more to eye her naked torso. He picked up the key idly and then said, “Didn’t you tell me this was a special gift?”
“Yes. For my twenty-first birthday. My grandfather said it was the key to his heart.”
“Well, his heart wasn’t pure. The gold’s wearing off.”
“What?” She let go of the towel bar and shoved and pulled until she had the t-shirt off; then she picked up the key. Sure enough, a patch of silver showed at the bottom edge.
Duncan was staring at it with as much intensity as she was. She’d never really studied the key that closely before, or considered that it wasn’t simply decorative.
“Do you think it opens something?” she asked, even though she knew they shared the same thought.
“Something big enough to contain a painting.” Then he shook his head. “Hidden in plain sight. That guy at the bike shop was right. If the key was right there around your neck maybe the painting is going to be somewhere as visible.”
“Let’s go,” she said.
He stopped her. “Wait.” His eyes were alive with excitement. “You ever ride on the back of a motorcycle?”
“Of course. But this is hardly the time for a joy ride.”
“I’m weirdly superstitious. Ever since I got the bike I’ve been feeling like we’re getting closer.”
She shook her head at him, but the thought of wrapping herself around his strong back and riding off to find treasure on a motorbike was pretty exciting. “You have a second helmet?”
“Bought with you in mind.”
Gillian decided there wasn’t much she still wanted from her old home after all. Half a dozen liquor store boxes held her old photo albums, some Christmas wrapping, a few garden tools.
The clothes she hadn’t already taken over to her grandpa’s were mostly things she was never going to wear again. They no longer fit, they reminded her of Eric, or she didn’t like them anymore. Those she left. He was the one who wanted to sell the house. Let him seek out somebody to haul away the junk.
Her childhood doll collection and the pieces her grandmother had left her were still at her grandparents’ house. Odd that she’d never brought everything over to this place. Had she somehow always felt this wasn’t home?
The remaining furniture could go with the house or be sold separately. She didn’t want it.
She walked through the home of her unhappy marriage one last time, checking closets and drawers for anything she might have left behind.
The hall closet contained her raincoat and an umbrella. She pulled them out. Eric’s jacket was hanging in there and she wondered why. He’d moved all his clothes out months ago.
Puzzled, she pulled out the coat and then remembered he’d worn it when he came to call the night of the murder. When he’d crept out at dawn he must have forgotten it. He would have been in no state to remember where he left it. She could be a nice person and take it to the store and return it to him or she could shove it back in the closet.
She shoved it back in the closet.
But as she did, she noticed an envelope sticking out of the pocket. Okay, she had only so much mean in her. If this letter was something important, she wouldn’t want to pretend she hadn’t seen it.
She slipped the envelope out of the coat pocket and her eyes widened as she instantly recognized the handwriting on the front. It was her grandfather’s. It gave her a pang to see it, as though he should have taken all his handwriting with him to the grave. She couldn’t imagine how Alex could stand to listen to his voice when she transcribed those tapes.
It seemed strange for Eric to carry around a letter her grandfather had written him. And why write a letter to a guy you see all the time? By this time her eyes had taken in the fact that the letter was addressed to Alex and her. Eric’s name was nowhere on it.
Alex had mentioned a letter Grandpa was supposed to have left with his will. She’d wanted to know if Gillian had seen it, which she hadn’t. She was certain she’d asked Eric also and he’d denied all knowledge of it.
Was this the letter?
Only one way to find out. It was already open, so she didn’t hesitate, but pulled out the single sheet of paper. It didn’t crackle in her hands like an ancient pirate’s map, but something about it didn’t feel all that new, either. The glue on the envelope was yellowed and the ink faded. How long ago had the letter been written?
Oh, there was the date, right at the top. Ten years ago. She read on. Dear Alexandra and Gillian, I suppose every family has secrets.
Her eyes misted. That sounded so like her grandfather, and she could see him sitting at his desk writing those words almost a decade earlier. At the time she’d still been in L.A. being a screw-up, and Alex would have been close to finishing up her first university degree, piling success on top of success.
She fought down the usual bitterness, knowing jealousy for what it was. Understanding its roots were in her own insecurity. Alex had handled her life better. But it wasn’t too late for Gillian to start following her cousin’s example and make somethi
ng of herself and her life. Hell, she had experiences and had learned a kind of compassion that maybe they didn’t teach in library school. Plus, she had a job now.
She sighed and went back to the letter. Family secrets. God, she hoped he hadn’t left a letter behind him to let her know he’d heard those boys in her bedroom when she was a reckless teen. Shame washed over her as she thought about what she’d put her grandparents through.
I want you girls to know how proud your grandmother and I are of you both. Gillian, you are a searcher. You’ve got the courage of an adventurer.
Courage? Her?
And a heart easily bruised. We pray for you nightly, but we are sure you will find your way home.
She smiled, hearing his voice as she read. Home.
Alex, you’ve the intellect and the drive to go far. I worry much less about you, but don’t be too independent. Gillian and you haven’t always been the best of friends, but you’re family and deep down I know you love each other and will always be there when needed.
Alex, you haven’t made any mistakes yet, or if you have they’ve been minor ones. Gillian, you’ll understand what I’m about to reveal better, and I hope you can explain human frailty to your cousin. For I did make a mistake.
If you are reading this letter, then I haven’t yet been able to rectify my error.
But, I must go back. All the way to what must seem distant history to you girls.
I had a good friend, Louis Vendome. His family owned, among other works, a Van Gogh, and he and I had spent many a night over many a bottle discussing the techniques. Both of us did our best to copy the painting as a way of understanding Van Gogh’s brilliance. We were art students—wine-swilling, Gauloise-smoking students. Hitler and the Nazis were nothing to us until we heard they were clearing their museums of “degenerate artists” like Gauguin and Klee, Picasso and Van Gogh.
Picasso? Van Gogh? Nazis? She felt a chill run up her arms and read on.
