“You can use the studio if you’d like.” The impulsive offer surprised her almost as much as him, but Elleny knew the moment the words left her mouth that it was right. A locked room served no useful purpose. Jess would have to face that, and this time she would not back down. “It’s time to get this place cleaned up. I know Mark would have wanted you to use it, and … well, I’d like that, too.”
Obviously, Phillip hadn’t expected such a sudden and inexplicable change of mind. His hand went to his temple and threaded a definite doubt through the tawny strands of his hair. “Are you sure? I’d like nothing better than to be able to work here. And I’ll take care of the cleaning. You won’t have to do a thing.” He glanced into the room again and back to her. “I’ll use it as a studio-apartment, if that’s all right. Put a daybed in the corner, maybe.”
“It’s already there, Phillip. The mattress will need airing, but then so will everything else. It may take weeks to get this room in shape. How long are you planning to stay?”
His beginning smile faltered into sobriety. “As long as it takes. I’m committed to this, Elleny. No matter what, I have to see it through.”
The confidence in his voice, the note of grim determination in his statement, sent a ripple of pleased discovery through her veins. She liked Phillip, liked him more with each new moment, and she suddenly was very glad to be a part of his quest—whatever that might turn out to be.
“Let’s go back to the house and work out the arrangements.” He stepped back to allow her to close the door and started down the steps ahead of her.
Elleny took one last look around the dusty room, knowing she had offered Phillip the use of the studio because of her own need to close the remaining doors of the past. She was grateful that he had come into her life and given her an excuse to do what she should have done before. Jesse could be intimidating at times, totally unpredictable at others, but she would face him today, this very evening, before her determination ebbed.
After Phillip left, she would go to Jesse’s room, look him squarely in the eye, and tell him that he had to cope with the past. It was time for him—and for her—to grow beyond the stifling grief.
Elleny locked the door and slipped the key into her sweater pocket. Then she turned and followed Phillip. He was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, and she smiled as she reached his side. It was time, she decided, to begin thinking about the future.
Chapter Three
“It’s not healthy, Jess.” Elleny turned from the window to focus a steady gaze on her father-in-law.
He was old.
Funny, she’d never really thought of him being any other way. It was an appearance of age that had less to do with chronological years than with his way of looking at life.
Jesse Damon was fifty-seven, and already he was old. Certainly the arthritis bothered him and contributed to his less than robust health, but Elleny long since had decided it was as much an emotional crutch as a physical ailment. Why else would he refuse to seek any type of treatment?
She felt sorry for him at times, angry with him at others, and basically confused by his moodiness. When had resignation pulled the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth? And when had he decided that the past held more for him than the present?
He sat for hour upon hour in this room with the draperies drawn, staring at the paintings on the wall ... Mark’s paintings and a few of his own. Occasionally when she brought Jess a meal or a cool drink, Elleny noticed that he’d rearranged the canvases. But for the most part the room stayed unchanged—and uninviting.
Jesse was a disillusioned and unhappy man, and the room reflected his moods. His infrequent smiles were reserved for A.J. and once in a great while for Elleny.
But he wasn’t smiling today. He wouldn’t even look at her. “Jess, I know how you feel, but—”
He rapped his knuckles against the arm of his chair. “What would you know about spending the days in a chair because you don’t have the energy to walk? And what would you know about capturing a scene in your head, knowing the precise color, the exact stroke to use —only your fingers can’t grip a brush without trembling so badly you drop it!” He lifted his fist as if he wanted to shake it at her, but then even that seemed to require too much effort. “You don’t know how I feel. Now go on. Leave me alone. Leave Mark’s things alone. Don’t start trying to sweep the shadows.”
With a sigh Elleny half-turned away and clasped her hands tightly together. He talked like that whenever Mark’s name was mentioned. Why had she thought today would be any different? “Jesse, I loved your son very much, and I have tried to understand your feelings and to respect your wishes. But it isn’t right to hold on to a memory like this.” She stepped to the side, trying unsuccessfully to gain the attention Jesse riveted on the paintings in front of him. “Yesterday when I opened the door of the studio, I felt sick. Mark was so full of life, so vital. He would have hated the emptiness of that ... that monument to the past. You know he would tell you the same thing if he were still alive.”
Jess’s faded gaze remained fixed, his lips puckered with a doubtful frown, but he offered no comment. Elleny bent her head and then lifted it for another try. “I didn’t say anything when you bought back all of Mark’s paintings that you were able to locate. I agreed not to sell the canvases that he kept at the cabin, and I closed the studio just as you asked. Maybe you were right about not making important decisions for a year after he died, but that year has come and gone. And two more besides. It’s time—
“Who is it?” Jess clipped the words, still refusing to look at her. “Who’s going to be in the studio?”
“I’ve rented it to a man, an artist, named Phillip Kessler. He’s been looking for a place in this area so he can devote some serious time to his painting and find out if he can make it in the art world. I think you’d like him, Jess, if you’d let me introduce the two of you.”
“No, thanks. I’ve met the green-gilled apprentice types before. If you’re dead set on renting the studio, then so be it. I can’t stop you, Elleny, but I’m asking you to leave well enough alone.”
It was a small concession, but still she breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m sorry, but this time I can’t agree. Everything will work out fine, Jess. Phillip is dedicated, and I’m sure he’s a fine artist. Besides, it’s only a studio, and there isn’t a lease. Even if he doesn’t stay more than a month, at least the place will be clean.” The idea didn’t seem to appease Jess’s pinched frown, and it didn’t make her feel especially good either.
“What about the canvases out there?” Jess faced her, his eyes a spark of blue in a pale, wizened face. “Will you bring them to me?”
Elleny moved forward and stooped beside his chair. “If that’s what you want, but don’t you think it would be better to store them where there’s more room?” She smiled slowly, hoping to coax him into a response.
“You won’t sell them?”
Wishing she could understand his attachment to everything that once had been Mark’s, Elleny reluctantly compromised. “No. I won’t sell them.”
His nod was short. “See that you don’t.”
She pushed to her feet and walked to the door, only inherent courtesy delaying her brusque exit. “Will you join A.J. and me for supper?”
“Maybe tomorrow evening.”
He wouldn’t join them tomorrow or any other evening, she thought, as she stepped into the hallway and closed his door behind her. Each morning Jess came downstairs for breakfast and then retired to his room for the rest of the day. Mrs. Sanders came to take care of the house, A.J., and whatever Jesse might need while Elleny was at the bookstore. But Jesse had never expressed either approval or disapproval of the arrangement. In fact, he seldom expressed an opinion about anything. Unless it was negative.
When she had married Mark and come to share the huge old Victorian house, Jesse had been different. Still difficult, to be sure, but not the embittered man he was today.
Elleny ran her hand alon
g the wooden banister. She loved the house, not only because it had character and charm but because it was Mark’s home. He had grown from child to man in this house, and it seemed fitting that she and A.J. had stayed after Mark died. It had been important in those unsettling days to have roots, to feel the continuity of generations and the intrinsic value of a homeplace. She never had known any of those things before her marriage.
She had been born into a family that thrived on change and challenge. Even now her parents moved often, and her mother’s only comment was still “It’s so much easier to move than to clean house.” Both of her brothers had chosen high-tech, fast-advancement careers that would require travel and transfers across the country. How she had become the lone member of the family to enjoy the security of a single, permanent home, she wasn’t sure. But she had no driving ambition to leave Cedar Springs.
She liked living here, liked the small-town atmosphere and the open friendliness of the residents. If only her father-in-law were more congenial, easier to talk with.
As she descended the stairs, Elleny heard A.J. singing in a high-pitched monotone. Her smile was swift and sure, A.J. made it all worthwhile. He adored his grandfather, even made Jesse laugh at times. And the feeling was reciprocated many times over. Whatever Jesse might say to her, she couldn’t fault his attitude toward her son.
Phillip had thought A.J. was a little shy … like her. Why she should suddenly remember that, she didn’t know.
Or maybe she did. It wasn’t a comparison that she’d heard very often. Most people commented on how much A.J. looked like his father. Few, if any, connected his shyness with her own. Of course, she’d learned to overcome that particular character trait, and no one seemed to think of her as shy. The fact that Phillip had noticed pleased her somehow.
Her smile softened and then blurred into other memories of things he had said. It had been a pleasant afternoon, one that she’d enjoyed thoroughly, except there had been moments, so quickly gone that they left only an impression of things unsaid, of questions unasked. It was silly, she supposed, to entertain any doubt about Phillip’s friendship with Mark. But then, Phillip had sought her out, made a point of wanting to talk to her about Mark.
Elleny brushed a knuckle against the wallpapered stairwell and frowned. Now that she thought about it, he’d actually said very little about Mark, either today or that morning in her store. Phillip hadn’t asked any of the questions she might have expected.
Not that that in itself proved anything. Anyone in town could have told him that Mark had died of a heart attack. An attack that might have been prevented if only he had listened to the doctor, if only he’d been more conscientious about taking his prescribed medication.
Elleny reached the foot of the stairs and walked slowly into the dining room, remembering the shock and devastation that had followed his death. He had been so young, and they’d been married such a brief time, just over two years. And they had been happy. Perhaps that was why she couldn’t continue to mourn.
Mark wouldn’t have wanted her to cling to the past as Jesse had done. Elleny knew Mark would have endorsed her decision to rent the studio, to get the memories stored in the proper perspective. And without a doubt she knew he would have approved the tentative attraction she felt toward Phillip.
The problem was that Elleny wasn’t sure she approved.
Turning, she stared through the bay window at the colorless winter lawn outside. In the last few days she had thought more about the pattern of her life than she had in months. She wasn’t looking for a relationship, hadn’t given much thought to that aspect of her future.
Yet when Phillip smiled at her, she suddenly, unexpectedly, began to consider the possibility.
And maybe, she decided with a slow smile, that wasn’t such a bad thing to consider.
* * * *
Phillip paced from the bedside table to the door and back again. He was tired of the cramped motel room, and he was tired of waiting. Why didn’t Sylvie phone? He’d been leaving voicemail messages ever since he’d left Elleny’s house.
Elleny.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her. He’d enjoyed the afternoon – even the dinner – far more than he’d intended. She was so easy to be with, so easy to talk with. And he’d certainly done plenty of that. Discretion was essential at this point, and he’d slipped more than once today—most notably when he’d mentioned the moves during her childhood. He still couldn’t believe she’d hadn’t called him on that one.
Elleny Damon was a paradox. She had to know that her late husband was an art forger, that he even had signed his name to his own father’s paintings. Yet Phillip had a gut feeling that as unbelievable as it seemed, Elleny was unaware. How else could she so innocently have offered him the use of the studio? And what would she say if she knew he’d been to the room above the garage twice before she had shown it to him today?
Any novice would think to check the doorsill, he had said, but it hadn’t occurred to him on those previous visits. And now Elleny had made it easy. Almost too easy.
The phone rang, and he answered quickly. “Sylvie? Where the hell have you been?”
“Hello, Phillip, and a good morning to you, too.”
“It is almost ten P.M., Sylvie, too late in the day for your nutty humor.”
There was a short laugh from a throat he had wanted to wring more than once over the years of their business partnership.
“I take it the van Warner painting didn’t meet you at the edge of town.” Sylvie’s tone was mildly soothing and flagrantly amused. “I have to say I told you so, Phillip. That painting was stolen too long ago. No one could even tell us when and where on the Collection tour that the forged copy might have been substituted for the real thing. The odds against recovering the original are against us.”
Us? How like her to tell him it couldn’t be done and then include herself in the excuse just in case he wasn’t able to do it. Sylvie Smith was an original. An original pain in the neck.
But in his saner moments Phillip knew the smartest thing he’d ever done was to partner with her in opening a private insurance investigation firm. Most insurance companies were more than willing to hire an independent to investigate claims, especially the more complicated claims like the van Warner theft. And he stood to reap a substantial fee if he managed to pull this one off.
“You can sit on that ‘I told you so’ for a while longer, Syl.” He pulled a chair closer to the phone and slumped into it, prepared to fill her in on his progress. “I haven’t found the van Warner yet, but so far my hunch has been right on track.”
“You’re kidding! You mean you’re really on to something?”
“It’s too early to be sure, but I’m willing to bet that the stolen painting is here. I was at the Damon house today, and – by the way, I rented a studio here. From Elleny Damon, Mark Damon’s widow.”
“You sneaky genius.”
“I’m feeling a bit guilty about it,” he admitted before he thought.
Sylvie was on that like a shot. “Hmm,” she said. “How old is this widow?”
“Age?”
“Twenty-six next month. Height, five foot three. Weight, a hundred and five. Hair, brown. Eyes, brown.Avery nice brown. It’s all in the file, Sylvie. I did my homework.”
“And apparently some independent study as well.” Sylvie’s voice turned silky, and Phillip knew that somehow he’d revealed more about his personal involvement in this case than he’d intended.
Personal involvement?
That was overstating things a tad? He wasn’t involved with Elleny.
Merely ... interested.
“Come clean, Kessler,” Sylvie teased. “You’re not working, you’re down there playing house with the Merry Widow and writing off this year’s profits on your expense sheet.”
Phillip didn’t know if it was the reference to Elleny that grated on his nerves or his partner’s gleeful tones. But whatever it was, there was only one way to handle it. “Sylvia
. Listen.”
“Yes, Master.”
She sounded subdued, but Phillip knew it wouldn’t last, and he took advantage. “When you arrive at the office in the morning, get the van Warner file from my desk, find the two newspaper clippings inside, and—”
“I have them.”
“What?”
“I have the clippings here at my apartment. In fact, I have the whole file.”
Phillip raked his fingers through his hair and propped his feet on the bed, waiting for the explanation he knew he was about to hear. Most of the time he and Sylvie maintained a strict hands-off policy on each other’s cases, but he was very glad that she hadn’t done that this time ... whatever her reasons.
“When I didn’t hear from you all week…,” Sylvie began. “I thought I should at least check the file and find out exactly where you went. Really, Phillip, you did tear out of here with no better explanation than that you were following a hunch to Missouri.” She paused and then sighed in noisy self-defense. “Frankly, I don’t know how you added those newspaper articles together in the first place and came up with any lead worth following.”
“I’ve been telling you for years. I’m good at this business.” Phillip rubbed a thumb along the angle of his jaw. “Look, I may be all wrong, but I think it’s possible that Mark Damon stole the van Warner painting and substituted the forgery. We know that Bernerd Thayer is a respected art collector and critic, and we know that he’s inordinately proud of himself for discovering that particular van Warner. Now, one of the clippings is a critical review written by Thayer.”
“On Mark Damon’s first exhibit,” Sylvie interrupted in a rush of understanding. “The article was brutal.”
“Yes, and Thayer went further to state that Mark couldn’t hope to achieve the artistry of his father, Jesse. Keeping that in mind, move on to the second clipping. It’s a fairly recent feature article about the high incidence of forged art works over the past decade. There’s a quote by a gallery owner in Missouri who said that he knew of a son who’d forged the work of his own father, even down to the signature. The article went on to state that subsequent works by both father and son had since been taken off the market.”
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