Brent handed the envelope to her and she took it in her left hand, then placed it on the table in the hallway. Beyond, I saw the apartment was exactly as I remembered it. Modern, soulless, immaculate. It was as if I’d last seen it a day ago. Nothing had changed.
“There should be something for Mrs. Mitchell to collect,” Brent said.
“I’m sorry,” she said, turning to me and speaking the words as if they were rehearsed. “Vince said to tell you he threw away the items you were asking about. Your photographic portfolio, and the old portrait of you and your brother.”
Rage welled up inside me. My portfolio represented my life’s work… and that picture was the last one that had been taken of Aidan and me before he died. A coward to the last, Vince hadn’t even had the courage to tell me himself. I wanted to scream out my anger at this woman—I drew a sharp breath to do so, and then let it silently out again.
All I could do was let go, move on, put this last vicious act of revenge behind me. His new girlfriend needed my sympathy, not my rage.
With a huge effort, I controlled my feelings.
“It’s not important,” I told her. “What’s your name?”
“Hayley,” she said.
“I’m Erin. I was married to Vince, as I’m sure you know. In the envelope are the rings he gave me. An engagement ring and a wedding ring.” I looked at her wrist again before adding, “They’re valuable items of jewelry, but they weren’t worth the hurt.”
Hayley’s face twisted and she looked away, fixing her gaze on the polished tiles.
“There are numbers you can call for counseling,” I told her gently. “Places you can stay if you decide to leave him. Nobody should have to put up with abuse. You can contact me if you need any help.”
I handed her one of my new business cards with my international contact details and email address.
She was still staring down at it when Brent closed the door behind her.
Back in the lobby, I hurried to the exit, opened my umbrella, and stepped out into the rain again.
He was waiting for me, right there outside the building, his coat collar turned up, his dark golden hair now plastered wetly around his face.
My heart leaped, as it always did when I saw him—even when we had been parted for only a few minutes.
“Nicholas de Lanoy,” I told him sternly, hurrying over to him with the umbrella. “I thought I told you to stay in the cab.”
He grinned unrepentantly, slid an arm around me, kissed me hard.
“When do I ever do what I’m told?”
“Um—well, from time to time you do, actually. It always surprises me.”
“Not this time. I thought I’d better wait nearby, just in case.”
“It’s okay. Vince wasn’t there.”
“And your belongings? Did you get them back?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t. But it doesn’t matter. I can put together a new portfolio. And Aidan’s memory will always be in my heart.
Nicholas nodded solemnly, then enfolded me in a tight embrace.
Nicholas and I had been together for one happy, incredible year so far. Much of it had been spent at Leopard Rock, and we’d been surprisingly busy. As well as the day-to-day running of the estate and my photography, there had been business opportunities to be managed and explored, and charitable ventures to be undertaken, including opening a new school in the nearby village. And the high point of the year had been our wedding in May—a beautiful ceremony held at the estate and attended by all our friends and family.
We’d taken an extended holiday in late August and had traveled through the States together. We’d stopped off in Florida to visit my mother, in San Francisco where my father now lived, and most recently, we’d spent ten days in New Jersey, having a wonderful time with Sam, and Mike, and Jen.
New York City was our next to last stop. After this, we’d decided on the spur of the moment to fly up to Canada, where heavy early winter snowfalls at Lake Louise were currently creating perfect conditions for great skiing.
We walked briskly back towards the waiting cab.
“So Vince really was out of town for the week?” Nicholas asked.
“Surprising, isn’t it?” I said, picking up the humor in his voice.
“You’d have thought he would have stayed here, what with that photo exhibition opening tonight. A really hotshot new photographer, I hear, and incredibly sexy, too. What’s her name again…?”
Laughing, I dug my fingers into the ticklish spot on his side that I’d been delighted to discover. “Her name is Erin de Lanoy. And the work being shown at the exhibition was taken in South Africa. The collection is entitled, ‘After the Floods.’”
“Ah, yes.” Nicholas nodded. “I’m looking forward to it. In fact, we should probably head back to the hotel now to get ready. Four Seasons, please,” he told the driver, as we climbed into the cab.
“We don’t have to get ready just yet,” I told him, checking my watch. “We’ve got two and a half hours before we have to leave.”
“That’s good,” His pale eyes gleamed, and as his hand caressed my thigh I forgot how cold I’d been just a minute ago. “Because, luckily, I’ve just thought of a way to pass the time that I know you’re going to enjoy.”
ABOUT tHE AUTHOR
Photo credit:
Conrad de Jong
Jassy de Jong was inspired to write her first novel, Random Violence, after getting hijacked at gunpoint in her own driveway. She has written several other thrillers, including Stolen Lives, The Fallen, and Pale Horses. Having traveled widely around the world, she lives today in the northern suburbs of Johannesburg with her partner Dion, two horses, and two cats.
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