Page 82 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
Fully unrolled, he held it out before him. Ugly. Blobs of green paint, a speck of red that might be blood. “Where did you get this?”
“Fiona had it, saved it from the sight of that man’s crimes, brought it to me. Said it was a secret wedding present for you, just arrived by way of Lady Balantine.”
“Why would Fiona want this? It’s ugly. It’s a trap for a silly man, not a work of art.”
“I disagree. I adore it. I’m going to have it framed. And I’m going to give you your inheritance. You’ve won it nicely with that.” She nodded at the canvas.
“This?”
“Is your hearing well, Lysander?”
He shook his head, rolled up the canvas, and handed it back to his mother. “This is absurd.”
“Not at all. You boys are always accusing me of absurdity, but you’re wrong. You created this out of love for your wife. You were willing to do anything to save her. That sentiment should be framed and cherished. And, frankly, you did one better than just paint me a work of art. You brought me an entire artist, Lysander. She’s designing me a necklace, you know, made to look like rose thorns.” She hugged him. “Thank you.” Then her arms disappeared, and so did she, bouncing down the hall, and soon, returning to the window, he saw her with Matilda, saw them wander in the direction of the lake. Where had Fiona gone?
Zander rolled up the green-stained canvas and put it on the desk. Then, with numb legs, he turned his steps toward the long gallery on the house’s second floor. He stood before the Rubens hanging there. The real ones. They’d burned the copies weeks ago. He considered them all but stood longer before the one that was now… his. Bewilderinglyhis.
“Hell,” he whispered, pulling it from the wall. He sat in the middle of the floor, legs crossed, and held it backside up in his lap, running his fingers across the brown paper there.
Raph had found a letter. Words of pride. Words of grief. Words of love.
Maggie had found one, too. Full of sun-filled memories from childhood and reminders to always remember she was her name—magnificent.
Hands trembling, Zander poked a hole in the bottom right-hand corner of the paper, right where the other letters had been but went no farther.
Footsteps in the hall.
He looked up.
Fiona stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame. “It worked, then? I was not sure if it would, but if you’ve poked behind that painting, I gather”—she took two halting steps toward him—“it’s worked.”
He reached out for her, needing her by him. She came to him on swift feet, floating to the floor beside him, lavender skirts spilling over her legs, her knees brushing against his thighs, her body leaning into his as she placed her chin on his shoulder, kissed him on the jaw.
He turned from her, set his gaze upon that small hole he’d made. “Thank you. I’m not sure… how in the hell you—” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “No matter. It worked. Somehow a green blob of a backside on a canvas worked.” But it hadn’t been the blob. It had been the love.
She kissed his jaw again. “Sorry my gift is late. I didn’t think about it until after I’d met your mother and heard her story about Raph and Matilda’s winning of their painting. Once I knew it was gone with the bathwater, I knew this would work. I knew she’d see that green blob of a backside for what it’s worth. She is, after all, your mother, Zander, and knows the correct value of things.”
Raph had painted a heart on Matilda’s arm, and their mother had seen it, awarded him his inheritance.
Zander chuckled. “I should have thought of it. You’re brilliant, you know that?”
“That’s what you keep telling me.” She kissed his jaw again, and this time nipped his earlobe, too. “I’m just glad it was still lying on the stairs of that estate, untouched, and that Lady Balantine found it so quickly. Now you can do as you wish. Use the funds from the sale of this painting for whatever you like.”
“I’ll speak with Raph. See what needs to be done.” He did not feel so useless living here as he’d thought he would. Fiona and Matilda were thick as thieves, and Mother adored them both. Fiona had time and encouragement to make her designs and sent batches of them to London where Posey was busy bringing them to life. Life here was good. He had purpose and happiness, but… “Perhaps we can put some money back, or invest it, for a home in London.”
“I would like that.” He would, too. “Are you going to see?” She nodded at the painting, the hole.
He took a deep breath and stabbed the paper again, made the gap wider and let in light, revealing a square of creamy white. The letter. His letter. He lifted it up and studied his name scrawled across one side in his father’s loopy, familiar hand.
“Would you like to be alone?”
He shook his head, put his free hand on her knee, and squeezed. “Stay. Please.”
She leaned into him, clasped his free hand in both of hers, and rested her head on his shoulder. “As long as you need.”
He opened it. Read it. Such a short note, such a small thing to wreck him like the angry stream of a flooding river, carrying him away like a broken bridge. He let the silence and the tides around them gather as he read it a second time, a third.
Finally, she squeezed his hand and whispered, “What does it say?”
