The One In My Heart

I looked at him, astonished.

“My grandmother had left some paintings that would come to me on my twenty-first birthday—nobody knew which ones, but I’d hoped that it would include the Pissarro over her mantel that I’d always loved. Your father had come to our place to look at some pieces of art my uncle had bought. When he was leaving I met him outside and asked how much a Pissarro painting might be worth.”

“But he didn’t deal in Impressionist works.”

“That’s what he told me. But he also told me that if he were me, he’d hold on to the Pissarro for some time—he felt Pissarros were undervalued and would appreciate in a decade or two. And he was exactly right: Recently a Pissarro sold for almost twenty million pounds. He was exceptional at what he did, your father.”

“Yes, he was.” Pater had an encyclopedic memory and, even more important, an uncanny feel for the zeitgeist. He was almost always ahead of the trends, much to the delight of his clients, who had the pleasure of watching their investments quantum-leap in value. “Did you ever meet with him again?”

My father had not been the kind of man who inspired others to come up to me and talk about him. Perhaps for that reason, when it happened I was always struck by how much I missed him.

“No, but right after he gave me the advice about Pissarro paintings, my brother walked up and I introduced them. He was very taken with Prescott.”

“Oh?”

“Most people my parents’ age were very taken with Prescott. He was at Harvard then, a member of the debate club and the rowing club—all-around impressive. Still is today.” Bennett tossed the pinecone in the air and caught it again, slanting a look at me. “Your father would have been surprised that you took up with the punk brother instead.”

“Nah,” I told him. “My father was used to being disappointed by my choices. All he ever wanted was for me to be a hostess with the mostest, and all I ever did was tinker in our basement with experiments that might blow up the house.”

“Did you ever? At least cause enough smoke to have fire trucks come?”

“No, never. Still, he popped antacids at the sight of my science projects. He probably would have preferred it if I’d brought home a punk kid like you instead.”

“Thanks for that backhanded compliment, sweetheart.” He took a swig of the wine. “What about Zelda?”

“Zelda was always fascinated by what I was up to.” I smiled at the memories. “We used to go through scientific equipment catalogs together and she’d help me order what I needed. She read books on her own to understand what I was doing. And since we were both in the basement all the time—her studio is there too—she’d come over from time to time and be my lab assistant.”

“I’ve wondered about the unusual closeness between the two of you,” he said.

Something about his tone made me nervous. Did he perceive that it wasn’t just love that kept me in orbit around Zelda, her faithful satellite, but also fear?

He looked at me. “I’ve wondered about how it has made y—”

His expression changed.

“What is it?”

Wrapping an arm around my shoulder, he pulled me close and whispered, “My parents are coming this way.”

The tension in his voice vibrated in me. I took out my compact, opened it, and looked behind me with the mirror. There they were, his parents, picking their way down to where we sat.

“You ready?” he asked.

I suddenly remembered my need to distance myself from him—from this entire situation. His parents couldn’t have arrived at a worse time.

Bennett kissed me on my temple. “I’m so glad you agreed to come.”

We were on, then.

“You don’t know how much I looked forward to this trip,” he murmured. “How impatient I was to go away somewhere, just the two of us.”

His scent was that of winter, crisp, cool, with a bare hint of wood smoke. The sound of his voice, the caress of his words on the shell of my ear, the warmth of his palm on my nape…

“I think I have some idea how much you wanted this,” I managed.

“You can’t even begin to guess.” He pulled me to my feet. “Sometimes it scares me that we might have never met. That we could have spent years living a mile from each other and not once crossed paths.”

His thumb traced a line across my cheekbone. His gaze was intent, solemn. I couldn’t breathe. “You are the best thing to happen to me in a long, long time, princess,” he said softly. “I—Mom, Dad?”

I didn’t need to pretend to swivel around in surprise—caught up in Bennett’s “confession,” I’d forgotten about his parents completely. Could they see my disorientation? My embarrassment? Could they see the heat that scalded my face?

“Oh, hi,” I said, my voice half an octave above normal. “How are you? What brought you to Capri?”