The remaining two paintings were watercolors of Louisa’s roses in full bloom and of the oak tree that had stood sentinel in the yard for over a century. A little boy sat in the dangling swing, and even though no plaque identified its occupant, I knew it was a young Nevin Vanderhorst.
“And these, too,” I said as I snapped my final photos, stepping closer to capture the boy on the swing. “They’re part of our house and its history. They belong with the house.” My voice caught, surprising me. I could almost hear Mr. Vanderhorst whispering in my ear. It’s a piece of history you can hold in your hand. I had come a long way since viewing my inherited house as just bricks and mortar. Yet somehow I’d managed to let the foundation crumble. Without Jack, it no longer felt like home.
A freshly pressed handkerchief appeared in front of my blurry vision. I took it with surprise—not at the fact that Jack carried a handkerchief with him, but that I was crying.
“It’s going to be all right, Mellie. I promise you. I have a good feeling that we’re going to come out on top, and Marc will be the one wondering what hit him.”
I wiped my eyes and nodded, wanting desperately to tell him it wasn’t our finances that consumed most of my waking—and sleeping—hours.
I composed myself while Jack placed all the paintings in their original order, then followed me out of the office and back down to the museum’s lobby. Mandy was still in her meeting, so we left a message at the front desk to let her know we were done. Then we exited the building in silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I wanted to know how he could be so certain that everything would be all right. Either he was a lot more optimistic than I realized, or he knew something that I didn’t.
Jack started the engine of the van but didn’t put it in gear. Instead he stared out the windshield as if the ugly brown bricks of the building were immensely fascinating. Finally, he turned to me.
“I think that would have been almost kiss number seven if you hadn’t attacked me at the bottom of the stairs the other day. So now I’m wondering if we need to go back to the beginning.”
“I did not attack you! And even if I did, you sure didn’t fight back.”
His wicked smile told me that he knew he’d accomplished his goal of dragging me out of my black mood. Before he could say anything else, his phone buzzed with a text.
He looked down. “It’s from Mandy.”
I resisted the impulse to look over his shoulder and read it myself.
“Well, that’s interesting.”
“What is it?”
“She was just informed by a staff member that there’s a painting from the Vanderhorst collection that we didn’t get to see. It’s a small painting of the fountain in the Vanderhorst garden. Apparently, it was taken out on loan without her knowledge or approval.”
“On loan? But who besides us would be interested in the Vanderhorst . . . ?” I stopped. Felt my throat go dry.
He looked down at his phone again. “According to Mandy, it was someone who flashed his credentials as a movie director filming in the city and promised a walk-on role in return for a favor.”
Jack turned to me, his expression an odd mixture of disgust and what could have been amusement. “Marc,” we said in unison.
CHAPTER 23
I held up an adorable pink smocked dress with matching diaper cover to show Rebecca. We were at the children’s boutique Kids on King in my last-ditch effort to convince Rebecca that her baby shower should be a brunch affair in the garden with punch and tea sandwiches and lots of frilly pink clothes for her baby girl. And not the evening adult party with lingerie gifts that Rebecca envisioned.
“This is the sort of thing one receives at a baby shower,” I said. “I mean, you’ve been to a baby shower before, right?”
As usual, Rebecca was draped head to toe in mauve, her new shade of pink. She took the hanger from me and looked at the tiny dress for a brief moment before putting it back on the rack. “Of course I have. Tons. And when we met to discuss my shower, I thought that was what I wanted. But I’ve changed my mind. Those kinds of baby showers are for older mothers. Like you. I want something a little more . . . unique. Something younger. Besides, I want to be the one to plan what my child will be wearing—not something chosen by someone else.”
I let the insult about me being an “older mother” slide, and pulled out a white eyelet sleeper with a satin ribbon threaded through the middle. “But that makes it special—remembering who bought what for your little one when you’re dressing her.”
Rebecca took the sleeper from my hand and put it back without even looking at it. “I’m sorry, Melanie. I’ve already made up my mind.” She patted her slightly rounded belly. “Besides, I’ve bought little Peanut here everything she will be wearing for her first year of life and really don’t need anything else. What I really need is some lingerie to spice things up in the bedroom.” Her eyes slid away and her shoulders slumped. “Come on. Let’s head to Victoria’s Secret since we’re downtown, but tomorrow let’s go to Mt. Pleasant. I adore Bits of Lace. They always have just the right thing. I can set up registries at both places.”
I followed her out of the door onto King Street’s crowded sidewalk. She walked fast for a small pregnant woman and I had to run to catch up to her. I grabbed her elbow, making her stop.
“What’s this all about?”
She avoided my eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
I moved us against a storefront window to avoid the jostling of pedestrians. “You said you wanted to ‘spice things up in the bedroom.’?” I leaned in closer so I could lower my voice. “Is Marc cheating on you again?” I’d tried to think of a more delicate way to say it, but Rebecca never understood nuance.
She pressed her hands against her mauve-draped belly. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes moistened with tears, the tip of her nose reddening. Eventually, she nodded. Just once, but it was enough.
Despite our somewhat mercurial relationship and the fact that she had willingly married Marc Longo, I felt sorry for her. I wished my mother or Jayne were with us. They were so much better at this than I was.