“Mostly for you,” I said. I expected him to laugh and was disappointed when the smile that touched his lips seemed forced and didn’t reach his eyes.
I cleared my throat. “The truth is, I’m starving.”
The moment I said it, I had to acknowledge that it was true. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.
“Unless there’s a grill, I’m a terrible cook,” he confessed. “How are your culinary skills?”
“Worse than yours,” I admitted. “I’m not allowed near a grill unless I dial ahead and put the nearest fire station on notice.”
“Apparently we won’t be having soufflés as our late night snack.”
“How does a frozen bagel with cream cheese sound?”
“Can you operate a toaster?” he asked.
“I can not only work a toaster,” I bragged, “I can even manage a pot of coffee. French roast,” I added. “That’s your favorite, right?”
“Sweetheart,” he said, with a smile that soothed all my worries, “you’ve just made my evening.”
I managed to pull together a feast of toasted bagels, cream cheese, strawberry jam, and fresh blueberries in heavy cream. We sat at the cafe-style table in the breakfast area and as we ate in companionable silence, I glanced around this kitchen that was now mine. Even here, fine art decorated the walls. Alan had told me that a crew would be coming soon to crate it up and move it to the foundation’s storage facility, and I couldn’t help the pulse of sadness at the knowledge that these lovely canvases would be hidden away, lost in some sort of warehouse until whoever ran the foundation found a home for them.
“What’s the matter?” Evan said, and I looked up to see that he was peering at me over the rim of his coffee cup, his brow furrowed as if he was pondering some knotty problem.
I gathered myself and used my knife to smear jam on top of my cream cheese. “Nothing. Just thinking.”
“Deep thoughts, apparently.”
I laughed. “I don’t know how deep,” I said. “Just melancholy.”
He reached out and brushed his fingers over my hand that still held the knife. “Tell me.”
“I was just thinking about all this,” I said, glancing pointedly at all the art that filled the room. “Jahn used to tell me about his plans for the foundation. About how he was operating it only on a shoestring, but that when he died he wanted to see it blossom.” My words were very matter-of-fact, but inside I was all twisted up. The thing I’d shared most with my uncle was our love of art, and the knowledge that all these wonderful paintings were going to go away only made the pain from Jahn’s loss that much more brutal. I sucked in a breath and let it out slowly, willing myself not to cry. “I knew this was coming—the transfer to the foundation, I mean. But I never expected it to happen so soon.”
“I know.” The words were simple, yet held so much meaning. He did know. He’d loved Jahn, too. They’d connected just as Jahn and I had, and I wondered if it was art that they’d shared, or something else entirely.
I took a sip of my coffee. “Why did you stick around? After you finished Jahn’s seminar class, I mean.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Complaining?”
“Hardly. No, I was just thinking about connections. Jahn was my uncle, but that’s just an accident of birth, you know? It was the art that really drew us together. I guess I was wondering what it was for you.”
“I enjoy art,” he said, “but no, it’s not my passion. Not the way it is for Cole. And art wasn’t your uncle’s first passion, either,” he said.
“You don’t think so? What was? Business?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he got up and moved to the counter to pour fresh coffee. There was nothing awkward about his movements, but I had the impression that he was measuring his words.
Finally, he turned back to me with an enigmatic smile. “Your uncle liked to win.”