St. Clair says, “Grace is helping me with the final art show for the London College of Art.”
Richard snorts. “Still wasting your time on those artsy flights of fancy then.”
“Your son is supporting a wonderful school,” I pipe up. “There are some really talented artists—”
“What about the company?” Richard interrupts me. “Or are you running that one into the ground, too?”
“We have company,” Alice says quietly just as St. Clair’s phone rings.
He looks at the screen. “I have to take this.”
“Of course you do,” Richard says.
“It’s business, father. Remember what it’s like to have a job?”
I cringe inside but watch St. Clair leave through the stone archway. Richard walks out in the other direction without a word.
Alice looks awkward. “Boys will be boys.”
I laugh nervously, not sure what to do here. But clearly, St. Clair’s mother is a practiced hostess. “How about we go have some tea?” Alice suggests. “You must have had a long drive. We could stretch your legs in the garden, have a little walkabout?”
“That sounds great,” I breathe, grateful for an end to the tension.
Outside, in what is obviously her sanctuary, Alice seems to come alive. She shows me her prize rose bushes bursting with color and scent, her pale blue and white clusters of hydrangeas, the bright yellow and magenta snapdragons. We settle at a table by the kitchen door, and she brings out the tea. I can see beyond the garden there’s a pasture with two horses grazing and a stable off to one side. It’s breathtaking. “It’s like a painting,” I say, awed by the natural beauty. “Or something I wish I could paint.”
“You are an artist, too?”
I shrug, embarrassed. “I dabble. But I really love art.”
“Like Charles.” She passes me a cup. “His father wouldn’t let him pursue anything creative, but I’ve often wondered if he might have gone on to great things if he’d had the choice.”
I nod, not sure how much to disclose. St. Clair has not painted a glowing portrait of the family patriarch. Alice chuckles. “Ah, so he told you.”
“A few things,” I admit.
She looks out onto the hillside, the dappled gray horses that look small like figurines in the distance. “I’m very proud of my son. I do worry he works too much, though.” She squints at me. “He does, doesn’t he?”
I smile. “He does work a lot. But I think he enjoys it.”
She nods. “Still, it is nice to see him finally settling down,” she says, looking at me approvingly.
I stop. Wait, does she mean me? “Oh, um, we just started seeing each other.”
She lifts her eyebrows. “Oh?”
“It’s still really new.” I blush.
“Well, it must be serious for him. Charles has never brought a girl home before.”
I’m surprised. “Really?”
She grins, and I see St. Clair’s playfulness, a softer version of his dimples in her cheeks.
“Really, dear.” She reaches out and pats my hand and I feel how cold her fingers are despite the sun. “You be careful with him. He seems like a statue but he cracks more easily than it appears.”
We sit a while longer outside, and I tell her about my own childhood – Mom, and meeting St. Clair at Carringer’s. Then she says she better see to dinner, so I head inside to find my weekend bag, and maybe take a shower. I’m walking back through the mansion and notice the chinks in the estate’s armor: some crumbling stones in the walls, creaking stairs, chandeliers and sconces missing their crystals, dead flowers wilting in tarnished silver vases. It’s a strange place, more like a mausoleum than a home, and I can see why St. Clair wanted to run far away to start his own life.
I hear St. Clair’s voice as I pass the library, and I’m about to go in and tell him how much I like his mother when I realize he’s dropped his voice to a whisper.
I lean in closer to listen at the open door.
“…can it be moved without a frame?” St. Clair asks. “What are its dimensions?”
I pause. Any art purchase he’s making should be going through me, if he trusts me with his collection as much as he says he does. And paintings aren’t usually sold without frames – not legitimate ones, anyway. What gives? I creep closer, looking through the gap.
“No.” St. Clair is saying, pacing back and forth. “No. That won’t work, not after the last job. There’s too much heat in the States, I’ll be looking in Europe next. Uh huh. Well then you let me know. We’ll have to figure out how to keep it under the radar.”
My foot creaks on a floorboard, and St. Clair whirls around.
“Hi!” I exclaim loudly, leaning into the room with a bright smile instead of running away like I want to. “I was just looking for my bag? This place is so big, I got turned around.”
“I put it in your guest room,” St. Clair says, but his expression is odd. Almost…guilty? “Right upstairs, second door on the left.”
“Thanks.”
I bolt from the room, going upstairs. But my mind is whirling. What was that conversation about? What ‘heat’ is he running from back home, and why does it need to stay under the radar?
Could Lennox be right? Is St. Clair hiding something from me?
CHAPTER 10
The formal dining room at the St. Clair estate is very Downton Abbey—brass-framed portraits of ancestors and British historical figures coating the walls, heavy cream curtains framing two windows that look out onto the pasture, and a long dark wood table with twelve chairs.
St. Clair, his parents, and I sit together at one end, and after our initial hellos, the silence has gone as thick as this cold potato leek soup we’ve been served. I’m trying not to gag through the smile I’ve tried to keep plastered on my face. St Clair and his father glare at each other across the table and his mom slurps her soup and pretends not to notice.
It’s so tense, I feel like I need a hammer to break the ice. “So, those are beautiful horses out back. Do any of you ride?” God, it’s so lame, but I have to say something!
“Why else would we have horses?” Richard sneers.
“You may not have them for much longer, if some things don’t change,” St. Clair says coolly. “Horses don’t pay for themselves.”
Alice lifts her head. “Is that true?”
Richard waves his hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry, darling. Your son has no idea what he is talking about since he spends all his time with paintings rather than money.”
St. Clair’s jaw tightens. “Some of us have the resources to enjoy our interests.”
I try to lighten to mood. “Before we left San Francisco, Charles graciously donated several valuable paintings to a hospital wing.”
“That’s lovely!” Alice exclaims.
Richard looks down his nose. “Yes, he is very good at getting rid of things. Leaving things behind.”
“Where do you think I learned that, father?”
The cook replaces our soup with plates of meat and potatoes, thank God. That soup looked like it belonged in a swamp, not in a bowl. “This smells delicious!” I chirp.
The men ignore me. “My father built that business from the ground up,” Richard snipes, “and I never once considered leaving or going against his wishes. You are the one who chose to desert your family.”
“Because you were smothering me, criticizing every move I made.” St. Clair shoots back. “How was I supposed to learn for myself?”
Richard takes a long swig of his whiskey. “That’s the problem. You never did learn.”
“Richard, honey,” Alice tries to smooth things over, but he ignores her.
“I learned a lot, dad. Like how to hold my liquor. But that’s a lesson you never quite got the hang of, is it?” St. Clair glares back. My mouth is actually hanging open, I realize, so I force myself to close it. I don’t even know what to say.