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Maynard Siggins who had been slightly behind the man, let go of his hand and moved around him.
“Gage? I thought you’d left,” he said. “What are you doing in…our bedroom?”
“Sorry,” Rory said. “That poem…it got me. Again.”
I looked at Mr. Siggins and then back to the other man. “I guess we got a little carried away. Wait…I’m sorry. Your bedroom?” I moved my finger between both men.
Mr. Siggins stood taller, straightening his dinner jacket. “Yes. This is my longtime partner, Timothy Irwin.”
Longtime partner. Damn. So Maynard Siggins was most likely not Rory’s father. All this sneaking around and hiding in closets had been for nothing. I let out a long sigh. “That’s unfortunate.”
Mr. Siggins’s face flushed, and he looked offended. Oh, shit. I felt my own face flush as I realized how he’d interpreted my comment. I raised my hand. “That didn’t come out like I meant it. I mean, it’s unfortunate for Rory. Not for you. Obviously.”
Timothy narrowed his eyes slightly. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he said. “And this is highly improper, finding you here like—”
Rory threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around Mr. Siggins and then letting go so she could kiss the other man on the cheek. “What Gage means is, that’s wonderful,” she said. “For you. We’re happy for you.”
Both men appeared completely flummoxed, but a smile tugged at Mr. Siggins’s mouth. He cleared his throat as he again adjusted his jacket. “Well, I…yes. It is wonderful. Thank you, Ms. Castle.”
“It is,” I agreed. “It’s great.” It was good that this man couldn’t be Rory’s father. We didn’t need hidden artwork to prove that. Unless…“When you say longtime partner—”
“How long exactly?” Rory finished, leaning in, obviously having had the same doubt as me.
“Er, Timothy? How many years now?”
Timothy rolled his eyes. “You’re lucky I love you, you old fuddy duddy, even when you forget our anniversary. It’s been thirty-three years.” Both men smiled lovingly at each other.
Rory sighed, drawing her shoulders up and lowering them as she exhaled. “Wonderful,” she said again. “Well, we should go. Thank you for a great evening.”
We turned to bolt out of there when Rory came up short, sucking in a surprised breath. “Oh my God,” she said, turning toward the walk-in closet on the far wall.
“What is it, Ms. Castle?” Maynard asked.
“That painting,” she said as I stepped next to her to see what she’d spotted. “Is it yours?”
I saw what she was looking at now and inhaled my own breath of surprise. It was one of his. I turned around to see Maynard and Timothy shoot each other a look of confusion. “Well, we own it,” Maynard Siggins said.
“I purchased it,” Timothy clarified.
“Where?” Rory asked, wonder clear in her voice as she reached out and touched the framed watercolor hanging above the built-in dresser on the rear wall of the closet.
“At Silver Horse Antiques. What is this about, Ms. Castle?”
“How long ago?” she asked. “I’m sorry. I just…my father painted this and I’m trying to find out who he was.”
That seemed to take both men by surprise. Timothy approached, looking up at the painting. “I bought it a few months ago, actually. We had our closet redone and it seemed perfect. I was moved by the depth of emotion in a landscape. The combination of colors and the usage of hard and soft lines conveys so much, don’t you think?”
Rory nodded, her gaze still stuck to the painting for several moments before she turned toward Timothy. “May we look behind it?”
“Behind it?”
“Yes. We’ve found others that contain diary entries that are very important to me.” She put her hand on his arm. “I’d be grateful.”
He paused only briefly before stepping forward and removing the painting from the wall. He set it on the top of the dresser and turned it over. “Maynard, hand me something sharp, will you? I believe there’s a letter opener in the writing desk.”
Maynard stepped out of the small room and was back in a flash, handing Timothy a small silver letter blade. Timothy used it the same way I had to pry off the back, pulling it aside to reveal a folded piece of paper. Rory let out a small sound of tearful happiness.
“Whose diary entries are they, my dear?”
