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‘Becker doesn’t need much encouragement to play Wilson’s game.’ He huffs and tosses his paper to the side, and I glance over to where it’s landed, noticing a file that’s been knocked askew, dislodging a few papers from inside. I wouldn’t usually take much notice, but this file is blue. All the files in The Haven are red.
The tilt of my head is discreet as I try to zoom in on the image in the bottom left-hand corner of one of the strewn sheets. It’s a woman. An old woman, with jet-black hair that’s cut into a very harsh, unflattering bob. The colour is equally unflattering against her pale skin, and her eyes are feline-like, a suggestion that she’s indulged in a little too much surgery.
‘How’s your mother?’ Mr H asks, pulling my attention back to him.
‘She’s good. She has a new . . .’ I pull up when I fail to locate the right word to reference Paul, my face twisting when mental images of him brandishing a baseball bat, naked in my mum’s hallway, assault me.
‘Chap?’ Mr H offers, sitting forward in his chair.
‘I guess.’ I shrug.
‘You seem bothered.’
‘I never imagined my mum with anyone except my father.’
Mr H nods in understanding, and I watch as his old eyes fall to the file that his newspaper’s landed on. He’s quick to tidy up the strewn papers, tucking them neatly back inside. ‘Is she happy?’ he asks, glancing back at me.
I’m not quick to answer, despite the answer being easy. My eyes are on that file, until Mr H coughs and snaps me from my staring. ‘Deliriously.’ I can tell by the way the old man is looking at me that he knows my mind is racing, wondering what that file is. So what is it? And why is he trying to conceal it?
When his eyebrows raise on a small grin, I feign casualness, reaching forward and stroking the beautiful double-pedestal desk that deserves the admiration I always give it. ‘I love this desk.’
Mr H smirks. ‘You recognise it?’
‘Of course,’ I confirm. I recognised it the moment I stepped foot in here on that fateful day when Becker Hunt became my boss. And later my lover. Or boyfriend. ‘It’s a replica of the Theodore Roosevelt desk.’
‘It is,’ Mr H says, caressing the surface with a quivering palm. ‘Looks just like it, I agree. An amazing imitation.’
Now I’m studying his hand more than I am the desk. Some days his shakes are better than others, and today they are particularly bad. He shakes off his shakes, still chuckling, before it fades and silence descends. He’s looking at me with a knowing smile as he slowly pushes his glasses up his nose before joining his hands and resting them on his stomach. ‘That fire in your eyes is blazing, Eleanor. Nearly matches your hair.’
I feel that fire reach my cheeks and start pointlessly faffing with the hem of my dress. ‘I’m happy.’
‘That’s very apparent.’
‘I’d be happier if you and Becker made peace,’ I tell him, not liking the sour expression that passes over his face at the mention of his grandson and their rift.
He looks across the super desk over his glasses. ‘Shall I tell you why I want to tan that boy’s arse?’ he asks quietly.
‘Okay,’ I agree warily, unable to resist the temptation of being indulged in any information that concerns his grandson.
‘Getting your hands on something that is thought lost in history gives you a rush like nothing else,’ he tells me, nodding his head. The old man is speaking of the lost sculpture, the one he’s forbidden his grandson to search for. The one Becker says he doesn’t need to find any more.
‘You sound like you’re talking from experience.’
‘I’ve found a few little things in my time.’ He winks cheekily.
‘But not the sculpture.’
‘No.’ His answer is short and clipped. Resentful. ‘I gave up on that after I lost my wife. But Becker’s father didn’t give up after he lost Becker’s mother, Lou.’ He smiles, revealing a perfect set of pearly whites. They are far too flawless to be real, especially on a man in his senior years. ‘And you know what happened because of that, don’t you, Eleanor?’
I nod. That lost sculpture has a lot to answer for. ‘You were so mad.’ I state the obvious because I don’t have a clue what else to say. I don’t blame the old man for going off the deep end when he found out that Becker tricked Brent Wilson into buying a forgery. Lord knows what he’d do if he found out Becker sculpted it, too.
‘Of course I was mad. I lost my son and his wife as a direct result of that damn sculpture. I’ll take an arrow before I willingly let my Becker boy follow in their footsteps.’ Sadness washes over him, and I quickly feel so very guilty for being so fascinated and curious about Head of a Faun. ‘My beloved Becker was twenty-two when it happened.’ He goes on without the need for me to press. ‘Travelling the world and filling that smart head of his with a wealth of information. That boy’s mind is like a sponge. Soaks up everything.’ He smiles to himself, that proud edge back, before quickly slipping back to sour. ‘Stupid boy is more obsessed than his father ever was.’
