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There was a truism in the saying that you couldn’t miss what you’d never had. And Grace hadn’t missed her father during his long absences—even when he was at home, Graham’s mind was always on worthier causes. She’d known he loved her and that had been enough. She’d known her mother loved her and that had been enough.
Or so she’d told herself.
She’d never pushed either of them on it. She’d simply accepted the situation with her parents for what it was, never allowing herself to consider it in any real depth, too fearful of what the answers might be—that her mother’s art and her father’s good causes were more important to them than their only child.
She’d never properly pushed Luca about what was really going on in his life either, too fearful to probe too deeply—she hadn’t wanted to know the truth, only confronting the reality when her pregnancy had left her no choice.
She hadn’t stuck around to confront him with the undeniable truth, which had scared and horrified her. Instead, she had run away without even giving him the basic opportunity to defend himself...
‘And is that the only reason you’re breaking the association?’ she asked him softly. ‘Because you want to spend time with Lily?’
He turned his head to look at her, his spine straightening. ‘What other reason could there be?’
She shrugged. ‘I guess I thought—hoped—it was because you realised what you had become.’
His eyes hardened. ‘And what might that be?’
‘Everything your father never wanted you to be.’
She regretted the words the moment they left her lips.
Luca barely flinched but that small movement was enough for her to know she’d hit a nerve.
He sucked in a breath and turned his back to her.
Feeling like the worst person in the world, she got up from the chair and joined him at the window. In silence they looked out at the Piazza del Duomo. Under normal circumstances, the starlit cathedral would fill her with joy and contentment. But not tonight. Even though she knew she had been right in what she had said, it had been cruel.
How incongruous was that? Just twenty-four hours ago she would have snatched at an opportunity to hurt him.
‘I’m sorry, Luca,’ she said quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘That wasn’t fair of me.’
When he didn’t answer, just gazed out of the window, his jaw clenched, she pressed on. ‘I don’t want another argument. I know my thoughts and opinions don’t mean jack to you, but I’ll say it anyway—I’m pleased you’ve broken your association with that man. It makes me feel safer knowing he’s no longer in your life.’
It seemed to take for ever for him to break out of his trance.
Slipping away from her, he said, ‘It’s late. We have an early flight to catch. I’ll get some sleep in my own room.’
Biting her lip, she let him go.
Her heart heavy, she turned out the light and got into bed. The thick duvet felt cold without him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
LUCA UNLOCKED THE door of the cottage and switched on the light. Immediately the studio went from darkness to bright, bright light.
Closing the door behind him, his head aching, his chest tight, he paced to the far end of the room where Grace kept her paintings neatly stacked.
This was something he had done on many occasions during her absence, especially in the lonely nights when his bones had always felt cold whatever the outside temperature. He’d examined every one of her paintings, like a detective trying to find clues, seeing if there was anything in them that would even hint at why she had left him.
But it had been more than a mere forensic examination. He’d felt closer to her in there, her personality and spirit etched in her work. If he closed his eyes he could imagine her standing before her easel, her head tilted, her face screwed in concentration.
He sank to his knees to look through the paintings for what had to be the hundredth time and now, finally, he began to see.
Her early paintings had been vivid. She’d painted him, his family and many of the estate workers individually; beautiful, colourful pictures with personality and gusto. There were plenty of celebrity pieces too. He remembered how she would scour magazines, her excitement when she found a picture that ‘jumped out’ at her. She would cut it out and hurry to her easel, her mind already working overtime. The finished article would be nothing like the original photo but the person in question would never be in doubt.
As the length of their marriage increased, he could see a difference. Nothing obvious, not at first, but if you placed the pictures in chronological order... The later paintings were more muted, as if the vibrancy that lived inside her and extended into her artwork had dimmed.
