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She hung up before Zoot could ask what the great bloody rush was over one single painting. Regan was in no mood to argue.
She stared at the back of the painting, which had opened all her wounds at once. Why didn’t she get to have a mother growing up? Why was her decision to have or not have children taken out of her hands by a set of bad genes? Why couldn’t she let herself be selfish enough to marry Arthur anyway, knowing she’d leave him childless and widowed when she died?
“What do you want from me, Malcolm?” she asked through tears. “What are you trying to say? Why won’t you just say it and leave me alone?”
“I’m trying to say…I’m very sorry, my darling girl. So very, very sorry.”
Regan spun around, but there was no one there.
Except someonehadbeen there. She had heard a man’s voice—cultured, monied, but deeply contrite.
And where before there had been nothing but the rug on the floor…Regan spotted a single brass key.
Shaking, she picked it up. It was warm, like it had just come from a man’s pocket.
“Regan?”
Arthur’s voice, this time.
“I’m in my office,” she called out to him.
The key was in her palm. Arthur came in and saw her holding it like a bird in her hand.
“He was here.” Regan met his eyes. “Malcolm. I didn’t see him, but I heard him. When I turned around, this was on the rug.”
Arthur gently extracted the key from her hand and examined it. “What did he say?”
“He said…” She blinked and tears ran down her face. “He said he was sorry. He called me his ‘darling girl.’”
“Sorry for what? Torturing you?”
She had no answer.
Arthur closed his fingers around the key and took her into his arms, held her head against his shoulder. “What’s wrong?” he said. “What is it?”
Between soft sobs, she told him about the Elizabeth Nourse painting, how it had cut her so deeply to see it. Arthur pulled her toward her desk chair, sat down, and set her into his lap.
“You know I want to be with you, don’t you?” she said. “You know I would if I could.”
“You can though,” he whispered into her ear. His hand stroked her back and her hair.
“If I still hated you, maybe I could do that to you.”
“But you don’t hate me anymore?”
She raised her head. “No. I don’t hate you at all.”
He wiped her face gently with his hands. “What would it take to convince you it’s all right to let yourself have a life with me?”
“A miracle,” she said, then laughed pitifully at herself.
“A ghost just brought you a magic key. Isn’t that enough of a miracle for you?”
“Depends on what the key’s for.”
“It’s small,” he said, holding up the key. “Not a door key then.”
Regan took it from him. Yes, a very small brass key for a lockbox or a small safe. Or…
