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The group oohed and aahed—everyone except Lillian, who searched for Tristan’s tall form among the crowd with no success.
Jasmine went on to describe details of the architecture, including the marble in the grand foyer, the ornate crystal chandelier, and the white-washed brick walls, embellished with paintings by several well-known artists.
A few minutes later, they were heading up the winding staircase, which Lillian remembered led to the long hallway and Tristan’s office, where she had pleaded with him to save her sister’s life, and later, destroyed any affection he might have felt with her lies.
“Notice how every space flows effortlessly to the next and the tones are pleasing and warm. Each room contains plank hardwood floors, brick accents, and neutral walls, all lending to the home’s understated elegance.”
Jasmine continued, opening doors and leading the group through room after room, but Lillian was only half-listening. Memories haunted her…Tristan carrying her up the stairs and laying her on the bed in the ultra-feminine guest bedroom. She hadn’t thought about it at the time, but now she wondered if he’d decorated the room for Angelina. Or worse, maybe Angelina had selected the furnishings.
“This is where the owner conducts his business,” Jasmine continued, opening the door to Tristan’s office. “The windows overlook the estate’s backyard and the incredible garden, designed by renowned British landscape designer, Stu Wellington.”
More oohs and ahhs followed.
“Notice the painting over the desk. It is called ‘Cleveland by Night,’ an original produced by local artist Henri Roberts.”
Lillian paused at the window, recalling how haunted Tristan’s eyes were the evening he’d revealed his hopelessness in the face of his mother’s illness. The stray tree branch, which had insisted on tapping against the window that night so long ago, was silent, echoing the last couple months of Lillian’s life.
“Lil?”
She turned to look at Hannah, who stood in the doorway, her brow creased. Where had all the guests disappeared to?
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Lillian moved toward Hannah. “I didn’t realize the tour had continued, that’s all.”
“It’s okay if you want to cry, Lil. Tristan isn’t here to see, and you know I won’t tell anyone. It’s not good to keep all that hurt inside. Let it out.”
“No, no, that’s not…I don’t need to cry.” She swiped at the tears at the corners of her eyes, and her sister wisely said nothing. “I’m just feeling sentimental, that’s all. Let’s catch up to the others.”
She continued moving forward, and Hannah followed, but the next room was not one Lillian cared to see.
“This is the master bedroom,” Jasmine was saying. “It was recently renovated to reflect the taste of its owner.”
The tears were coming faster now, gushing from some unknown fount of sadness, spilling from Lillian’s eyes in heavy rivulets. She couldn’t do this…couldn’t look at the spot where they’d first made love, where she had marveled at the glorious perfection of his body and fantasized about a future together. Couldn’t hear again the whispered words, “You’re mine.” Couldn’t remember the way his body had pressed against hers, filled her up, stamping out years of loneliness.
“I need some air,” she whispered to Hannah.
“I’ll come with you.”
“Stay, enjoy the tour.” Her voice sounded more forceful than she’d intended. Sometimes she needed a break from her sister’s uncanny emotional antenna. “I’ve seen most of the rooms up here already, but you haven’t. They’re worth seeing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’ll meet you downstairs.” She didn’t wait for her sister to respond, but turned and left the room, hoping Hannah wouldn’t follow. She needed time to be alone, to release the feelings she’d been hanging onto, feelings which would never be reciprocated.
She moved down the grand staircase and into the open foyer. The double doors leading outside had been closed.
She gripped the railing to avoid falling down the stairs in case her trembling knees gave out. She must find a way to let Tristan—or at least the memory of him etched in her heart—go.
ChapterTwenty-seven
Agentleman standing near the door turned to look at Lillian with a small frown.
“Can I help you?” he rasped, his cool gaze not without a tinge of suspicion.
He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, broad-shouldered and muscular. His golden-blond hair looked like it could use a comb, but his beard was neatly trimmed, and his silver eyes seemed to pin her in place.
She shook her head. “No, um…I’m waiting for my sister. She’s still on the tour.”
