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“Am I?” he drawls.
“Yes. It’s maddening sometimes.”
“Yes, Abbey, I’m the maddening one.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I protest.
He shifts his gaze away. “Nothing.”
“Jack.” He can be so frustratingly confusing.
When he looks at me again, his blithe demeanor is back. “Ah, don’t mind me tonight, Abbs. I’ve too much liquor in me. I talk nonsense when I’m drunk.” His grin stretches wide. “And you’ll be in for it when Lee catches you trying to grope me again.”
My gaze drops to my hands, which are splayed over his pecs. His hands brush mine as I snatch them away and take a self-conscious step backward.
I’m not able to respond, as a commotion suddenly breaks out across the room. Everyone rushes to watch a couple of Jack’s teammates scuffling in the hall. Not a fight but more a drunken wrestling match that bounces off the walls and clatters into the dining room.
Jack trudges after them, shouting at them to knock it off as knickknacks and photos tumble to the floor. I cross the threshold in time to see the guys crash into the dining table where the Dyce portrait is propped in a chair. I’d been taking more photos earlier and brought it down for better light.
Now I watch, helpless, as it falls under the feet of these two-hundred-and-thirty-pound clumsy buffalo.
“Oh no,” I gasp.
“Enough!” Jack pries his friends apart while I lunge for the painting. “You’ve fucked it now. Dickheads.”
I’m nearly hyperventilating as I lay the portrait on the table to inspect it. I promised it to a museum, for Pete’s sake. Luckily, there doesn’t appear to be any damage to the painting itself. The paper backing is torn, but that can be replaced.
A wave of relief crashes over me. Thank God.
“We’re sorry, Abbey,” one of the contrite men say.
“Yeah, we didn’t see it there,” the other chimes in with appropriately sad puppy eyes.
“What’s the damage?” Jack comes up beside me.
“It’s okay. Just this torn area— ” I stop.
In the process of prying the tear open a bit further, I suddenly realize there’s something hidden beneath the backing of the painting.
16
IPASSED OUT IN MY CLOTHES LAST NIGHT, MY HAND STILL CLUTCHing the letter we found hidden in the painting. Now it’s morning, and I’m wide awake and dressed, although I still feel a little drunk as I sit at the breakfast bar reading and rereading the sad, short goodbye.
I’m sorry. I cannot marry you, my darling. I love you dearly, but my destiny lies with him. Where he goes, my heart will always follow.
Forgive me.
—Josephine
The envelope it came in is old and yellowed, without a name or anything else to suggest its intended recipient. Not even a date on the letter itself. The epitaph itself sits lonely on the page. I’ve read it dozens of times, and each word is no less gutting with repetition.
I’ve spent weeks imagining the life she must have led. The world spiraling outside her window, ravaged by war, smoldering remnants of a continent emerging from tyranny. What it must have meant to be a young woman when the air raid sirens finally ceased, in a country now left to mourn the dead and rebuild its soul. I can’t even fathom the resilience required. The bravery to endure.
Now I have a name for my mystery woman. Presumably anyway. Except the same questions remain.
Who was Josephine? What was her connection to the Tulley family, and why would they have a portrait painted of her?
And now another mystery presents itself: Who were the loves that pulled at her heart, and who ultimately lost her?
