“I’ve started working on one already.” I pointed at my easel.
He stepped in front, and my heart beat with anticipation. Apart from Blake, no one had seen it.
“Oh my.” His eyes switched between me and the painting. “This is amazing. Let me guess—the masked man is Blake? And you’re the one in the ball gown?”
I nodded.
“You’re carrying a briefcase,” he said, studying it.
“In the next painting, that briefcase flies open,” I said.
“Pandora’s box?”
“Am I that predictable?” I didn’t hide my disappointment. A little mystique went a long way.
“I just know you and your work. And I love that idea. The story of a mysterious billionaire and a young innocent soul whose life is also complex.”
“You got it in one.” I took hold of his hand. “That’s why I love you. You get me.”
“And I miss you,” he said, hugging me. “I’ve become so unproductive. I liked having all of this around me. You motivated me.”
“You can come here and work whenever you like. There’s room for another easel and plenty of bench space.”
“I might take you up on that. I don’t work alone well. Too many years at art college, I think.” He giggled.
“Come and have a drink.”
I poured us a glass of bubbly, and we sat at the kitchen table, in the middle of which a plate of cupcakes smiled back at us.
The rest of the afternoon, we drank, laughed and then watched a movie together. It was like always, only this time, instead of me being at Sheldon’s house, he was at mine. I saw him out at ten o’clock after he got a booty call from the love of his life, the cop.
When I settled back, I replied to a message Blake had sent me earlier.
He’d written: I’ll probably be here all night. Speak in the morning.
Not even an X for a kiss. He was dealing with the impending death of someone close, I reminded myself.
I replied: Feel free to call me at any hour if you need to talk. Love, Penny XXX.
39
* * *
BLAKE
MILLY OPENED HER EYES. Her cool hand touched mine before she drifted off again. I asked if she was in pain, and she shook her head. She seemed peaceful.
Her quivering finger pointed to the drawer.
I pulled it open and found her journal.
“It’s all there.” She struggled to speak.
All there? My heart froze. What will I find?
I leaned in and whispered, “You’ve been like a mother to me. I’ll always cherish your memory.”
A tear slid down her pale cheek. “I’ve always tried to protect you… I’m sorry. I should have owned up to it …too scared you’d hate me.” She heaved. Breathless, she paused. “Just remember, I’ll always protect you…”
Those were her last words.
Milly’s paranormal inference shouldn’t have surprised me. She’d always believed in ghosts.
I leaned in and kissed her withered cheek. Her last breath touched my face. One tear escaped my eyes. Just one. I wanted to cry more, but the tears remained frozen, close to my heart. The words “owned up to” kept ringing in my ears.
* * *
DRIVING INTO THE NIGHT, I wasn’t ready for London. I needed a room alone, a bottle of whisky, and nothing but silence. No pulsating lights or the rib-punching noise of a bustling city.
I found a hotel through an app and booked it. It was only ten minutes up the road and somewhat shabby.
As I parked the car, people staggered into the hotel, obviously soaked in booze. It was that kind of place. Opulence would have been inappropriate and disrespectful to Milly. I needed to mourn somewhere real.
The room was clean, and that suited me. In any case, something told me I might not get much sleep.
I could count on one hand how often I’d cried. A knot of guilt twisted at the lack of tears I’d shed for my mother. It was when I’d found Harry hanging from our childhood tree that my spirit spewed out despair. Seeing my friend dangling from the tree that we’d climbed had broken me.
I poured a generous serving of whisky. It wasn’t the time for moderation, and when it came to liquor, I had, according to Milly, the liver of an Irishman. I smiled at the memory of her and lifted my glass in a salute to the moon. “To you, Milly.”
I returned to the journal that lay on the bed. Grabbing the lamp, I placed it over the page. In order to acquaint myself with her cursive writing, I read slowly.
Dear Blake, read this first. The rest is just the ramblings of a dotty woman.
When Harry died, tears poured out of me like blood from a torn artery. I wanted to scream the house down. Instead, I ran into the wood and yelled at God, telling him I no longer believed in him. How could I? Considering the evil-doing of men who preached his word. Harry’s death came one week to the day after I killed that rotten priest.
I stopped reading. My heart palpitated wildly. Milly killed Reverend Michael? But how? Didn’t I kill him?
Memories flooded back. I thought about that sickening crack of the skull followed by a deafening echo as the blood-stained candlestick crashed to the ground.
Pacing, I gulped down my drink, reliving that ugly moment that had been festering in my soul and haunting me all this time.
Frame by frame, I replayed that fatal encounter.
As he grabbed me one time too many, I seized a candlestick. For a fat man, he was strong. Just as he unzipped my pants, I cracked the brass stick over his skull.
The ground vibrated at my feet from his heavy thud. I didn’t even look. I just dropped the weapon and ran.
An hour later, I returned to the scene. The candlestick had disappeared, and the place had become a crime scene. I trembled at the thought of prison. I was only fourteen.
Lucky for me, nothing had happened because the weapon was never found.
I continued reading the journal.
I entered the chapel and discovered that horrible priest moaning on the ground, his skull cracked and bleeding.
“Did you try to touch Harry?” I demanded.
“Please help me,” he whimpered.
I stood over him. “Tell me the truth, or else I’ll leave you to bleed to death.”
“I love Harry,” he moaned, his eyes pathetic and lost, pleading for mercy.
Possessed by anger so fierce that the very devil shot through my veins, I picked up the bloodied candlestick and knocked the evil bastard dead.
No other mother would lose her son again.
I hid in the forest, crying like a madwoman.
When I returned to the church, the candlestick had gone. My heart was in my mouth. The police had yet to arrive.
I tried to imagine what might have happened to the incriminating weapon. My fingerprints and Milly’s were stamped all over it. Taking a deep breath to still my nerves, I returned to the page.
One week later, Harry hung himself. And it was my fault. The police had spoken to him, and then my son disappeared. I should have owned up to it. But I was too weak. In the end, as you know, they closed the case.
When Sir William told me one day that you’d saved his life, I knew I had to act, even though your mother had sworn me to secrecy.