The passage of time was occupying the mind of Alina also. Three months had passed since she and Anna had returned from Scotland to their home in London and these were three months of adjustment.
She was delighted to watch Anna’s happiness blossom as she grew accustomed to the fact that she was a couple again. Many cozy chats late into the night revealed how she had overcome her reluctance to share a bed with Lawren. Alina was pleased to be Anna’s confidante but she was not able to make a connection with Lawren despite making herself scarce at the other end of the condo and actively keeping herself busy so as not to see or hear anything private when Lawren was spending the night.
She knew this was a stumbling block for Anna, but, really, how could she expect a comfortable threesome to be formed from the close relationship she and Alina had shared for so long?
When she was being honest with herself, Alina knew she had not been as supportive of Lawren as she could have been.
It was the old green-eyed monster, of course. Initially she had been trying to protect Anna from the heartache of a failed romance. And who could blame her? This younger man appearing out of the blue and worming his way into Anna’s life so quickly had all the earmarks of a scheme to steal her money, if not her heart. Alina was on the defensive from the beginning and could not be faulted for that sincere concern, she felt.
And yet, her mental images of the day the portrait had been unveiled in the large bedroom in the Oban house could not be denied. The painting was a masterpiece, acclaimed by all who assembled there to see it. Anyone could recognize the feeling for Anna that was clearly there in the painting. Yes, it was a romanticized version of Anna, but that was significant in itself if this was how the artist perceived her.
Things were different after that, culminating in the night when Anna received the ring.
The two friends had talked about it often afterward. Indeed, it had been the main topic of conversation all the way home to Canada in the plane to the point where Alina had been hoping for a change of subject.
The matching rings were a romantic gesture, of course, but not a formal promise of marriage. Alina realized she derived some comfort from this fact although she would never say so to her friend.
Did she really hope this new relationship would peter out and fade away? How could she even entertain such a thought? Anna’s happiness was paramount and surely Anna had made every effort to reassure her that the situation between them would not ever change. But life had changed, nonetheless, and that was the problem.
Lawren was not comfortable in the condo when Alina was present. He had told Anna it was a feminine environment and he felt like an intruder, which Alina interpreted to mean she should not be there.
Anna refuted this, saying it was preposterous and he meant only that it was so different from his spartan existence in the studio, that the contrast between their financial levels was unavoidable.
It was good that he could acknowledge this contrast. The man had nothing other than his talent. The condo and the business were jointly owned by the two friends. Alina was just as protective of their shared business earnings as she was of Anna’s emotional security. The first move he made to insert himself into A Plus was the moment when she would finally take a stand. But could she afford to antagonize Anna by criticizing Lawren? The threat of her diminishing eyesight was ever present in her mind. Aligning herself against Lawren could backfire badly and leave Alina out in the cold. When it came to choosing between a friend and a lover, most women would choose the latter.
No, best to avoid a confrontation. Life had changed for all of them. It could not be denied. She would continue to be watchful, of course, but it would be advisable to cast around for ways to get Lawren on her side. The last thing she wanted was for him to turn Anna against her.
Alina picked up a trowel and donned her gardening gloves. She would divide some of those spectacular hostas and move them to another location. Digging around in the soil would relieve some of her frustration, if only temporarily.
Floor space in the studio was almost non-existent. A number of new canvases were stacked against the wall in preparation for a shared gallery show at the beginning of October. He had committed to seven works and now realized that was unrealistic. Four were completed but he deliberated about substituting sketches or partly-finished pieces for the remainder.
He could always use the initial drawings he had made of Anna. Leafing through the samples, he picked out one of her face turned up to the sun. It was done without her knowledge and showed an appealing innocence. He looked it over with his professional eye and saw that its rapidly-drawn lines conveyed a freshness of approach capturing the sun and wind of the Iona beach scene.
Involuntarily, a finger traced the pencil lines of Anna’s profile and his objectivity fled. So much emotion now imbued the sketch. He could instantly recall the feel of her soft skin when he cupped her face in his hands and told her how beautiful she was to him. It had taken a number of tellings before she believed him and relaxed into his embrace but now he could not wait to see her again.
With a grimace he turned back to the task in hand. How soon could he finish the paintings and have them moved to the gallery’s storeroom? This would create a free space in his mind as well as in the studio. There was much to think about.
Money was one of the most crucial problems between them. Anna insisted on paying for a hotel where they could spend the night free of restrictions. He had sternly refused unless he could pay the bill himself. His back muscles tensed at the thought. Not even a sweet, generous woman like Anna would be permitted to pay his way. He was only too aware of the discrepancy between their incomes and not one of her friends or associates would ever be able to accuse him of sponging off an older woman with property in two countries and a thriving internet business. The gallery show was his attempt to get on a more solid footing financially. There were many wealthy art lovers in London. If he could catch the eye of only one patron who would sponsor his work, the entire situation with Anna would turn around and he could hold his head up high.
He had been offered portrait work in Scotland and was saving that for a back-up plan should the gallery show fail to produce results.
Placing the sketch carefully aside, he wiped his hands on a wet cloth and grabbed his leather jacket from a peg near the door. There was another matter of concern to him in addition to his relationship with Anna. His father had recently fallen and broken his hip. The phone call from the hospital had reminded Lawren how old his father had become and how important it was for him to return the care his parent had given him. There was no one else who could answer the old man’s pleas. Only seeing with his own eyes would reassure him his father was still fit to live on his own.
Lawren clattered down the wooden steps and ran outside to where his bike waited in the garden shed.
In moments he was speeding out Richmond Street and heading north uphill to Arva. He knew a country road where the cool air would blow the cobwebs from his brain.
“Anna, are you busy? I’ve just had another call from my father.”
“Oh, Lawren! How is he? Is he out of hospital yet?”
“I’m afraid not. He’s due to be released in a day or so. I’m heading up there now to have a serious talk to him about the future.”
“Can I do anything? You won’t want me there when you have personal matters to discuss but give him my regards please.”
“That’s good of you, Anna. I am sorry we won’t see each other tonight.”
“We’ll have other nights, Lawren. I’ll be thinking of you, my darling.”
The warm feeling that Anna’s voice always created in him, soothed his worry until he reached St. Joseph’s Hospital. The bicycle rack was handy and as he locked his cable around the metal posts he was glad, not for the first time, that his cycle made the journey much shorter than it would be if he had to search for a parking spot inside the large parking building.
Each time he reached his father’s room, it struck him again how much his father had aged in the last year or two. Perhaps it was the surroundings that brought the fragility of the older man into clear focus, but it was obvious that decisions now had to be made for his father’s safety.
“Hi Dad!” Lawren bent down and kissed the old man’s pale cheek. “How are you today? Did you manage a few hours sleep?”
“No one could sleep in this damn place,” grumbled the tired voice. “It’s like rush hour at Union Station in here any hour of the day or night.”
Lawren had heard this refrain before. “If you are too tired, I’ll come back later.”
“No, no, my boy! Ignore me. I need to talk to you. I’ve been thinking.”
Lawren felt reassured by this statement. The last thing he wanted was an argument with his father over where he would live next.
“Help me sit up a bit. Push these pillows behind me, but carefully. My hip is still tender and the physio fellow had me moving about too much this morning. Young idiot!”
Once he was comfortable, Lawren pulled over a chair and settled down close to the bed. His father’s voice, that once had the capacity to be heard from a great distance, was now a feeble whisper at times. He did not want to miss anything significant in this conversation.
“I don’t want you to worry about my accommodations, Lawrie. It’s all planned. When I leave here I will go straight to the nursing wing of the Chartwell Residence for Retired Persons. Don’t look so surprised. It’s been arranged for years now. I had no intention of burdening you with my querulous old age.
No, don’t protest! Much as I love you, there’s no chance we could manage to live together in my small apartment even if we wanted to. This is the best solution.”
Lawren was only partly surprised at this revelation. His father had always had a mind of his own and planning ahead was one of his best characteristics. It was this tendency which had steered Lawren through years of study and supported his desire to be an artist by providing him with the best education available. His father’s handling of money was always exemplary. He had invested carefully after much research of the financial markets. Not even his only son was aware of this plan for luxury retirement living, but he was more than pleased to hear about it.
Before Lawren could respond to the news, his father raised a hand and signaled for silence.
“Let me finish. I need to get this off my chest now. There’s no guarantee of how much time I have left and I want you to do something for me.”
Lawren’s eyebrows lifted and his golden eyes darkened. What was coming next?
“You know the family history, my boy. There are things I regret and one of them is that you have been cheated of your heritage by my actions as a young, foolish man. No, don’t deny it! It’s too late for prevarication. The facts are the facts. I can’t make the trip to England that I meant to take. I have left it far too late but I want you to go for me. If you can find the old place, I want you to take a photograph and bring it back to me. If you can find out whether or not my older brother lives, I would like to know about that too. The money and all the information I have is in the envelope by my bed. I brought it with me in case ………………”
Here his father’s voice faded out completely and the tired old eyes closed. Before he succumbed to sleep, his shaky fingers pointed to the drawer on the bedside table. Lawren gently took his father’s hand and placed it back by his side, covering the old man’s chest with a sheet and blanket. After he had closed the window blinds, he tiptoed over to the drawer again and removed a thick envelope, placing it unopened in his inside jacket pocket.
“Thanks, Dad,” he whispered. “Rest well. I’ll do what I can. Thanks for everything you’ve done for me.”
The cycle trip to the university campus took only a few minutes but Lawren could not have described any part of it. While his physical body observed traffic and pedestrians, his mind was fully occupied with the implications of the information his father had delivered. The weight of the envelope in his jacket reminded him with every movement that more complications were about to descend on his already-complicated life.
He rode swiftly over the bridge and sought out a quiet corner on the fringes of the campus where no one would disturb him. Going back to his studio would have led to more distractions and he had to concentrate on whatever the envelope would reveal.
He settled on a bench in a leafy courtyard between buildings near the art department portables and leaned his bike against the back support. His hands were slightly shaky as he prised open the heavy brown package and began to read.
My Dear Son,
You will find in here details of the location of Hartfield Hall in Wiltshire, England. I apologise for misdirecting you before this. I mentioned Kent because at that time I was reluctant to let you investigate our family history in case you stirred up a hornet’s nest that I was unwilling to explain, or to deal with.
Now, it is clear to me that I have done you a disservice in concealing your origins. You know only the basic story of how I chose life with your mother over my own inheritance. I made this choice without thought of any future child of my marriage. Something I regret deeply.
I know little or nothing about what has happened to my English family over these many years. At first it was anger that kept me silent but later it was a sense of shame. Not that I was ever ashamed of taking your mother with me to Canada to start a new life, you must understand, rather that I had allowed bitterness to cut me off completely from those who were my foundation and my ancestry.
The Drake family is an ancient one with many branches, some of which may derive originally from Sir Francis himself. If you can travel to London you will see the remarkable Drake Jewel in the Victoria and Albert Museum.
My childhood home was surrounded by a large estate run by my father with an autocratic hand. From this estate derived the family’s wealth.
Make yourself known to whomever is in charge there. My younger brother, who inherited everything when I fled, is named Henry; presumably Sir Henry George Albert Drake the third. He will recognize you by your family resemblance, although your eyes are your mother’s alone.
This is the year you turn sixty, Lawrie. I have waited too long. Don’t delay.
Return to me as soon as you can and mend this rift in my family. It is the only thing that will give me peace of mind.
All of my love and my memories go with you.
Your father,
Edmund Francis William Drake
When Lawren reached the end of his father’s letter he released a deep breath and realized he had been holding his breath in amazement as he read. His first thought was to wonder why now, why at this point? In seconds the answer came. His father was afraid of dying and feared the end of a family line.
The urgency of the requests impacted on Lawren. There was no time to waste. He must go to England, and go soon.
Immediately he was faced with two conflicting priorities; the gallery show and Anna. Each was interconnected. His impulse was to see Anna right away but as he looked around him it was clear that the evening was far advanced. The last stragglers from the evening extension courses were striding past him on their way to parking lots and buses. Perhaps it was best to sleep on the information he had been given and see Anna in the morning when he had time to process it all.
His next thought was that there would be little sleep that night. He must work on the unfinished canvases for the art show and arrange for them to be delivered to the gallery.
With this decision, he returned the letter to his pocket and zipped up his leather jacket against the chill air. He jumped onto his bicycle and raced downhill to Richmond Street. As his legs pumped fresh blood into his brain again, Lawren Francis William Drake had much to think about.