Painting is an act of discovery. Let the brush take you where it leads. Don’t be afraid to lose control a little, to see what’s around the corner. You might end up someplace magical, a place you never would have dreamt of on your own.
Finished. Nothing else to do.
Saturday evening and Noelle had just taken a long, careful tour through the cottage, viewing every detail through a realtor’s eyes, preparing it to be show-ready. Mac had seamlessly patched and painted a few of the cracked ceiling spots upstairs, along with stopping a leaky faucet, re-grouting the entire kitchen back splash, and cleaning out the cast iron stove. Noelle had dusted every inch of the cottage, sorted through boxes and bookshelves, and given or thrown away anything she couldn’t use. All the furniture would stay with the house, and Mac would give several items to people in the village who needed them. She’d have her own boxes shipped to the States next week.
With all the sorting and cleaning she’d done, Noelle had expected to find some secrets along the way, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary. She entered the kitchen and smiled, seeing everything polished and gleaming. The countertops, the Aga, the cupboards, all ready for their close-up. She’d tried to clear out any clutter or unnecessary items from the surfaces, but in the corner near the toaster, she spotted a ceramic dish she’d meant to put away. Heart-shaped and topped with a lid Aunt Joy had probably painted. The two dancing marigolds held Joy’s characteristic offbeat perspective. Whimsical but earnest. Too tired to make yet another trip upstairs to put the heart into her suitcase along with a few other items she couldn’t bear to part with, Noelle made a mental note to retrieve the dish tomorrow.
Tomorrow. She couldn’t believe she would say good-bye to England so soon. Her San Diego life seemed so far away, and not just physically. In five short days, England became a second home. Seeing Jill again, especially, had thrust her back to the past, but even more so, seeing Adam. Her insane schedule today, though, had forced his image away. She buried herself in all the too-much-to-do and let yesterday be yesterday. She would leave on a plane tomorrow, leave Adam behind. Best to put an ocean between them again. As it should be.
Also in these brief days, Noelle had immersed herself in the village, in Aunt Joy’s cottage. She knew every crack, every corner. Well, except for that locked room. All her cleaning and moving, and still no luck finding the blasted key. She hated the idea of ruining a perfectly good door unless she absolutely had to. But as a last resort, she would have Mac bust the lock tomorrow morning before her flight. Surely, with his handyman skills, he would find a way to replace it artfully.
Rain tapped against the window. Noelle took her jacket from the chair and wandered toward the back door, suddenly desperate for the solace of nature. Too much time indoors had made her forget a world existed outside, a world she craved as she took her first step out into the twilight. The rain had coated the entire garden in a beautiful, glossy sheen and filled it with color. Even the bark of the trees had darkened, their trunks more vivid and defined with the rain dripping down them. Several leaves on two trees had already changed a stunning shade of autumn yellow. Noelle breathed in the garden’s dewy, sweet smell. An inexplicable sadness hovered as she thought about leaving this part of England behind. Of not being able to stay, to watch all the trees eventually turn, one by one.
A soft meow rose up from a nearby fern, and Noelle squinted at a ball of fur hunched to escape the rain. She parted the fronds, barely able to keep her head covered by the awning of the porch. The drenched cat blinked its glowing green eyes and meowed at her again.
“C’mere, Kitty. Don’t be afraid.”
The cat had no intention of biting her, but it wouldn’t come out by itself. She thrust her hands deeper and picked it up underneath its limp, bony shoulders. Water doused the top of Noelle’s head, but she didn’t care as she cradled the frightened cat and stroked its wet fur. The dark gray coat reminded her of a cat she had as a child, Chester. He slept at the end of her bed every night.
“I’ve seen you around the village.”
The cat trembled in her arms.
“It’s all right. You’re safe.”
“Looks like you’ve made a new friend.” Mac approached from the other side of the porch, wearing a hooded jacket, slick with rain.
“Hi, I didn’t see you there. Yes, he’s a timid little thing.”
Mac rubbed under the cat’s chin. “A stray. I’ve seen him at Mr. Bentley’s, begging for samples. But he seems to have found a home here.”
“I wish I could take him back to San Diego.”
“So it’s tomorrow, then?”
“Tomorrow it is.”
“I’m finished with the shed. Everything else is in order. Unless you can think of something we’ve missed?”
“I can’t think of anything. Oh, except for the room upstairs. I still can’t find the stupid key. I’m too tired to mess with it tonight. Would you mind dropping by tomorrow morning to figure out a way to open it?”
“Aye, lass. No trouble.”
“Maybe you could bust the lock. I think we’ll have just enough time to assess the room and clear out whatever’s there before my flight leaves. I’m sure it’s just an old storage room. If we’re lucky, maybe it’s even empty.”
The cat trembled again.
“Thank you, Mac—for all your help. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”
“’Twas nothing, lass. I wanted to do it.”
“Why don’t you come in for a minute? I’ll make you some tea. Let’s get out of this cold rain.”
“Aye, that would be grand.”
Inside, Noelle wrapped the cat in a flowered tea towel she’d planned to pack, handing the bundle gingerly over to Mac as though offering him a newborn. She’d kept the essentials for tea still handy, knowing she’d have at least a cup tonight and one in the morning, and drew out two cups and saucers then filled the small kettle.
“Have you considered staying?” Mac shifted the sleeping animal in his arms. The cat meowed his protest and closed his eyes again. “You do have a cottage. In pristine shape.”
“I can’t deny I’ve let the idea flit through my mind once or twice. I love it here.” She leaned against the counter. “But I just can’t. Not in reality. I mean, my life is in California. I have a job, and friends, a house. And nothing to keep me here. I’d be crazy to consider staying. Or barmy, as you might say.”
“A lot of good decisions seem barmy on the surface. Sometimes, those are the best decisions.”
The kettle whistled behind her, and she took it off the burner. She poured two mugs of tea and brought them to the table, removing the cat from Mac’s arms so he could have a free hand to drink. The cat purred from deep within the towel as she sat down.
“Mac, do you have any regrets?”
“What sort?”
She stroked the cat’s nose. “I don’t know. In life, in your past…”
“Aye.”
She immediately wanted to know what they were, but Mac probably wasn’t going to be specific.
“’Tis human,” he continued, “to have regrets. And people who tell you otherwise are lying to themselves.”
“You’re a very wise man, Mac MacDonald.”
He gave as close to a half-grin as she’d ever seen and shook his head. “Nay, lass. I’ve lived a long, long time. Any wisdom comes with experience.” He finished off his tea then pushed back his chair. “Thanks for this. Nice to have a bit of a chat now and again. What are you planning to do with him?” Mac pointed toward the tea towel.
“Not sure. I’ll keep him here tonight, out of the rain. Maybe I can find a willing prospect tomorrow. Would you mind putting the word out for me, see if anyone might take him?”
“Aye. I might know a couple o’ folk who would consider it. See you early tomorrow.” He let himself out the back door, and Noelle looked down at the sleeping cat purring in her arms. His eyes opened to green slits.
“Well, I can’t just hold you all night, can I?” She balanced him in her lap to rub his fur dry. He swatted at her hand with his free paw.
She placed him gently on the tiled floor, and he wandered around his surroundings, rubbing against the table leg then her leg.
“Now. What shall we have for dinner?”
Noelle, padding down the hallway in her bare feet, had to make one quick stop before bed—turn off the table lamp in the hall outside the bedroom. She had just changed into her new lilac flannel pajamas, the ones she’d bought yesterday at Mrs. Bennett’s boutique.
She curled her hand under the lampshade to click off the light and paused. A few feet away in angular shadows stood the door—that enigmatic, imposing, frustratingly locked door. Even with the craziness of the past few days, she’d had time to wonder what her aunt had hidden, what dark, foreboding secret she had locked away.
Staring ahead, nearly boring a hole in the door, Noelle remembered something. She’d read her aunt’s final letter more than once since Mr. Lester had given it to her, and something always nagged at her. Aunt Joy was trying to prompt her, nudge her in a certain direction. Give her clues to “surprises lurking about” and permission to reveal her “secrets” to the world. Joy wanted Noelle to find her secrets, to look inside that room. Wanted her to make an effort to open that door.
On a whim, Noelle marched downstairs. Her new friend meowed at her from behind. He refused to follow and sat on his haunches at the top step, waiting.
Noelle experienced an odd premonition of sorts, a strong urge to move, go downstairs, and let her body lead her in the right direction. Something was taking her to a specific place. To the kitchen. That heart-shaped box.
The heart of me. That’s what the letter had said. She breathed faster as she approached the counter and reached for the ceramic box. She cupped her hand over the painted lid to lift it and peek inside.
A petite silver key, tarnished with age. Noelle gasped. It couldn’t be so easy. Under her nose the whole time. Surely, the key fit some random closet or maybe the shed. But not that upstairs room.
Still, she walked back up with the key to where the cat sat, meowing, staring toward the locked door as though he sensed something, too.
Noelle tiptoed along the hall like a character in a Hitchcock film, alone, late at night, half-expecting to find something gruesome. She almost heard creepy music as she swallowed her nerves and tried the key. She inserted it into the keyhole and rotated it with an easy click.
She cracked open the door and groped for a light switch on the wall. Finding it, she took the first step inside and breathed in something pungent, something familiar. Noelle’s eyes confirmed her suspicions as they roamed the entire space.
Paintings. Dozens upon dozens of them leaning haphazardly against every wall, everywhere she turned. Among them, jumbles of brushes and rags. Her aunt’s own personal artistic paradise. The pulse of the room thumped in her ears as she walked into the middle of it, open-mouthed. For years, everyone had assumed that just because her aunt had hidden away, her talent had been stagnant. That she had stopped painting. But this room proved otherwise.
Noelle had never seen any of these paintings before. They seemed clustered together into specific themes—darker paintings, modern paintings, nature paintings, even portraits. All of them stunning. All of them brilliant. Rich, vibrant colors, bold textures, dark themes. Aunt Joy hadn’t lost her touch, hadn’t given up her craft. If anything, she had honed her talent into something indescribably beautiful and thoughtful. Joy had wanted the world to see her progress, post mortem. Her best work.
Viewing the rest of the room, Noelle noticed the only piece of furniture, an old rocking chair with an easel standing near the window, presumably to catch the incoming sunlight. A half-finished painting perched on the easel, waiting for its owner to return.
Noelle moved closer and stared at the incomplete canvas, a landscape, and tears stung her eyes. She wondered if Aunt Joy knew she would never complete it. Standing in the middle of what art critics with dollar signs dancing in their eyes would surely deem a treasure trove, Noelle looked at the canvas and only saw her aunt. The woman who had taught her to paint, who had given her advice about life, shown her more interest during those English summers than even her own mother. In the past week, Noelle hadn’t taken a true opportunity to mourn, to say good-bye to Aunt Joy. The weight of her own grief pressed down on her shoulders as she scanned the canvas, pictured her aunt’s final brushstrokes.
Blinking away tears, she noticed a cluster of sheep in the bottom corner of the canvas. It sparked a memory. When she was fourteen, Noelle had begged and begged her aunt to teach her how to paint. Joy’s answer for days had been, “I’ll consider it.” And just when Noelle had nearly given up begging, Aunt Joy presented her with her very own set of oils. Noelle could see every detail now, the caramel-colored wooden box with a bright golden clasp, the crinkled covers of the metal paint tubes inside. Aunt Joy asked Noelle what she most wanted to paint, and she’d answered without hesitation, “Sheep.” She’d been obsessed with them that year—their soft wool, their noisy bleats—and even wanted to take one back to the States with her as a pet.
“Sheep it is!” her aunt had responded with a cigarette-coated laugh.
That afternoon, Aunt Joy and Noelle had worked for hours without stopping, until the light grew too poor to continue. And by the end of the day, Noelle had painted in the dead center of an overly bright green pasture a single sheep, enormous in scale, with an awkward boxy build and offset eyes. But her aunt had proclaimed it the most beautiful sheep she had ever seen, and Noelle had believed her. They painted every summer after that. Noelle still heard the swishy brushstrokes, saw the easels side-by-side in the garden, smelled the blueberry scones Gram baked almost every day to set silently on a tray between them.
And during those lessons, Joy issued wise nuggets of advice, honed by years and years of artistic experience. Wisdom about technique, perspective, and texture—and life. Noelle always heard the message between the lines, even at a young age, and knew Joy was talking about more than just a paintbrush or canvas. Noelle always thought Joy should write down her bits of artistic wisdom and maybe publish them someday.
After those summers, Noelle had stopped painting. She wasn’t sure why. Perhaps life got in the way, and more important things like college, friends, and jobs trumped it. Or perhaps the absence of England, the absence of Joy, her mentor, made her feel too insecure to pursue it. But standing here in Joy’s secret room, Noelle’s senses filling with the beauty of art, she longed for it again.
She stroked the edge of the unfinished painting, tears splashing down both cheeks as she smiled through them. “Thank you, Aunt Joy,” she whispered to the canvas. “For trusting me with your secret. And for all those summers. I wish I could’ve had more of them with you.”
A sudden clatter yanked her attention to the other side of the room. The blur of a gray tail scampered away from a knocked-over can.
“Silly cat.” She wiped tears away with her pajama sleeve. “There aren’t any ghosts in here. Nothing to be afraid of.”
She looked around at the paintings, realizing the massive job in front of her. She needed to do some sort of inventory but didn’t know where to start. The darker paintings drew her eye first, being so unusual. She’d only known Aunt Joy to paint peaceful Cotswold landscapes, with perhaps a cottage or church in the background. Their serenity had made her famous in the first place.
In fact, the Duchess of York spotted one of Aunt Joy’s landscapes in a gallery on a trip to Bath many years ago and had fallen in love with it, purchasing it along with two others. She’d hung one at Buckingham Palace and the two others at her private residence. Her husband had even commissioned one of Joy’s paintings for the Duchess’s birthday the following month. When the press got wind of it, they proclaimed Aunt Joy a “fresh, new talent, worthy of the royal seal of approval.” From that moment on, prestigious art magazines heralded her as the Cotswold artist in residence, and the cost of her paintings skyrocketed tenfold.
Kneeling on the dusty floor, Noelle studied one of the dark paintings, a storm with a stranded boat in the middle of a vast ocean, and noticed the rich textures of the black skies. Sure, the colors made the painting dark. But so did the stark tone. The forlorn sensation of being lost and alone on a wide body of water with no help, no hope in sight. Had Aunt Joy not locked the painting up in her cottage, Noelle might not have been convinced she was the artist. But Noelle looked at the right-hand corner to find the proof—JV.
Noelle pictured the lawyers, the gallery owners, the art critics, all of them salivating to get their hands on these new treasures. But her aunt had given Noelle permission to do as she wished. Even one of the paintings sold would surely save the gallery. She debated whether she should sell all the rest or save a couple of the paintings as her own. Maybe even hang one in the Chilton Crosse gallery. Part of her didn’t want to touch anything. She wanted to preserve the room, remember Aunt Joy in her element, and keep a sort of museum dedicated to the creative process. The thought of someone turning the space into a boring guest room with stiff-backed chairs and a floral comforter made her cringe.
Tonight, she needed to catalog the paintings on her own. Others would do that more formally, more officially. But taking her own informal inventory was her way of maintaining some sort of control before the madness began.
She scurried to the master bedroom, where the cat had stretched out on her bed.
Trying not to startle him, she found her cell phone for taking pictures then a note pad and pen from the desk drawer, and walked back to the art room, eager to start. It promised to be a very long night. She couldn’t even think about what this would mean for her plane trip tomorrow, how she could possibly still make it in time. But she would figure it out somehow. The paintings took priority.
Something rubbed at her cheek over and over and over, something warm, wet, and scratchy. Noelle opened her eyes to see a gray blob hovering over her face. Flinching, she realized it was the cat, licking her awake.
She scratched behind its ears and rose onto her elbows. The hard floor had created a crick in her neck. So it hadn’t been a dream. The paintings surrounded her in better order than before, thanks to hours of hard work. But they still looked a bit lost, waiting to find a home on some important person’s wall.
The cat sauntered in a broad circle around her, his shoulder blades rising and falling in perfect fluidity. “What time is it?” she asked and sprang to her feet, the crick reminding her to slow down. A faint knock came from downstairs, and she remembered Mac had promised to help her with the now unlocked door.
“C’mon, Kitty. We’ve got something to show him!” She scooped him up, still in her flannel pajamas, and headed downstairs as if it was Christmas morning.
She didn’t tell Mac about the discovery, only that she’d found the key last night and had unlocked the Mystery Door. A couple of minutes later, she and Mac stood together in the center of the room, motionless, silent, absorbing everything. She watched his stoic expression, wanting so badly to read his thoughts.
“Incredible,” he finally offered.
“Did you have any clue?” she asked him. “That Aunt Joy was still painting?”
“Nay. I knew she spent a good bit o’ time upstairs, doing something. But I never imagined this.” His work boots clunked on the floorboards as he walked in a slow circle to stare at certain paintings, pausing every so often and scratching at his stubbly chin. “Incredible,” he said again and met her back in the center of the room. “Now what?”
“Well, I’ve made a list of all the paintings, tried to put them in some sort of order. I suppose the lawyer and probably Frank will want to see them next, do their own cataloging.”
“This saves the gallery, aye?”
“Yes! Even one of them would bring in probably 30,000 pounds. Or more, considering the circumstances. But I’m certainly no art dealer. We can bring Frank in for that. He can tell us more.”
“He’ll be gobsmacked for sure.”
Noelle pictured Frank’s face, astonished, and she smiled. “Yep, ‘gobsmacked’ is exactly what he’ll be.”
When Frank did arrive, she didn’t tell him what to expect and let him enter the room ahead of her. When he stopped short in the doorway, Noelle nearly bumped into him. She nudged him forward, and his lead feet obeyed. She recognized all the signs of gobsmacked-ness right away.
“I can’t believe it,” he whispered, his mouth agape as he swiveled to look all around the room.
“I know.” Noelle clasped her hands behind her back, loving his reaction already.
He reached out to touch one and snapped his hand back as though the painting had bitten him. “No, really. I can’t believe it.”
“I know.”
He sidestepped along the room, squatting and pausing in front of every grouping to look more closely. Then he returned to the center of the room and wrapped his long arms around her. “Do you realize what this means? We’re saved!”
“It appears so,” she said, her words muffled into his shirt.
“Sorry.” He backed away and threaded his fingers together. “Do you know what else this means?”
“What?”
“You, my dear, are a very wealthy woman. In fact, the wealthiest woman in the village. Maybe even the whole of the Cotswolds!”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” she said, already uncomfortable with the idea of great wealth. She still couldn’t wrap her brain around any of it.
Frank gasped. “Look at that! I missed this one!” He walked to the easel in the corner. “Amazing. Her final painting. The most valuable of all, even unfinished.”
“That one’s not for sale,” Noelle said. “I’m keeping it.”
Frank nodded. “As well you should.” He pointed at the stormy pictures. “I still can’t believe how dark these are. They don’t look anything like her other work.”
“I agree. I wonder why.”
“I’m not sure. Artists often go through dark periods that reflect in their work. But I never thought of your aunt as dark. Quirky and eccentric, absolutely. But dark? I wonder what happened to make her paint these.” He looked at Noelle squarely. “What a gift she’s given you, beyond the grave. I still can’t believe it.”
“I know. Neither can I.”