Be bold in your paintings—with colours, with technique. Take risks. Because when you take the easy path, the expected one, your art suffers. And your work will always be mediocre and uninspired.
Calling Mr. Lester had been the easy part. He’d been as unemotional as she’d expected about the paintings, his voice holding almost no surprise. How can that be? She’d heard of stiff upper lips, but Mr. Lester was ridiculous.
Still, he’d been terribly helpful. He’d given her tips about the first steps to take, as well as some valuable advice to chew on. He told her Sotheby’s in London would be the best venue for a high-profile auction of all the paintings. Also, he told her to be cautious about spreading the word too early, lest the media get hold of the information and stalk her at the cottage. Plus, she had to consider security issues, with all that valuable artwork stored inside the upper room. Before saying good-bye, Mr. Lester promised to stop by the cottage tomorrow on his way to Bath, with “new decisions” to be made and more paperwork to sign.
Calling Dan had been the not-so-easy part. She translated the time zone in her head—8:00 p.m. in England meant noon, San Diego time. She had already missed her flight because of the paintings. Dan would not be happy.
“Hello?” His voice sounded flat, rather than his normal level of perturbed. Maybe a good sign.
“Hi, it’s Noelle.”
“You’re back?”
“Err… no, I’m still in England.”
Silence.
“Let me explain, Dan. There’s been a new development. An amazing one. I’m actually not supposed to tell anyone, but you need to know. My aunt—she was this famous artist in England—well, last night I discovered these paintings she did. Stacks and stacks of them. She painted them during her reclusive period, so nobody even knew they existed. I found them late last night in the cottage. Can you believe it?”
More silence.
“Dan, I need a couple more days at the very least. There are important legal issues that have to be sorted out. It’s beyond my control, really. But I can still get Desha to cover—”
“No.”
“What do you mean?”
“No, you can’t have a couple more days. Impossible. I need you here. Tomorrow.”
Noelle’s skin flushed hot. She didn’t like constantly having to beg. It had become humiliating. Still, she stayed calm, rational, took a couple of measured breaths. “Dan, I don’t think you understand. These paintings are valuable. They’re worth thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands. This changes everything. Don’t you see that?”
“All I see is that I ended up giving you nearly a week at the drop of a hat to deal with the loss in your family. That’s more than most people get. And yours was a distant relative you hadn’t seen in over a decade, not even a parent or a sibling.”
Noelle’s mouth dropped open at his callousness. She knew exactly where the conversation was headed.
“Bottom line, Noelle, how important is your job to you? Paintings or no paintings, you have a choice to make. If you’re not at the office first thing tomorrow morning—”
“Then what?”
“Don’t come back at all.”
An odd calm descended. “All right,” she said. “Then I won’t.”
She clicked off her cell and tossed it onto the sofa. Proud, surprised. She had imagined that moment a few dozen times in her mind, but it had always been just a fantasy, hanging up on Dan, cutting ties with him once and for all. She never actually thought she’d have the guts to quit on a whim. She thought of him now, stunned by her call, scrambling to cover her appointments, her meetings, her deadlines. Served him right.
The weight of the snap decision hit her all at once, and the calmness dissipated. She’d been part of that company her entire adult life. At the very least, that job had given her a sense of constancy and security for the past ten years. She’d made friendships there, had business connections. In fact, still had employees who depended on her. Am I insane? Or have I finally come to my senses?
It took several minutes of pacing, of fidgeting, of going over the conversation again and again before she finally digested everything. But once she accepted Dan would not be calling back, begging her to return, she realized the freedom she’d been given. Freedom not only from Dan but also from the incessant workload, from employees, from paperwork, from everything.
Her future rolled out in front of her, entirely blank. No agenda, no schedule. No phone calls to return or deadlines to meet. No interviews with potential employees droning on about irrelevant details: how many dogs they had or how their daughter had just gotten divorced. No mandatory meetings with bad coffee. And no more Dan. Suddenly, the time on her hands belonged solely to her. Time to think about her life, figure things out. Time to explore more of England, stay as long as she liked.
Those paintings had changed everything. They’d given her sudden freedom. Freedom she didn’t even realize she had been craving.
Later that evening, filled to the brim with tea and scones from the bakery, she pushed her feet beneath the soft sheets and reached for her dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice. A flash of gray from the floor to the bed startled her.
“Don’t do that!” she told the cat. But he rubbed against her arm, demanding her attention and making her chuckle. “I’m sorry. C’mere, little man.”
As he curled up and laid his back against her, she knew he belonged with her. Especially considering that Mac still hadn’t found anyone to take him off her hands, and that, at least for the foreseeable future, the cottage would be her home, she decided to keep him.
She played with his swishy tail. “Is this your new home?” she asked, and he meowed. Glancing at her Jane Austen novel, she told him, “I should call you Mr. Darcy. What do you think?”
He licked his front paw, absorbed in his own activity, completely ignoring her. A snobby, aloof, temperamental English cat. Mr. Darcy it was.
Three days after finding the paintings, Noelle sat with Frank and celebrated over a pint. Joe had managed to save the fireside table for them at peak lunch hour and even offered to bring them complimentary chocolate cakes. By now, the entire village knew about Noelle’s “find,” though she’d tried to keep it a secret. But once Mrs. Pickering found out, all was lost. Noelle pictured her going door-to-door, hunched shoulders, smarmy grin, cupping her hand to her mouth and whispering into each ear, “Did you hear the news?”
However the news broke in the village, Noelle couldn’t be angry, because everything that needed to take place already had, like a rapid but controlled blaze—phone calls made, papers signed, brainstorming done. Noelle had lost track of all the emails, calls, and faxes she’d exchanged with lawyers, art dealers, and the bigwigs at Sotheby’s since Sunday. Ironically, it had taken up more time than a full-time job.
Immediately after quitting her job, Noelle had scrutinized each painting with Frank, making important decisions before others tried to make them on their behalf. Of the fifty-three paintings, all grouped into particular sets, Noelle would keep six of them. Three of Frank’s choosing would hang permanently in the village gallery. They would loan eight to various museums on a rotating basis. Two were set aside for immediate sale, hopefully bringing in more than enough money to save the art gallery and ensure its future solvency. Two Sotheby’s vans had carried off the rest of the paintings to London in the middle of the night. Mr. Lester had arranged that with one phone call. The Sotheby’s people had absolutely salivated at a special auction of Joy Valentine’s secret paintings. The date was already set. Valentine’s Day.
“I can’t wait anymore.” Frank set down his lager and rubbed the tips of his fingers on a napkin.
“More news? Okay, what have you not been telling me?” Noelle asked, unprepared for more surprises. Their meeting was only supposed to be for a celebratory drink, not business. In fact, she’d rather hoped not to discuss paintings, auctions, or sales figures for at least the next half hour.
“Well, remember Mr. Durante? From the gallery in London?”
“I think so. We’ve talked about so many curators, I think I’ve lost track.”
“He was my first choice, remember? The one who acted the least interested, but I knew he was faking?”
Frank had called all his art-world contacts for his own little bidding war, offering them a chance to purchase the two paintings he’d hoped would save the gallery. Noelle knew how good he was at drawing interest, at creating enthusiasm just by being enthusiastic. She’d been happy to let him handle things, eager to know the results. She hadn’t imagined the results would be quite so soon.
Noelle nodded. “Durante. Yes, I remember now.”
“Well…” Frank leaned in, lowering his voice to an exaggerated whisper. “How does 78,000 pounds sound to you?”
Noelle’s eyes widened. “Are you joking?” His unchanged expression told her he wasn’t. “So, he ended up buying both? That’s a stroke of luck!”
“No. I don’t think you understand.” He grinned wider. “78,000 pounds. Each.”
“You mean…”
Frank leaned back, letting it soak in.
“That’s…” She did the math in her head. “Over a quarter million U.S. dollars? Isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“Oh my. That’s insane, Frank. I mean, I love my aunt’s work, but a quarter million for some brushstrokes on a canvas? It’s… surreal, the price some people are willing to pay. I almost feel guilty.”
“Well, don’t. Trust me, Mr. Durante and his clients have more than enough to spare. That’s chump change to some of them. And just think what Sotheby’s will bring, if this is any indication. When the word gets out, collectors are going to swarm the auction. Whatever will you do with all that money?”
“I can’t even go there yet.” She shook her head. “I’m still not quite sure it’s even real.”
“Oh, it’s very real. Real enough for you to buy yourself a mansion, anywhere you please. A London penthouse, maybe?”
Noelle smiled. “If I do anything, it’ll likely be with the gallery. Renovate, maybe add a second story. Would you be opposed?”
“Opposed? I would welcome it. What a fabulous idea. That building needs a complete makeover. But what about your penthouse?”
“You know that’s not me. Besides, I could never be happy in London.” Too close to Adam, she wanted to add but didn’t. “Chilton Crosse is more my style. I think this place suits me.”
“So, does that mean you’re staying? You’ve decided?”
She knew deep down, the minute she hung up with Dan. She would stay. The next day, she had even called the realtor to halt placing the cottage on the market. But a firm decision to uproot herself, move to another country, couldn’t be made on a whim. She would still give herself time to make sure. So she said as honestly as she could, “It’s a strong possibility.”
“Well, I’m pleased. You’ve brought your American enthusiasm to this place and livened up a stuffy old village. Plus, you’ve given us all something to talk about.”
Noelle leaned forward a little, wanting direct eye contact, wanting to make sure he heard. “Frank, thank you. You’re the one who pulled it all together, made everything happen. I couldn’t have done any of it without you.”
“Aww.” He waved away her flattery.
“No, it’s true. And it’s not just your expertise. You’ve made me feel welcome in the village. Not the total outsider American I expected I’d be.”
“Well, you’re welcome. And I should be thanking you. Just think of the commission I’ll get on even one of those paintings!”
“You’re incorrigible.” Noelle smirked.
“I can’t help it. Cheers to us!”
As they clinked glasses, Noelle’s thoughts went fuzzy, from either the ale or the news; she couldn’t tell which.
“I have your cake,” the waitress, Lizzie, said, appearing with one plate and one box. Frank had asked for his to go; he was on his way to Bath for some gallery business. Lizzie, the antiques shopkeeper’s daughter, was new at the pub. A twenty-nine-year-old beauty with natural ringlets and sparkling green eyes, she had recently caught the eye of Joe.
“Thanks. It smells delicious,” Noelle said.
“Can I get you two anything else?”
“I think we have everything we need.”
“And then some,” Frank muttered, drawing his mug to his lips.
“See? Incorrigible!”
Frank snickered and rose up, clutching his cake. “I’d better get going. Call me if you hear anything more from Sotheby’s.”
“You know I will.”
Alone with the fire and the chocolate, Noelle revisited the crazy notion of packing up her San Diego life and moving here. To a beautiful but obscure Cotswold village.
But why crazy? People did it every day—took risks, moved on, started fresh. She thought about what moving might mean. In actual, everyday terms. Leaving the States behind permanently. No Thanksgiving or Fourth of July. No hot dogs or baseball. Not that she even enjoyed baseball. Or hot dogs. But they represented something all-American. Her heritage. Of course, her heritage included England, too. Her mother had been raised in England until she’d “betrayed” that heritage at nineteen by running off with “that American,” as Noelle had once overheard Gram mutter.
Besides, due to Noelle’s pending financial windfall, she’d be able to visit America anytime she pleased, at the drop of a hat. She could even buy a house there someday. Become bi-coastal. Money wasn’t about fancy cars or penthouses. It was about having choices.
She finished her cake and left a hefty tip for Lizzie then zipped up her coat. The days were becoming drastically colder.
When she stepped outside, someone called her name. Adam, a few feet away, was walking briskly toward her. He wore a dark suit and tan trench coat, with a slim leather case slung over his shoulder. He smiled and waved when they made eye contact. “You’re here!” he said.
She had assumed he would halt in front of her, but instead, he took one more unexpected step and leaned down for a fast, tight hug. Before she could ask what on earth he was doing there, he released her and said, “I thought you were back in the States by now. Were there hang-ups with the cottage or the will?” His light brown eyes looked almost golden in the sunlight.
Tourists dodged them on the street, so Adam led her nearer the pub’s wall, out of the way. Suddenly out of breath, out of sorts, Noelle tried to get her bearings. “It wasn’t the cottage, but… well, I guess you haven’t heard. About Joy’s paintings.”
His crinkled brow confirmed it. “What paintings?”
“The night after Jill’s dinner, I opened up this locked room upstairs in Joy’s cottage and found them. Row after row of never-seen paintings. She must’ve done them during all those reclusive years.”
“That’s unbelievable. I’m sure you were stunned. What happens next? Will they be in museums, galleries?”
Noelle told him about Sotheby’s and the auction, how the paintings would be distributed, and that she kept a few for herself. She liked the easy small talk. It allowed part of her brain to process the jarring fact that Adam was here in the village.
“The paintings you kept—are they at the cottage?”
“Frank suggested storing them in the gallery for a bit. Safety concerns. He has a top-of-the-line security system.”
“Smart thinking.” Adam nodded. “Could I see them? I mean, do you have time?”
“All the time in the world, now. I quit my job. I’ll be staying put. At least for a while, until I figure out what to do with the rest of my life.”
She couldn’t read his expression, but his smile widened by a millimeter or two. “It’s interesting,” he mused. “Joy sort of… brings you here, with the cottage. And then she helps you stay, with the paintings. It’s like she wants you here.”
“That’s what I was thinking, too. That she had a hand in it or something. Like she’s orchestrating things from beyond.” Knowing how New Agey that sounded, she added, “Well, something like that. So, you know why I’m here, but you didn’t tell me why you’re here.”
“After we talked at Jill’s about the renovation project, I couldn’t get it off my mind. Stayed up hours that night, doing online research about the historical period, the level of renovations required. Even emailed a few contacts to see if they might be interested. They were, and so, here I am. I’ve got my first meeting with the vicar and the council in”—he checked his watch—“twenty minutes. I came early. In fact, I was headed to the pub to kill some time.”
“Well, then, kill some time with me instead. The gallery’s across the street.”
“Exquisite.” Adam stepped back to take in the whole painting. He crossed his arms, tilted his head. “I wouldn’t have recognized this as your aunt’s work. It’s too…”
“Dark?”
“Yes. Almost bleak.”
They stared at the ship lost in a storm. In the end, after all the inventory had been completed, Noelle had kept two contrasting series for herself—three landscapes, vivid and peaceful, and three storms, grim and somber.
“I think this one reflected whatever was going on inside her all those years,” she said. Noelle swapped the first storm painting for the next, dark clouds filtering through a bare winter tree, white branches spiking up like thin, crooked fingers. She was using an old easel of Frank’s in the back room to show Adam the paintings. She wore gloves as the man from Sotheby’s had taught her.
“What made your aunt hide away in the first place?” Adam asked. “Did you ever know?”
“All I know is, during one of her showings at a gallery, a decade ago, she had some sort of… episode. A meltdown or breakdown. She stormed out of the gallery, and all the papers covered it the next day with various theories. None of them probably right. That’s the last the art world ever saw of her.”
“Curiouser and curiouser.” He shifted his focus to the third painting, which Noelle was placing onto the easel.
“I think this one’s my favorite.” Noelle scanned it up close, remembering how it stood out from the rest when she first discovered the contents of the locked room. The end of a storm, the remains of a black sky off in the distance. And in the corner of the painting, the subtle beginnings of a colorful rainbow. Something beneath the rainbow caught Noelle’s attention, something she hadn’t noticed the first time. A brush stroke out of place. That was unusual for her meticulous aunt. Noelle squinted further but couldn’t make it out.
“What is it?” Adam asked.
She reached into a nearby drawer for Frank’s monocular, a magnifier specifically designed for close analysis of paintings. “Not sure yet…”
And there it was. Three dark gray brushstrokes, clean but hidden in the shadows of the corner. It looked like a letter. Or a symbol.
“You found something.”
She handed him the magnifier. “There,” she pointed. “It looks like a signature. A letter, maybe? W?”
He hunched forward and examined the corner for several seconds then nodded. “That’s what it looks like. Although the middle stroke is too high. Maybe it’s something else.”
“I wonder if it’s in the other paintings.”
Adam helped Noelle gingerly swap paintings on the easel.
It took several seconds, but she found it again. The same symbol, this time located in the opposite corner. “Ha!”
“Let me see.” The excitement in Adam’s voice matched hers. He looked through the monocular and confirmed it. “You’re right! She’s embedded this… thing… on purpose. I’d bet she put them inside all the paintings you found.”
Exhilarated, Noelle smiled. “I’ll check the rest of these, too. Mr. Lester needs to be told. If Sotheby’s hasn’t already discovered them. But I think all they’ve done so far is catalogue the paintings. The experts won’t examine them until next month.”
“The mystery symbol will jack up the price, too, for the auction.”
“I hadn’t considered that.”
“If it’s a W, could it have been her middle initial or something?”
Noelle paused at the easel. “Her middle name was Lillian. And I can’t think of anyone with a W initial in the family. I’ll have to do some research.”
“It could be someone important to her. A relative? Ooh! Or a secret lover?” He raised one eyebrow for effect.
“A lover?” Noelle grinned at the idea of her reclusive, elderly aunt having a secret lover. “I think you’re getting carried away.”
Adam, undeterred, said, “It almost looks Celtic. Maybe it’s a Gaelic letter? Or even—” The chimes from the Timekeepers shop interrupted him. “Oh, bollocks.”
“What?” Noelle faced him.
“I’m late. Bloody hell.”
“Run! You can still make it.”
He grabbed his briefcase and saw Noelle’s phone on the table. He took it and tapped something on the screen. “Here’s my number. Text me. I want to know more about this… whatever it is you’ve found in your aunt’s paintings.” He handed her the phone and leaned in for a friendly kiss on the cheek. “Incredible to see you again.”
Noelle didn’t know which prospect delighted her more—the thought of a secret symbol embedded in her aunt’s paintings, or that a surprise visit from Adam had ended with getting his contact information.