Share No Secrets (20 page)

“Life goes on, but not in the same way.” Lucas’s subdued voice sounded worried. “Now more than ever you have to be careful. I mean it, Adrienne. Take absolutely no chances, both for your sake and for your daughter’s.”

“Are there any scary stories about this place?” Skye asked. “I mean, is it supposed to be haunted or anything?”

“Goodness, no.” Adrienne looked at the dignified brick front of the French Art Colony with its thick white pillars. “I don’t know of one ghost that is rumored to make its home here.”

“Phooey,” Skye muttered in disappointment. “Point Pleasant has lots of haunted places. The Art Colony is right across the river in Gallipolis. How did we manage to get all the spooky beings? Hey, maybe after the Belle is torn down, its ghosts will come over here!”

“Since when did you start believing in ghosts?” Adrienne carefully began removing the canvas-covered oil painting from the back of her car. “Even when you were little, you didn’t believe in ghosts and monsters. You were the bravest child I ever knew.”

“I’m still brave,” Skye said reassuringly. “It’s just fun to pretend places can be haunted. Is the French Art Colony as old as the Belle?”

“It’s older.”

“Well, there you go. In movies and books, ghosts always like old places. No ghost with any pride would hang out in our house. It’s too new and only has one floor. But
this
place would be a ghost’s dream house.”

“Skye, you should write stories about the paranormal. Maybe you’ll be the next Stephen King and I won’t have to worry about money anymore.” Adrienne banged her head on a window as she struggled to lug her painting from the car. Her lack of sleep and the heat of mid-morning added to her frustration. “Honey, please stop ruminating about ghosts and help me.”

“Skye to the rescue.” In two minutes, they’d safely removed the painting. “Success! What would you do without me?”

“I don’t ever want to find out.” Adrienne pushed her long hair behind her ears, wishing she had pulled it back in a braid and conscious of the bandage decorating her forehead. “But keep your opinions about ghosts to yourself when we get inside. I think Miss Snow is here today and she’s paranoid about anything that might tarnish the reputation of the Art Colony.”

“I think having an Art Colony ghost would be cool.”

“She wouldn’t. She doesn’t think anything that’s not in an etiquette book is cool.”

The French Art Colony had been a huge brick home in its younger days. A black wrought-iron fence surrounded the well-kept grounds. Adrienne and Skye strode toward the building on the brick sidewalk and climbed the steps of the big porch. As Adrienne had feared, the most active member of the Art Colony board, Miss Snow, was in attendance today. She opened one of the double front doors and stood waiting for them to enter, a tiny, stiff smile causing crinkles on her parchment-skinned face. The woman was tall, white-haired, cadaverously thin, had a dark flat-eyed stare, and habitually dressed in navy blue, brown, or deep purple. She’d always reminded Adrienne of the ominous housekeeper Mrs. Danvers in the novel
Rebecca.

“Good morning, Mrs. Reynolds.” Miss Snow’s voice was as cold as her last name. She looked at Skye with distaste. “You’ve brought your child.”

Adrienne forced a smile. “I wish you’d call me Adrienne. And Skye is fourteen now. Hardly a child. She’s been a big help to me today.”

“Yes, well …” Miss Snow trailed off doubtfully.

Adrienne could feel Skye bristling behind her and said in a loud, overbright voice, “I’ve brought my painting for the competition before the gala!”

“So I see.” And you don’t need to state the obvious, Miss Snow’s tone said. Adrienne liked every one of the other board members, all of whom were extremely friendly, unpretentious, and insisted on being called by their first names. Adrienne realized she didn’t even know Miss Snow’s first name. She suspected the woman had been christened “Miss Snow.”
FOR
heaven’s sake, why did
she
have to be manning the helm, Adrienne thought ruefully, on a day when she certainly didn’t feel like indulging the woman’s superiority complex?

They all still stood awkwardly in the doorway. Miss Snow finally said, “The painting must be heavy. You might as well come in with it. Is it oil or watercolor?”

Adrienne had not worked in watercolors for ten years. “Oil.”

“Oh dear. Another oil. We have so many.” She sighed. “Well, I believe the chairman has chosen a nice place for it on the second floor anyway.” Miss Snow turned to a small table and riffled through papers. “Yes, second floor, the room on the right. Your painting will hang just left of the fireplace. What’s the name of it?”

“Autumn Exodus.”

Miss Snow checked her papers again. “Yes, that’s what it says here.” It’s official, Adrienne thought sourly. The title is verified. “Autumn … whatever will hang left of the fireplace.”

“Autumn Exodus”
Adrienne couldn’t keep the sharp edge from her voice. “To the left, as you said. I think I can remember.”

“Mom, can I stay down here and look at the other paintings?” Skye asked.

“Sure,” Adrienne said. Miss Snow looked distressed as if envisioning Skye placing sticky fingers on every piece of art. Skye veered left into the sunny Music Room. “I think I’ll start here.”

“Don’t touch the grand piano,” Miss Snow warned harshly, trotting anxiously after Skye. “It’s an antique. And so is the chandelier!”

“Gosh, Miss Snow, I can’t very well touch the chandelier unless you’re planning to get me a ladder.” Skye laughed.

Two points for Skye, Adrienne thought with a smile. Miss Snow was the only person Adrienne knew of whom the girl purposely tried to annoy.

Adrienne got a firm grip on her painting and headed toward her favorite feature of the French Art Colony—the floating stairway. Although strongly anchored to the wall on one side, the railing side of the staircase bore no structural support, giving it the appearance of swirling through thin air all the way up to the fourth floor. Adrienne always pictured a beautiful woman in an evening gown gracefully descending the lovely stairs.

Sometimes wedding receptions were held at the Art Colony, and Adrienne had imagined someday seeing Skye posed in a glorious white dress on the staircase. But not for at least ten years, she told herself. Maybe longer. She didn’t want her little girl to grow up and throw herself into the responsibilities of marriage too soon, the way she had when she’d married Trey Reynolds at twenty-one, before either of them was really ready.

Adrienne hung her painting on the assigned spot and stood back for a look. The card the chairman had already put in place beside where the painting would hang read “Adrienne Reynolds,
Autumn Exodus,
oil on canvas, 22″ × 26″.” It was one of the largest pieces she had ever done and also one of the best. She’d chosen the scene late last November, when she’d seen about twenty Canadian geese floating on a large pond in an open field bordered by a line of giant blue spruce trees. As she’d watched, ten of the big geese, who mated for life, lifted gracefully from the water, wings spread, their brown feathers and the white streaks on the sides of their black heads showing clearly against the mellow gold glow of a fading autumn afternoon. In the painting, she’d used a bit of yellow for luminosity on the snow-tipped tree limbs and grayish blue in the background to indicate evening creeping onto the landscape. She thought she’d captured the agile, flowing movement of the birds along with the intricate play of tight and shadow. She smiled, proud of the painting and allowing herself a small hope of placing in the competition.

Adrienne started back down the stairs, then stopped. Something waited for her on the third floor, something that seemed to call out irresistibly. Slowly she ascended the floating staircase, running her left hand over the cool, polished wood of the railing. This is a mistake, she thought. This is going to upset me. This is going to hurt. But she couldn’t help herself.

When she reached the third floor, Adrienne turned right, paused, then stepped through a doorway. She drew in her breath. The room had an official name, but for the last four years, most people had called it “the Julianna Room” because of the life-sized portrait at the far end—a portrait of Julianna painted by the extraordinarily talented man who had been her husband, Miles Shaw.

Adrienne didn’t turn on the lights in the room. She didn’t need to. A shaft of sunlight streamed through one of the big windows and fell directly on the portrait as if nature had staged the lighting to best effect. Miles had donated the painting to the French Art Colony, never to be sold. During the last four years, it had become one of the establishment’s biggest attractions. And with good reason, Adrienne thought.

In the portrait, Julianna stood in a three-quarter turn with her face full forward. She wore a black satin dress with a black lace overlay. With masterful touches of brown, Miles had accented every filigree of the intricate ebony lace over the midnight satin. The neckline dipped low, partially exposing the curve of Juli’s breasts. Her hands were clasped loosely just below her waist, a large black Tahitian pearl ring set in platinum on her left middle finger. Her long auburn hair touched by copper highlights fell in soft waves over her left shoulder beneath a magnificent black lace-covered leghorn hat.

But the highlight of the portrait was Julianna’s face. The cool Grace Kelly perfection was tempered by the hint of an arch smile and the promise of amour in the sherry-colored eyes that seemed to follow the viewer around the room. No doubt about it, Adrienne thought. Miles Shaw had created a masterpiece. And more important, he had captured an incredible image of Julianna Brent that could last for centuries.

Miss Snow must have turned on the sound system to discourage Skye from playing the antique piano the girl had no desire to play. As Adrienne stood mesmerized by the portrait, a classic song rendered beautifully by the group Black-more’s Night flowed around her:

“Do you think I should have called the portrait
Greensleeves
instead of
Julianma?”

Adrienne started, then turned to see Miles Shaw standing less than three feet behind her. From the day Julianna had introduced Miles to Adrienne, she had thought he was not the handsomest but certainly the most striking man she had ever met. His mother was Shawnee, and he had inherited her shining black hair, which he wore pulled back in a ponytail that hung halfway to his waist, beautiful light bronze skin, and high cheekbones. He was around six feet four with an aquiline nose that was slightly crooked from an old break, lips with a sensuous curve, and the only truly raven-black eyes Adrienne had ever seen. He had the broad shoulders of a bodybuilder tapering to a slender waist and long legs that moved as gracefully as a dancer’s. He wore tight jeans, and a long-sleeved black shirt. Around his neck hung a leather cord bearing a large nugget of turquoise set in oxidized silver, a gift from Julianna for his thirty-seventh birthday.

Adrienne thought he looked older than he had when she’d seen him a year ago, a new network of lines surrounding the startling eyes, and the hollows sinking deeper under his cheekbones. One expected him to have a booming voice to match his size. Instead his words were always soft, almost sonorous and insinuating, as if his listener were the only person in the world. Julianna had told Adrienne she’d first been attracted to Miles because of his voice.

“I’ve always thought ‘Greensleeves’ was about a woman who was deliberately hurtful,” Adrienne said, finally finding her own voice. “Julianna wasn’t like that.”

“It’s possible for a person to have two sides.”

“Yes, but I knew Julianna for almost thirty years—”

“Much longer than I did. Maybe much better than I did.” Miles quirked an eyebrow. “But maybe not”

Adrienne took an uncomfortable step backward away from Miles, then turned to the portrait to hide her retreat “It really is a beautiful painting,” she said lamely.

“Julianna was my inspiration. For a while.”

“I was always sorry things didn’t work out for the two of you.”

“They were working out for me. Apparently they weren’t working for her,” Miles said sardonically.

His closeness and the theme of his conversation made Adrienne increasingly nervous. She couldn’t just run from the room. She had to say something in response to Miles’s remarks. “Julianna was a restless soul, Miles. I don’t think she was cut out for marriage.”

“Really? Not to
anyone?”

It wasn’t actually a question. It was a challenge. “No, I don’t think to anyone. Honestly.” The song had changed but the room seemed to be getting smaller and hotter. And Miles seemed to be getting closer, although Adrienne hadn’t seen him take a step.

Miles glanced at the portrait. “When I painted that, I thought I’d captured her soul.”

“You did.”

“I captured what she projected at that time. Sauciness, yes. But also innocence. That wasn’t necessarily the true Julianna.”

“You captured the image of a beautiful woman. She wasn’t perfect, Miles, but then no one is. She did have warmth, compassion, and joy, though. I see all of that in the portrait.”

“You’re perspiring.” Miles reached out and gently touched the bandage on her forehead. “And you’ve hurt yourself. Or more precisely, someone hurt you. A mugger. That’s what I heard.”

“Yes. Night before last. He got away with my purse, some
cheap
lipstick, an old comb, and all of ten dollars.” Her attempt at a lighthearted laugh came out more like a bleat of fear. “Philip is furious with me. Bad publicity and all.”

Miles’s face turned hard. “Philip Hamilton is a pompous fool who cares only about himself.”

“Oh!” Adrienne was startled by the pure hatred of his tone. “Well, I’d like to think he loves my sister and niece. I mean, I’m sure he does. He just has such a huge ego. Maybe that goes with being a politician. You’d have to have a lot of confidence to run for governor, after all, with all those speeches and people looking at you constantly and, well, everything …”