putting back what should never have been lost all those years ago. Vaguely she was aware of Mrs. Jackson’s call that her morning tea was on the terrace, but she continued to work, oblivious to time and the gnawing ache that started to grow in her stomach.
* * *
Marcus strolled along the path toward the garden where the housekeeper had told him Avery had been painting all morning. He sensed he’d made an ally when, after hearing her muttered comment about Avery not eating yet today, he’d said he’d make sure she came in for lunch.
Bees buzzed from bloom to bloom along the path, collecting the last of the pollen. Marcus had never really stopped to consider the seasons before. His life in New York was busy, sometimes even frenetic, and the change of seasons was, for him, marked by how heavy his coat was and how disrupted, or not, traffic was by snow. Stepping into this garden made him more aware of time passing, of how some things such as the spent annual plantings were at their end and of how other plants would continue on, forever green no matter the season.
It was philosophical thought of the type he didn’t usually indulge in, but with it came the strong reminder that nothing remained the same—ever. If life could be defined by seasons, his grandfather was well into his autumnal years. Which didn’t leave Marcus a great deal of time to restore Lovely Woman to where it belonged.
He’d been honest with Avery last night when he’d said that he’d started the evening with a specific motive but that motive had faded into obscurity when he found himself purely enjoying her company. But he couldn’t afford to be so distracted, not again.
Avery paused in her work as he drew near and, still unaware of his approach, stepped back to gain a fresh perspective on what she was doing. He could see she’d been busy on the painting, and her skill was apparent in the improvements he could see even from this distance.
“That’s looking great,” he commented as he drew alongside her.
She turned to him with a happy smile on her face. “It just feels right now. Thanks for your suggestions yesterday.”
“I don’t remember suggesting this,” he said, pointing to the angel statue that now formed the focal point of the canvas. “It’s not a part of the garden, but it seems to belong here in the picture.”
“That’s the point.” She sighed. “It does belong there.”
Her face took on a melancholy expression that saw his protective instincts rise firmly to the fore again. “It makes you sad—why?”
“The angel statue was a wedding gift to my parents from my mother’s family. I don’t know exactly how old the statue was, or where it came from originally. My father sold it after my mother died. Too many painful memories for him, I guess. I was five then, and I got really upset when I realized it was gone.”
“Unusual for a five-year-old to get so upset about a statue,” Marcus commented, struck by her sudden vulnerability.
She shrugged. “I suppose I was a bit unusual. I know I was a lonely child, except when I was out here, in the garden, with my imagination. My mother was ill for most of the time I knew her and in the six months before she died I was pretty much left to my own devices.”
His indignation must have shown on his face because she hastened to elaborate.
“Don’t get me wrong. There were plenty of staff assigned to my care. I had a nanny, and Mrs. Jackson was already the housekeeper here back then and she used to look out for me all the time.”
“What about your father?”
“He spent as much time as he could with my mother. They were devoted to each other.”
Marcus turned away. He found it a stretch of the imagination that a couple could be so devoted to one another that they neglected their only child. It was no better than his own parents, who’d been so selfish and enslaved by drugs, needing his grandfather to take care of him. Either way, it wasn’t right.
“You spent a lot of time in the garden?” he forced himself to ask.
Avery nodded, a nostalgic smile on her face. “It was my wonderland. I could hide with my coloring pencils and my paper under the tree over there, and when I needed to talk to someone, the angel was always there to listen.”
Suddenly he understood why she had been so distraught when the statue had been taken away. She was an only child and, obviously, a very solitary one. It had been her friend.
“What happened to it?”
“Dad put it in the hands of his broker who found a buyer for it straightaway. By the time he found out how upset I was about it being gone, it had already changed hands again, and the seller didn’t have the contact details for whomever purchased it. I have no idea where it is now, or even if it still exists.”
She put her palette and brushes down then stretched her neck and rotated her shoulders, as if working out the kinks. His hands itched to reach out and massage them for her, to ease the taut muscles and replace her tension with something else. He fisted his hands and pushed them into his trouser pockets.
“Have you looked for it?”
“Oh, yes.” She nodded vigorously. “Dad kept the bills of sale for everything that he bought or sold over the years, together with full descriptions of each item—it makes up quite a history when you go through them all. But even with copies of the identifying marks and old photos, I haven’t been able to find a trace of it. I even set up message boards on several art and antiquities sites asking for help, but no luck.” She laughed. “Oh, except in finding a new gardener!”
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