Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 115468 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115468 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
She paused as she thought about that. “Yes, but they all ran in the same circle and from what I can tell, still do, at least sometimes. If one of those men painted this”—she tapped at the painting in her lap—“then it wouldn’t be surprising that he gave one of his friends a gift, right? Or they purchased it at some point? Either way, it’s a step forward.” The look on her face was filled with so much hopeful excitement that my breath caught in my chest and it suddenly seemed imperative that this woman find the answers she was seeking. Even if M.S. was my own father.
Anything else felt like an injustice of epic proportions.
After all, everyone deserved to know where they came from, didn’t they? My birthright, and the responsibilities it carried, along with the rewards it naturally allowed for, had set a path before me that I’d followed all my life. I knew what it was to benefit from being certain of your place in the world. I knew the confidence it bestowed.
“Let me help,” I said.
Her gaze moved over my face as though she was searching for something. “Gage, I doubt you have time to assist in a hunt for—”
“I’ll make time, Rory. It’s…important to me. These people are part of the community I’ve grown up in. I feel a certain responsibility if one of them committed a wrong against your mother. Plus, I know them, and I have access to places you might not be able to gain entrance into. They consider me one of them. I am one of them.”
She released a long breath, looking away momentarily as if considering it. Finally, she looked back at me and nodded. “I appreciate that. Thank you.”
Relief filtered through me and I wasn’t even sure exactly why. It only complicated things to spend more time with Rory, complications I didn’t need and ones that served no ultimate purpose. I wasn’t one for senseless dalliances. I never had been.
Well, except once with the same woman on a pool table in her hometown bar.
And why the hell couldn’t I get the image of that perfect assprint in green felt from blooming large and in living color in my brain?
And what was it about Rory Casteel that made me act in ways I’d never acted before, engaging in activities that didn’t forward my own goals in any way, shape, or form? And yet I didn’t seem capable of stopping.
She was staring at the painting again, a small crease between her brows. “This is Pelion Lake, right?”
I nodded. I recognized the curve of the shore and the hills rising to the North.
“Are you able to tell exactly where this might have been painted from?”
“You mean where was the artist sitting?”
“Mmhmm.”
I took it from her and turned it toward me. “If I had to guess, and assuming the artist was painting the lake as he was looking at it and not from memory, I’d say it was done from right about where the Metropolitan Club is situated at the top of a hill.”
“That’s what I was thinking, especially since it’s obvious the lake was painted from higher ground.” She paused. “Do you think it’s too late to call Mrs. Ramsbottom?”
I glanced at the clock glowing from my stove. It was just after eight. “No. But what will you say?”
She chewed at her lip for a moment. “I guess I could say I’m having trouble assessing the painting and was wondering if she could give me some more information.”
I nodded, beginning to hand it back when I noticed a corner of white paper sticking out from beneath the backing of the frame. I pulled at it and a little more came out, indicating there was a larger piece of something within.
“What is that?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Hold on.” I set the painting on the table and stood up and went to the kitchen to retrieve a butter knife and one with a sharper edge. I returned and used the tools to gently pry off the inner wooden piece. It appeared that the back of the frame had been constructed by hand and was well secured, but when I exerted a little pressure, the middle section came loose. I picked it up and set it aside and Rory gasped when it revealed a note folded inside.
She picked it up and I saw that her hand was shaking very slightly. “It’s a page of my mom’s diary,” she said. “I recognize the paper.”
“Open it.”
She did, unfolding it carefully and then laying it on top of the opened back of the picture. We both leaned forward in tandem and began reading the entry in the same recognizable loopy print that I now knew belonged to Rory’s mother.
The men who founded the club where I work gather every Tuesday and Thursday night. It was made quite clear to us servers that we were never, ever, to discuss the things we might overhear when performing our duties. They even made us sign a contract.