“Even you,” Mom insisted.
Britt considered the beloved angles of her mom’s cheekbones, chin, and forehead. Kathleen Bradford hadn’t sailed through lifeon calm seas only. She’d faced her share of storms and lived to tell the tale. “How did you survive your dad’s death?” Britt asked. She genuinely wanted to know. Her mom had only been seven when the small plane her dad had been piloting crashed.
“I survived because I let God carry me through it.” She smoothed the long ends of her robe’s belt. “Here’s what I know for sure: You can rely on Him in the hard as well as in the easy. If He leads you into something hard, then He’ll provide the grace you need to bear up under it.”
That sounded wildly oversimplified. And at the same time, beyond reach, because Britt had no idea how to actually apply that advice to herself. How could she let God carry her?
Dad strode into the bedroom, the handles of two mugs clasped in one hand, the handle of a third in his other hand. “Morning, sweetheart.”
“Not you, too,” Britt said to him. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Nope. You’re a grown-up, even though I want you to know that I—”
“Never gave your permission for that to happen.”
“Exactly. Like it or not, you’ll always be my little girl.” He extended one of the mugs.
She accepted it from him. Coffee, hot and fragrant. “Thank you.”
He passed the next mug to her mom, then went to the window and parted the curtains. Beyond, black trees formed a lacework pattern against a brightening lavender sky.
“We’ll make you breakfast,” Mom said.
“Yes! Buttermilk pancakes.” Dad looked so excited at the chance to make her favorite that she didn’t have the heart to tell them she wasn’t hungry. In truth, she was anti-hungry. The thought of food made her nauseous.
“I’ll stay home, and you and I can take the boat out,” Dad said. “Or watch movies. Or read. We’ll spend the day relaxing.”
“Thanks, but I’m going to go to work today.”
Mom frowned. “It might be smart to take a day or two to recover.”
“Except that I hardly got any work done yesterday, and the chocolate isn’t going to make itself.”
“You always make sure you have enough inventory,” Dad said. “You can afford to take a few personal days.”
“I can, but I want to go in.” Work would keep her hands—and hopefully her brain—occupied. Shecravedthat. “My kitchen is more tranquil than a spa.”
They regarded her doubtfully. She could read their tiredness and concern. Yet overlaying those things was clear evidence of their serenity. They were worried about her, yes. But they felt normal. They felt like themselves. They weren’t about to jump out of their skins, like she was. Thus, they couldn’t fully understand.
“Well ... if you’re sure,” Dad said.
“I’m sure.” Britt spoke with a certainty she did not feel.
Letter Frank left for Carolyn in the apartment at The Residences:
Carolyn,
If you’re reading this, it probably means that I’m dead. It definitely means that you’ve found the painting.
I want to explain.
Even as I write these words, I’m aware that my secrets are unexplainable and unpardonable. Still, I want to make sure that you know a few important things.
1)I was one of the three thieves involved in the Triple Play.Young Woman at Restby Renoir is my share of the heist.
2)My real name is James Richard Ross. I decided to use an alias back when I was casing the Pascal Museum. Which is why, when I met you, I introduced myself as Frank Pierce.
3)I didn’t intend to fall in love the summer we met. But after just a few conversations with you, I was sunk.When I began to fall in love with you, I considered calling off my involvement in the heist. I wish I had. Back then, I didn’t know whether you’d ever come to feel for me what I felt for you. Also, at that point, I was deeply involved in the planning of the heist, and the others were counting on me. I told myself I couldn’t let them down.
