“More fortunate.”
She hadn’t expected to find Summerset looming in the foyer, but there he was, the living skeleton in black with the cat at his feet.
Too bad he hadn’t taken Roarke up on extending his stay in Italy a couple of weeks more after his friend’s memorial.
“I figured you’d be ready to slide into your coffin for the night.”
“As it happens I’ve just returned from dinner with friends. And while it often amazes me you have friends yourself, how was yours?”
“It was lovely.” Roarke inserted before the exchange could escalate. “I hope you can get by to see it completed, and lived-in.”
“It happens I’m invited to dinner later this week. I look forward to it.”
“I’ve got work.” Eve headed for the stairs with the cat at her heels.
“I’ll be a moment.”
As she walked up, she heard Roarke.
“Would you enjoy it if we put in some raised garden beds next spring?”
“For vegetables? I see you’ve been inspired.”
Eve kept walking.
In her office, she went straight for coffee while the cat went straight for her sleep chair.
And since the night held warm, she opened the doors of the Juliet balcony before she started on her board.
She glanced over when Roarke came in.
“Why are they beds? The plants aren’t sleeping in them. I don’t think they’re having sex in them.”
“I have no idea, unless it’s that some of them sleep in there through the winter, or wake up there in the spring. And I am not going to visualize tomatoes having an orgy with the green peppers and the squash.”
“Bet you did. Anyway, how many of those raised things are you doing?”
Because she’d won the bet, he shoved a hand through his hair.
“We’ll select the right spot and decide on that. Or he will, as it’s in his wheelhouse and far out of mine.”
“Part of this idea is to give him a distraction, a positive one. He lost a friend, and he and his Urban Wars spy pals went through a lot. And a lot of that brought back memories of losing his wife. I get it.”
“He’s grieving still. It’s quiet and it’s internal, but it’s there. So dinner with the happy family, as they surely are, insults by you, which is a step into normality. And garden beds.”
“Whatever our issues with each other, I understand loss. And how sudden, violent loss twists up those left behind.”
“And he knows you do.”
“Okay, now that all goes in a box.”
Roarke studied her emerging board. “Did this girl with the pearl earring leave someone twisted up behind?”
“No. Pissy-Ass they called her, and that seems accurate from what I know. And she came by it natural enough. Neither parent had any interest in seeing her body, claiming it. I tracked down an aunt who didn’t even know about her who had more compassion than anyone else in her family.
“Let me ask you this,” she said as she continued to work. “Is there anything in the history or lore about this painting that’s weird or any kind of trigger? I couldn’t find anything that popped out.”
“They never identified the model, but Vermeer often used people at their work for his paintings. This one’s a bit unusual because she’s not at work, but aware of the onlooker. Hardly a trigger for murder. He had a family, worked at his art, certainly didn’t die wealthy or particularly famous.”
