“Italians and their mothers!” Darcy said, shaking her head. “So the cliché is true?”
Rachelle giggled and took another bite. Her eyes traced all the friendly, loving faces in the room. “I’m so glad I could make it back for Thanksgiving,” she said wistfully. Her eyes landed on Oriana’s and shifted with sorrow. She knew about Reese; she knew what they were going through. Darcy worked closely with Reese and frequently checked on them. Rachelle reached for Oriana’s hand and said, “It’s great to see you, Oriana. Tell me, who is this painter you discovered? They’re talking about him everywhere I go. Rome. Paris. London.”
Oriana felt her heartbeat skyrocket. “Are they?” She’d hardly given thought to her career, not since her conversation with Isabella. When she thought of Larry, her stomach twisted. If he murdered his wife, she who was responsible for rewarding him late in life. She’d seen his “genius,” or whatever it was, and brought it into the light.
“That’s our Oriana,” Meghan said. “She has her finger on the pulse of what’s going to be big.”
“I always think you’re going to retire one of these days,” Estelle said, “and then you go and find the next greatest American painter!”
Oriana wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know. I’m learning things about Larry. Things I would prefer not to know.”
“Like what?” Estelle sat at the kitchen table beside her, leaning forward with her chin on her hand. She was a romance novelist and adored tales of intrigue, of secrets. Sometimes Oriana wondered if Estelle remembered that this was real life and wasn’t some fiction in one of her books.
But Oriana saw no reason to keep this to herself, especially as it was too difficult to carry alone. She explained what the gossip about Larry was—that his wife had disappeared and people thought maybe she was dead. “But it all happened so long ago,” she said gingerly, “so it’s going to be hard to track the wife down.”
“If she’s still alive at all,” Rachelle said somberly.
Oriana rubbed the back of her neck and thought of the photographs of Henrietta Johannes, of how beautiful she’d been in the early seventies, of how painful her life with Larry must have been.
“Tortured artists,” Meghan said, shaking her head. “It’s always the story, isn’t it? Picasso was mean to his girlfriends. John Lennon…”
“Let’s not talk about it,” Hilary begged.
“Are you going to keep selling Larry’s paintings?” Rachelle asked, captivated. “I mean, now that you know he might be a criminal?”
Oriana felt woozy with fatigue.
“There isn’t any real proof, right?” Meghan asked.
“No,” Oriana confessed. “There’s not. Maybe I’m making it dramatic for no reason. Perhaps he’s really just a lonely olderman whose wife left him years ago. Maybe he’s suffered enough during his lifetime. Who can say?”
“How could you get to the bottom of it?” Estelle asked, her eyes conspiratorial. “I mean, your journalist friend must have connections?”
“Yes, but she has ‘real’ work to do,” Oriana said, using air quotes. “She can’t chase around a story that might not matter, especially if it isn’t going to pay well. If I could, I’d go back to Colorado right now and dig around. I’d ask questions. I’d spend time with Larry and see if I could understand him.” She was speaking quickly, hardly comprehending what she was saying.
It was only when she realized Reese stood in the kitchen doorway that she understood she’d said something awful. She’d admitted that she couldn’t go anywhere right now because Reese was too sick.
“Hello, ladies,” Reese said meekly, his face gray.
“There he is!” Meghan said, popping up. “Can we get you anything, Reese? Another plate of appetizers? We have nonalcoholic beer and wine if you want any of that?”
Reese shook his head. “I want for nothing. I’m just grateful to spend the day with family.” His eyes continued to burn into Oriana’s. “Do you mind if I steal my wife away? I promise it’ll only be for a moment.”
Oriana walked behind Reese, who moved slowly and carefully down the hall and into the shadows of the study. When he turned to look at her, his eyes were filled with pain. “You should go to Colorado,” he told her.
Oriana was quick to tell him she’d been talking out of turn. “I don’t actually want to go to Colorado,” she said. “I’m barely thinking about Larry Calvin Johannes at all. I’m focused on our life here.”
Reese raised a finger. “That’s what I’m worried about. You know how much I hate people doting on me. I don’t want you tostop your life just because of… all of this.” He gestured vaguely toward his ailing body.
Oriana placed her hands around his waist and gazed into his sick and yellowish eyes. “Reese, I won’t get on a plane until you’re cleared to travel with me,” she said firmly.
Reese took a staggered breath. For a moment, she thought he was going to fall, but he raised his chin, gripped the doorway, and told her she was a fool. “I don’t want to hold you back,” he said.
“You never have, and you never will,” Oriana said. It was a lie, and they both knew it was a lie, but it didn’t matter just then.
Within the hour, the entire Coleman family sat down at long tables set in both the living room and the dining room to celebrate Thanksgiving. Roland stood to pray, and his booming yet comforting voice brought tears to Oriana’s eyes. It was never far from her mind that her older brothers Grant and Roland had known about Oriana and Meghan for years, that they’d only just decided it was all right to unite both sides of their family. When the prayer broke, their father, Chuck, stood on his rickety legs and announced that this was “the best Thanksgiving meal I’ve seen in all my years.” And then he went on. “Every year, it’s like our family comes up against new stories, new marriages, new babies, and new illnesses.”
His eyes found Oriana’s and then Reese’s. Oriana’s stomach stirred.
