“No,” Tom replies flatly. “No.”
“But Tom—”
“No,” he says again. “Come on. Let’s go out for lunch.”
But Marnie continues to stare at the paintings, feeling a prickle run down her back, a sudden awareness making the hair stand up on her skin.
“I have a feeling I’ve seen this artist’s work before,” she comments, and hears Tom clear his throat.
“One of the paintings I sent from Europe,” he explains, and there is a tightness in his words. “It’s hanging in the hall at your place.”
“The Ends of the Earth,” Marnie suddenly says, as memory strikes her. “Yes, you’re right. Well, why don’t I send it to you? You obviously love the artist—”
“Mom, stop,” Tom whispers, and she turns at the torment in his voice.
“Tom?”
“Just leave the painting where it is, okay? I don’t... I don’t want that painting here. It’s where it belongs.”
Marnie pauses, the prickle down her back running stronger. “Tom, who is the artist?”
“Just some artist,” Tom replies, looking down, evading her eyes.
The prickle runs stronger again, turning into an odd feeling in her stomach. There’s something more going on here, Marnie is nearly sure of it.
“Okay,” she nods. “Tom, how many paintings has this artist produced?”
At that, Tom looks up. “Thirty-seven.”
Marnie takes a deep breath. “And how many do you own?”
Tom sighs. “Thirty-seven.”
“You bought them all?”
“Yeah,” Tom mutters. “I bought them all.”
“Why?” Marnie asks, almost scared to hear his reply.
At that, Tom gives an unexpected but bitter smile. “I just wanted the scraps,” he says tiredly, though Marnie can makeno sense of his words. “I couldn’t have what I wanted, Mom, so I bought what was left to me.”
“Tom—”
“I bought what was left to me,” he says again, and his voice is blank. “I bought what was left.”
* * *
You’re my father.
Tom’s heart beat fast within his chest, and he felt a clammy sort of cold strike his skin. The little girl who looked up at him, still clutching her bunny, appeared suddenly fierce, a determination in her stance that reminded him overwhelmingly of his mother.
“What makes you say that?” he asked her, trying to hide the sudden tremble to his fingers.
Reine pulled her bunny to her face, ducking her chin into the soft pink plush. “Because Mummy told me about you,” she declared.
“She . . . she did?”
“Yes,” Reine replied. “We had to draw our family tree at school. I asked Mummy to describe you, and she said my daddy was tall, dark-haired and American.” Reine looked up at him, and Tom felt his hands shake again. “You’re tall. Your hair is brown. And you’re American.”
