That Summer: A Novel (46 page)

The wardrobe, that object of desire, stood unattended at the far side of the room. On stockinged feet, Olivia crossed the floor. She carefully wiped her hands on her pinafore to remove any trace of biscuit crumbs before curling her fingers around the brass handles.

Her chest tight with anticipation, she pulled open the doors—and saw nothing.

There were only Aunt Jane’s dresses, ghostly in their linen wrappings, with the cloak she kept for best hanging from its own peg. Olivia pressed with her hands against the back of the wardrobe, but nothing met her palms but a flat expanse of wood.

There was no picture.

Thwarted and confused, Olivia retreated to her favorite tree in the apple orchard. Perhaps Aunt Jane was right; perhaps there had never been a picture. It had appeared so vivid—but she must have imagined it. Mustn’t she?

She and Aunt Jane never spoke of the matter again, and by the time spring had blossomed into summer Olivia, with the resilience of her age, had forgotten the matter entirely.

If she sometimes dreamed of a brightly patterned scene featuring a king at his high table and a dog panting in the rushes, the memory of it was always gone by morning.

Herne Hill, 2009

“Does it matter now who killed Thorne? Other than for pure curiosity’s sake,” Julia amended.

On the other side of the closed doors to the drawing room, the portrait of Imogen Grantham still hung, with Gavin Thorne’s signature on the bottom, the lovers united on the canvas if not in life.

“Whatever happened then, it’s comforting to think that they’re together now, wherever they are.” She wrinkled her nose. “Does that sound soppy?”

Nick donned his most superior expression. “Very soppy. But rather sweet.” Nick’s voice was carefully neutral as he said, “Once the media show dies down, what do you mean to do?”

Between the police station and fighting off the media and then Nick’s business trip, there’d been no chance to talk since last Sunday. Not about them.

Corpses could be very distracting. Especially when both parties had a long-ingrained habit of avoiding tough conversations.

Avoiding Nick’s eyes, Julia said, “I’d like to see if I can get Thorne buried next to Imogen. It seems only right that they should finally be together.”

Nick captured her hand, twining his fingers firmly through hers. “I didn’t mean about them. I meant about you.” He paused for a moment and said with an effort, “Do you mean to stay or go?”

Julia thought of Nick’s mother, leaving him in London and traipsing back to LA. The visits that were meant to happen but stopped. If they were going to have a chance of being together, long-distance wasn’t really an option, at least not at the beginning.

Julia pulled herself slowly up against the cushions. “I’ve been thinking about it. A lot.”

She thought about her life in New York. There wasn’t much there that she would miss. Her father and Helen and the boys, yes. Lexie. But she spoke with them all on the phone more than she saw them, anyway. Her apartment could be rented or sold. If she went back, it would only be because she was afraid to stay here.

There were ways she could maneuver staying in England—if she knew that Nick really wanted her there. If she weren’t so terrified that it might not work.

Julia thought about Gavin and Imogen, and the life they might have had together if someone else hadn’t intervened. They had been willing to risk all they had for love. She had nothing at stake but her own fears.

Keeping her eyes on the tarnished silver tea strainer, she said, “If the Tate buys
Tristan and Iseult,
I can afford to stay here for a year while I get my grad school applications in.”

She felt the couch cushions move as Nick shifted beside her. “You don’t mind letting the picture go?”

“It belongs in a museum where other people can see it.” Julia took a deep breath. “And it would be nice to stay here a little bit longer. As long as you want me to?”

She felt his hand tighten on hers. “If you need a part-time job for your gap year, there’s a shop that could use your assistance. I hear the shopkeeper’s not a bad sort.”

Julia felt a wave of giddiness wash over her. Or maybe it was just Nick’s proximity. He smelled of aftershave, tea, and ginger biscuits. “Is this your way of trying to drum up some cheap labor?”

“I wouldn’t call it cheap. If anything, I would say it was rather dear.” His arms went around her, and she heard his voice half-laughing, rough with relief, in her ear. “No. Scrap that. Very dear.”

Julia rubbed her cheek against the wilted linen of his shirt. “Were you planning to seduce me between the Chippendale and the Sheraton?”

“No,” said Nick reproachfully. His breath traveled from her ear, along her cheek, towards her lips, sending little tingles down Julia’s spine. “I was thinking more the couch in the back room.”

“Sketchy,” managed Julia, “hitting on an employee.”

Somehow, she wasn’t quite vertical anymore. Nick might be rubbish at relationships, but he clearly had some experience on the seduction front.

“It’s a good thing you aren’t one, then,” he murmured.

It was some time before they came up for air, long enough for the shadows in the room to have shifted and the last glowing embers on the hearth to have fizzled into ash. Julia nestled comfortably in Nick’s arms. The couch wasn’t really big enough for both of them to lie side by side, but neither was complaining.

She could feel Nick’s voice start deep in his chest. “I was thinking,” he began, and Julia automatically stiffened a bit. This whole trust thing didn’t come easy.

Baby steps, she told herself. Baby steps.

“I was thinking,” Nick said meditatively, “that since tomorrow is a Saturday, and Tamsin is still in the shop…”

Julia levered herself up on an elbow, her hair swinging down over her face as she looked down at him. “Are you inviting yourself over, Mr. Dorrington?”

“Purely to protect you from reporters,” he said smoothly. “Although, just to be safe, I should probably stay in your room. In the event of invaders under the bed, of course.”

“Of course,” Julia agreed. “And when the media invasion is over?”

Nick smoothed the hair away from her face. There was a roguish glint in his blue-green eyes. “Didn’t I promise to inspect your artwork?”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Some books are easy and flow lightly off the pen. Others don’t. This book fell squarely in the latter category.

Huge thanks go to my editor, Jennifer Weis, for her insight and her patience; to my sister Brooke, who played plot doctor when I needed it most; and to the entire team at St. Martin’s Press, for providing suggestions, okaying extensions, brainstorming titles, and designing and redesigning the cover. Thanks also to Joe Veltre, for being my cheerleader through the rough beginning of this book, and to Alexandra Machinist, for putting a fine polish on it at the end. Every book is a team effort, and this one even more so than usual.

Thank you to the regulars on my Web site and Facebook page, for your suggestions, your encouragement, and your enthusiasm. I feel so fortunate to be blessed with such a warm and creative community to turn to on those days when the blank page is particularly blank.

A special shout-out goes to Kristen Kenney, for postcards from the Tate, countless visits to the Burne-Jones exhibit at the Met, and freshman afternoons at the BAC. Whenever I think of Pre-raphaelites, I think of you.

As always, so much love and gratitude to my husband, my parents, and my siblings, who make this book and all others possible by putting up with the author during the writing of them and providing emergency cupcakes when necessary.

Last, but not least, thanks go to my daughter, Madeleine, for graciously waiting until after revisions on this book were handed in before making her appearance in the world, as well as for condescending to nap most of the way through copyedits. Both of these courtesies were greatly appreciated, and have been forwarded on to Santa for future reference.

ALSO BY LAUREN WILLIG

The Ashford Affair

THE PINK CARNATION SERIES

The Secret History of the Pink Carnation

The Masque of the Black Tulip

The Deception of the Emerald Ring

The Seduction of the Crimson Rose

The Temptation of the Night Jasmine

The Betrayal of the Blood Lily

The Mischief of the Mistletoe

The Orchid Affair

The Garden Intrigue

The Passion of the Purple Plumeria

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

LAUREN WILLIG is also the author of the
New York Times
bestselling Pink Carnation series and a RITA Award winner for Best Regency Historical for
The Mischief of the Mistletoe
. She graduated from Yale University and has a graduate degree in English history from Harvard and a J.D. from Harvard Law School. She lives in New York City, where she now writes full time.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

THAT SUMMER.
Copyright © 2014 by Lauren Willig. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Cover photograph © Andy Williams / Getty Images

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THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE PRINT EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

Willig, Lauren.

    That summer / Lauren Willig.

             p. cm.

    ISBN 978-1-250-01450-4 (hardcover)

    ISBN 978-1-4668-5147-4 (e-book)

  1.  Inheritance and succession—Fiction.   2.  Antique dealers—England—Fiction.   I.  Title.

    PS3623.I575T48 2014

    813'.6 23—dcho

2014008045

e-ISBN 9781466851474

First Edition: June 2014