The Jewelry Case (29 page)

The old house’s high ceilings created excellent acoustics. The notes glided seductively higher and higher, the beautiful gypsy's sensuous challenge reaching to the final row of the upper balcony. The air was still vibrating like the strings of a violin when at the bottom of the stairs she bumped into a tall figure and was jolted out of her trance.

"You!” she blurted. “What are you doing in here?"

"Wow." Ian’s eyes were wide and his mouth hung open as he stared at her as if he had never seen her before.

Embarrassed at having been watched when she thought she was alone, she spoke angrily. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough." Neither of them had moved; they were inches apart. "You didn't answer my knock, so I let myself in." He paused, the odd look still on his face. "I thought you had the stereo on. Playing one of those old albums of Esther’s."

"Why are you here?" she asked again, ignoring his comment. "It's Saturday. You don't work weekends."

"Never mind." He kept staring down at her, his expression still stunned. "Let me process this for a minute. I didn't know you had a voice like that. You sounded like a ... like a freight train."

"A freight train?" Insulted, she tried to back away, but he reached out and pulled her close, so close that she could feel the warmth of his body.

"In volume only," he amended. His breath stirred the hair at her temple. "A beautiful and extremely loud freight train. I thought you couldn't sing anymore."

"I thought so too." A sudden feeling of joy pumped through her, but she tried to keep her feelings rational. Singing a snatch of a song didn't mean her voice was back permanently. In fact, for all she knew, she might have damaged it by using it too soon. Also, she was very aware of Ian's hand on her upper arm, of how close he was standing.

"I probably shouldn't have sung like that just now," she admitted, lowering her gaze to his chest. He was wearing one of his plaid shirts, but this one was less rumpled than usual. "The doctor warned me to take it easy; I'd hate to damage my voice again." She pulled her hand free and touched her throat, unable to hold back a smile. "It does seems to be coming back, though, doesn't it? I'll call my oto-laryngologist and ask if it's safe to start singing again. He may want me to fly back to New York so he can check it."

"I'd say the prognosis is encouraging." He was looking down at her, still gripping her arms. "I listened to
Carmen
last night, by the way. Just now, you sounded like the recording, only better. Much better. I didn't understand what she was saying, though. The opera is in French, isn't it? That's strange, considering it's set in Spain."

She nodded. "Bizet was French
. N
aturally he would write the opera in his own language. As for the song, it's simple: Carmen is saying love is like a gypsy child, wild and untamed. She warns that if ever she falls in love with a man, he'd better beware."

"That Carmen must have been one dangerous chick." He was smiling down at her, but there was a new expression in his light-gray eyes. She did nothing to stop the increasing pressure of his hands on her back, or the slow descent of his head, or ....

Love
was
like a gypsy child, wild, passionate, joyous, and untamed. When Ian raised his head, they were both breathless, and her heart was beating like a tambourine in a tarantella dance. She tried to remember the question she had asked, which he had not answered. It took a few seconds for her head to clear. "Uh. . .so, why
are
you here, Ian?"

"Haven't you noticed? I'm here every morning."

His arms were still wrapped around her waist, and she had no desire to move. She liked the secure way she felt when he held her like that. It took a few moments for his words to sink in.

"Of course you're here every morning! But I don't hear any construction going on. Where's your crew?"

"I came to let you know that the work on the house is complete," he murmured against the side of her neck, causing a tickle. "We're done. Finished.
Caputo
. I'd have announced it yesterday, but we both got carried away speculating about the jewelry case, and I forgot."

"Finished? Already?" With effort she pulled away from his embrace and looked around the parlor. With all the distractions of late, she hadn't noticed how all the gradual improvements had added up. The construction equipment had vanished. Dust and broken wall plaster had been swept up. The walnut floors shone under a fresh, smooth layer of polyurethane, and the repaired window sparkled in its freshly painted frame. Except for the worn furniture, the house looked like a page from an interior design magazine, with its view into the front garden and buttercup-yellow paint that replaced the torn wallpaper. How could she not have noticed?

"It looks very nice," she acknowledged, surprised to feel a hint of regret.

"How about a celebration?" Ian suggested, looking pleased at her positive reaction. "We could drive to San Francisco, or Old Town Sacramento, or up to the petrified forest, or maybe go visit the lavender fields. There's a lot to see around here, and we only scratched the surface the other day." He reached for her again, smiling down at her. "You haven't seen any of the tourist stuff."

"I'd love to." Her regret was real as she wriggled out of his arms. "But I've got a couple of students coming over later for singing lessons, and tomorrow is the beginning of hell week. I'll be too busy."

"Hell week?"

She laughed at his startled expression. "That's what theater people call the last week before opening night," she explained. "We'll be practicing all day, every day. No breaks, no distractions, and catered food only. Sometimes we won't get home until after midnight."

Reluctantly, Ian dropped his arms. "It's just as well," he said grudgingly. "I’ve got to work on that thesis. Been putting it off all summer." He sounded as glum as a boy who had just unwrapped a Christmas gift and found a pair of gym socks instead of a new Ipod.

"Another time," she said, feeling the same regret. She already missed the feel of his face against hers, the slightly scratchy feel of his jaw despite the fact that he had recently shaved, and the bony ridges of his nose and cheekbones. At the same time, something inside her felt fearful. Things were moving too fast. In spite of the new, raw feelings mixed up inside her, she was not yet ready to promise Ian anything. The painful past was too recent, her future too uncertain.

"Another time? Okay. I'll hold you to that." He looked down at her and an odd expression crossed his face. "Paisley, we have a lot to talk about. Maybe it's too soon, but ...."

Her eyes dropped.

As if sensing her confusion, he kissed her soundly once more and was gone. As she heard the rusty pickup pull away, she realized she had forgotten to tell him of her discovery last night that Kevin had been the burglar. Maybe it was for the best, she thought, walking into the kitchen to make breakfast, which she sat down and ate without appetite. The fewer people who knew of Kevin's lapse the better. She suspected Ian might be understanding, but the fact was, the burglary really wasn't his business. This was between Kevin and her.

#

Chloe arrived promptly for her singing lesson. After, the girl was walking down the walkway toward her mother's waiting car when Kevin arrived for his own session. Through the sheer curtains in the front room, Paisley watched the two adolescents stop in the center of the path. She could only see Chloe's back, but the girl must have said something as she tossed her long, silver-blond hair, because Kevin's face lit up like a Christmas tree, and he said something back. As Chloe stepped past him, he turned to watched her get into the car, as if mesmerized.

Paisley felt a short pang of jealousy. She tried to remember if Jonathan had ever looked at her that way. If so, she hadn't been aware of it.

The car pulled away and moments later Kevin bounded up the steps, all teenage angst gone. In spite of his black T-shirt and silver lip-ring, he looked as sunny as a young actor in a Disney Channel TV show. "Hi there, Mrs. Perleman!"

"It's Paisley," she said automatically, stepping back to let him in while trying not to show her surprise. Where was the tormented boy she had talked to over the kitchen table yesterday? "Have you been practicing the music I gave you?"

His head bobbed as he followed her toward to the gleaming Yamaha piano. As he performed his Pirate King solo, she was again impressed by the power and range of Kevin's voice. When he sang, he appeared far more self-confident than in real life. In Paisley's experience, despite the importance of training, either you had it or you didn't. Kevin definitely had it.

Funny, she thought, to find so much talent in this rural town in Northern California. Chloe was showing impressive raw skill as well, and even the rag-tag chorus of pirates and the Major General’s daughters shaping up.

As Kevin ran through his lines in
Away, Away! My Heart’s on Fire
, she couldn't help thinking about his future. Several regional singing competitions existed for kids his age. If he did well in those, there were the national ones, prestigious events that would get him noticed. That was how she'd started: teachers who had taken an interest in her, mentored her in her early years, leading to Nigel, the conservatory in Omaha, and ultimately Jonathan and the Met. She could do the same for Kevin, she thought: coach him, introduce him to the right people, steer him toward the events that could launch his career. The things Nigel had done for her.

She made a mental note to discuss her ideas with Steve. Kevin didn't seem to think his foster parent cared, but surely the boy was wrong. Once she'd explained everything, Steve would surely support the boy's activities. This might even be what was needed to bring the two males closer together.

And while she was at it, she'd remind Steve that the backdrop for the play still needed to be painted. Only a week remained before opening night.

When the lesson was over, she handed the sheet music to Kevin. "Good job, kiddo! Keep that up and you'll be the star of the show."

"Thanks, Mrs. P
…
Paisley." He was already beginning to withdraw again. His dark, spiky bangs hid his face as he flipped through the stack of music, but he did not move. She had the impression he was gathering his courage to tell her something. She waited patiently.

Finally he raised his head. His dark-brown eyes met hers. "Um. . .I was thinking about
,
you know, about what I did the other week. You know, coming into your house when you weren't home and going through your stuff. I want you to know it wasn't my idea." He spoke rapidly, as if trying to get the words out before changing his mind.

"Oh," she said, trying to keep her tone neutral, although his confession surprised her. If not his, then whose idea had it been? And why? If she asked, however, Paisley sensed he would clam up.

Her intuition to stay quiet proved correct. The silence lengthened, then suddenly broke. It was as if he couldn't keep back a torrent of words that had been held back too long. "I'm not saying I'm not to blame: I know it was wrong, and I'm sorry. But it was
her
idea. She's the one who told me that you.... That I ...." He stopped again, as abruptly as if he had run into a wall.

"Who, Kevin?" She kept her voice soft, as if talking to the skittish gray cat, who might run away and disappear into the bracken outside if startled. "Who hates me?"

"It's not
hate
. She didn't think you had a right to them, being an outsider."

"I felt that way at first myself." Paisley spoke soothingly, although she was dying with curiosity. Whom was he talking about? "Why does this ... this person think she has a claim to them?"

"Them" meaning the jewels, of course. What else could have been the object of his search?

"Not her. Me." He grimaced and rolled his eyes, like any embarrassed seventeen-year-old. "Since I'm the last blood descendent of the Perlemans, she said they were my rightful inheritance. Claimed Esther had no right to leave the family heritage to someone else." He snorted. "As if I wanted a bunch of dumb jewels. But she kept insisting, so I did it. And I told her you didn’t have them."

It took a moment for what he had said to sink in.
Kevin?
The last of the Perlemans? Staring at his features, she remembered the flashes of recognition, the unexpected familiarity of the handsome face with its heavy dark eyebrows. You!" she exclaimed. "You're one of Jonathan's relatives from back east!"

Chapter Thirteen

Facts began clicking into place. Jonathan had told Paisley that he had a cousin in New Jersey, and Georgiana had mentioned that Esther had a niece who had left California years ago: the east-coast relatives who had not come to the wedding! What was Jonathan's cousin’s name, the one who had lost touch with the rest of the family? She struggled to remember, and once again, a name popped into her head out of nowhere.
Sarah.
Sarah Perleman, Esther’s grand-niece. She must have been Kevin's mother.