Page 12 of The Summer Swap

In her eyes he could do no wrong, at least until last week when he’d unexpectedly become engaged. Amelie Watkins wasn’t at all the woman that Cecilia would have chosen for Todd, and she’d been astonished when he had given them the news. They seemed entirely wrong for each other, but what did she know? She wasn’t exactly an expert on love.

Flourishing a balloon and a wrapped gift, he crossed the room and hugged her. “Happy Birthday, Nanna.” He kissed her on the cheek and presented her with the gift and the balloon. “Open it later when the crowds have left. That shade of blue suits you. You look glamorous and not a day over forty.”

Kristen sighed. “She is wearing her nightgown, Todd.”

“So what? It looks great. Nanna looks fantastic whatever she wears. Not that it matters what anyone else thinks, and, anyway, I’m sure they’ll simply excuse her as a famous and eccentric artist.”

“Except that she’s not the famous artist,” Kristen said, “so unless the gene for eccentricity passes through marriage, she can’t really use that excuse, can she? And I’m sure she doesn’t want to see photographs of herself in her nightwear all over social media. I bought her the perfect outfit so there is no reason for her not to look her best.”

Todd kept his arm round his grandmother.

“A person should be allowed to wear what they like to their own party.”

Cecilia was about to point out that it wasn’t her party at all, but she didn’t want to draw Todd into this web of family tension.

She changed the subject. “Thank you for setting up my new phone, Todd.”

“You’re welcome. Everything working fine?”

“I’m sure it is.” She patted his hand. “You know me and smartphones. In my case the least smart thing about it is the user, but I’m managing thanks to you. I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”

“You have my number keyed in there,” Todd said, “so if you need help call me.”

“I’ll do that. Where’s Amelie? Is she downstairs?” She tried to sound enthusiastic. If her grandson loved Amelie, then she was determined to love her, too. Maybe the woman was cold and distant because she was shy. Maybe she’d warm up in time.

“She’s not downstairs,” Todd said. “She’s not coming.”

“What?” Kristen frowned. “Where is she?”

“She’s not feeling too good.” Todd looked at his mother. “I need to talk to you about the wedding at some point.”

“Can it wait? I need to focus on this event, and—” Kristen broke off as her phone buzzed. She checked the screen, then flushed deeply. “I need to answer this. Excuse me. And, Winston, tell anyone who asks that they’ve been misinformed. There is no painting called The Girl on the Shore.”

Flustered, she headed to the door leaving Winston staring after her, flummoxed.

Cecilia decided this was the perfect time to clear them all out. She needed to think. She needed to plan.

“If you’d all give me privacy, I’ll change into something that won’t embarrass Kristen. Thank you for the present, Todd. You’re the dearest boy.”

Still holding tightly to Todd’s gift, she managed to usher them out of the room and closed the door behind them. Her hands were clammy, her pulse racing.

The Girl on the Shore.

She leaned against the closed door, trying to think clearly. There was no way she could go to the party now. What if the journalist asked her about the painting directly? She was a hopeless liar. She’d give herself away.

She needed to stay calm and figure this out.

The guests had already started arriving. Soon there would be hundreds of people milling around, mostly people who wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity to nose around the Lapthorne mansion. It was all so impersonal. She’d be expected to mingle, make small talk and accept condolences. Yes, there would be art lovers, but there would also be people who were there for the free champagne, the free food, the chance to see and be seen. Then there were the people who wanted to be able to drop into conversation that they’d been at the Lapthorne mansion for the party. They might casually mention some of the paintings they’d seen and pretend a level of knowledge they didn’t possess. There would be few guests who would be there because they loved Cecilia. When she was younger, she might have mistaken the attention for friendship. One of the advantages of reaching the age of seventy-five was that you saw the world as it was, and not how you wanted it to be. There would be no one there who had known her in those lean years before fame had shone its light on them. There would be no one who really knew her.

She walked to the window again, staring out across the estate.

The extensive gardens were bordered by woodland and beyond that was the road. Driving north would take her to Boston, with its harbor and history. Heading south would take her toward the wind-battered shores of the Cape where their story had started.

Finally she allowed her mind to go there, to think about things she tried never to think about.

She’d avoided the place for so long. She’d had no reason to go and every reason to stay away. Until now.

She walked across the bedroom and opened the small drawer in her nightstand. The envelope had been given to her by the lawyer, six months after Cameron’s death. After she’d read it, she’d tucked it inside her worn first edition of Henry Thoreau’s Cape Cod and spent a long time digesting the fact that Cameron’s last act had been to confess to another lie.

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