Page 6 of The Summer Swap

The best, in her opinion, was the large watercolor hanging in the living room. She’d stared at that painting for hours, seduced by the subtle blend of colors, intrigued by the figure of the woman standing on the sand, staring out to sea. Who was she and what was she thinking? Was she simply admiring the view, or was she planning on plunging into the freezing waters and ending her misery?

Every time she looked at the painting it seemed different. The shadows. The soft flush of light across the ocean. It was as changeable as the scenery that had been its inspiration. Looking at it made her chest ache and her throat close. It wasn’t just a painting; it was a story. It made her feel. Whoever that woman was, Lily felt an affinity with her.

And if she was right that it was an original then this painting alone was worth millions. But she didn’t care about its monetary worth. For her its value was in its beauty. Being able to gaze for hours at that painting was a privilege. It was like having a private view of the Mona Lisa, or Monet’s Water Lilies.

She suspected Mike was wrong when he assumed the cottage wasn’t owned by someone with pots of money. Maybe not a billionaire, but whoever it was had enough money not to care that they were leaving valuable art unattended.

Or perhaps it wasn’t an original.

She’d studied Cameron Lapthorne’s work in depth but had never seen any mention of this painting, and it differed from his usual style.

She tore her gaze away from it now and headed for the studio where she kept her paints and canvases carefully hidden in one of the cupboards.

She’d skipped lunch, but she didn’t want to waste a moment of the light by preparing a meal for herself and, anyway, the conversation with her mother had chased away her appetite. Instead of eating, she reached for her pad and her oil pastels and headed toward the deck.

She wanted to paint. And even if nothing she produced ever came close to capturing the magical light of the Cape in the way Cameron Lapthorne had when he was alive, she would keep trying.

Food could wait. And so could finding alternative accommodation.

There was no urgency. After all, it wasn’t as if anyone was using the place.

2

Cecilia

She was far too old to run away from something difficult, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her.

Cecilia Lapthorne gazed out of her bedroom window at the top of the old sprawling mansion and wondered how best to make her escape. She could climb through a window, but that seemed a little dramatic when there was a perfectly good staircase within easy reach of her bedroom. Or she could walk boldly through the front door (it was, after all, her own front door) and if challenged by her children simply tell them that she would return when this ridiculous party they’d insisted on throwing was over.

She watched with mounting frustration as the lawns and the terrace were prepared for an invasion of people she had no wish to meet. Was there anything less satisfying than small talk? She’d rather have one decent conversation about something, than a hundred conversations about nothing.

She knew that Kristen and Winston were doing what they felt was right for her, but what they felt was right and what she felt was right were two different things. When they’d first told her about the party they had planned, she’d tried to talk them out of it, but they’d insisted it was exactly what she needed to lift her out of her grief. She wondered if it was revenge for all the times she’d insisted they eat broccoli when they were toddlers.

Either way, they’d ignored her entreaties, which shouldn’t have surprised her. She was seventy-five years old and for a little over fifty of those years she’d lived in Cameron’s shadow, dominated by his large and loud personality, the mouse to his lion (less generous folk used to say that Cameron’s voice arrived in a room at least five minutes before he did). At public events she was “Cameron Lapthorne’s wife,” or sometimes “the artist’s wife.” She was an accessory, although not, she liked to think, as useless as that ridiculous pocket watch he’d taken to wearing in the mistaken belief that it made him seem endearingly eccentric.

They don’t notice me, she’d once said to Cameron who had replied without a trace of irony, Of course they notice you—you’re with me.

And that was how she’d spent most of their married life. She was a plus-one. An also. A satellite. Images in the press were captioned Cameron Lapthorne and his wife, Cecilia. Never Cecilia Lapthorne and her husband, Cameron. There had never been any doubt as to where she ranked in order of importance. Most of the time she hadn’t minded. She was a quieter, altogether more private person than her loud, ebullient husband. She was happy for him to live in the limelight, while she hovered on the fringes away from unwanted attention.

Cameron had been dead for a year, but his passing hadn’t released her from his shadow. Now, instead of being his wife, she was his widow, her existence still defined by her relationship with the man.

She was the keeper of his legacy, the custodian of his bright and brilliant talent.

She needed to move on. But how?

It was hard to step into a new life when you were surrounded by the old one. Cameron’s presence was everywhere, wrapping around her like tentacles, holding her in place.

A month after his death she had moved all Cameron’s personal items into one room and locked the door. She’d removed his paintings from the walls of her bedroom. She would have done the same to the rest of the house but it would have raised eyebrows as well as leaving a large number of blank spaces on the walls.

She’d briefly contemplated moving, but she couldn’t bear to leave the beautiful gardens she’d spent three decades nurturing. When she was younger, her passion for art had been as great as Cameron’s. She’d painted, sketched, lost herself in a visual world. These days the gardens were her canvas where she experimented with shape, color and texture. Her gardens had received national acclaim, but she didn’t do it for the attention or the affirmation. She did it for her own enjoyment. Garden design satisfied her own need to be creative without in any way competing with her husband.

And now there was this party. A celebration of the artistic greatness that was Cameron Lapthorne. A retrospective of his work, displaying some pieces never before seen in public, offering fresh insights into the man.

Cecilia could have offered plenty of insights into the man, including the fact that much of what the public knew was false. They saw only the genius. They didn’t see the insecurities or the flaws.

The party had been Kristen’s idea of course. Kristen, their eldest child. Daddy’s girl. Kristen, who was so much more forceful than her younger brother, Winston.

Did Cecilia love her? Yes, of course she did. But did she like her daughter? Not always. Not right now.

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