Page 69 of Homeport

“You’re not taking care of what you have here. You surprise me, Miranda. I’d think a woman with your practical nature would insist on maintaining her property and guarding a legacy like this.”

“It’s a house.”

“Yeah, it is. It should be a home. Did you grow up here?”

“No.” Her head felt stuffy and thick from the weeping. She wanted to go back inside, take some aspirin, lie down in a dark room. But she didn’t have quite enough strength worked up to resist when he pulled her along the cliff path. “It was my grandmother’s.”

“Makes more sense. I couldn’t see your father choosing to live here as an adult. Wouldn’t suit him at all.”

“You don’t know my father.”

“Sure I do.” The wind whipped, circling them as they climbed. Centuries of its constant stroking had worn the rocks here, made them smooth, rounded. They glowed like pewter in the sunlight. “He’s pompous, he’s arrogant. He has the kind of narrow focus that likely makes him brilliant in his field, and an inconsiderate human being. He didn’t hear you,” he added when they’d reached the flattened ledge that speared out over the sea. “Because he doesn’t know how to listen.”

“Obviously you do.” Now she jerked her hand from his and defensively wrapped her arms around her body. “I don’t know why it should surprise me that someone who steals other people’s property for a living should stoop to eavesdropping on private conversations.”

“I don’t know either. But the real point is you’ve been left to twist in the wind. Now what are you going to do about it?”

“What can I do? Whatever authority I might have at the Institute, it still comes down to the fact that I work for them. I’ve been temporarily relieved of my duties, and that’s that.”

“That, if you have any spine, is never that until it’s the way you want it.”

“You don’t know anything about it.” She whirled on him, and the self-pity that had been in her eyes flashed away into fury. “They run the show, and they always have. Whatever gloss you put on it, I do what I’m told. I manage the Institute with Andrew because neither of them wanted to bother with the day-to-day business of it. And we’ve always known that they could pull that particular rug out from under us whenever they chose. Now they have.”

“And you’re going to tolerate being dumped on your ass this way? Kick back, Miranda.” He grabbed a handful of her hair while the wind tossed the rest of the hot red curls madly. “Show them what you’re made of. The Institute isn’t the only place you can shine.”

“Do you think there’s any major museum or lab that would have me after this? The Fiesole bronze has ruined me. I wish to God I’d never seen it.”

Defeated, she sat on the rocks, staring out at the point where the lighthouse stood like white marble against a hard blue sky.

“So, start your own lab.”

“That’s a pipe dream.”

“A lot of people said the same thing to me when I wanted to open the gallery in New York.” He sat beside her, cross-legged.

She let out a short laugh. “The difference here might just be that I don’t intend to steal to outfit a business.”

“We all do what we do best,” he said lightly. He took out a cigar, cupped his hands around the tip as he lighted it. “You have contacts, don’t you? You’ve got a brain. You’ve got money.”

“I’ve got a brain and money. The contacts. . .” She moved her shoulders. “I can’t count on them now. I love my work,” she heard herself say. “I love the structure of it, the discovery. Most people think of science as a series of steps forged in concrete, but it’s not. It’s a puzzle, and not all of the pieces will ever be firmly in place. When you’re able to fit some of them together, to see an answer, it’s thrilling. I don’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t, unless you give up.”

“The minute I saw the Fiesole bronze, understood what the project was, I was totally entranced in the possibilities. I knew it was part ego, but who cared? I’d authenticate it, I’d prove how smart and clever I was, and my mother would applaud. The way mothers do watching their children on stage at a school play. With sentimental enthusiasm and pride.” She dropped her head on her knees. “That’s pathetic.”

“No, it’s not. Most of us go through adulthood performing for our parents, and hoping for that applause.”

She turned her head to study him. “Do you?”

“I still remember the opening of my New York gallery. The moment my parents walked inside. My father in his good suit—the one he always wore to weddings and funerals—and my mother in a new blue dress, and her hair ruthlessly styled from a trip to Betty’s Salon. I remember the look on their faces. Sentimental enthusiasm and pride.” He laughed a little. “And not a little bit of shock. It mattered to me.”

Turning her head, she rested her chin on her hands and looked out to sea again where the waves broke strong and white and cold. “I remember the look on my mother’s face when she fired me from the Fiesole project.” She sighed. “I would have handled disappointment or regret better than that ice-edged disdain.”

“Forget the bronze.”

“How can I? It’s what started this whole downhill slide. If I could just go back and see where I went wrong . . .” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Test it again like I did the David.”

Slowly, she lowered her hands. Her palms had gone damp. “Like the David,” she murmured. “Oh my God.” She sprang to her feet so quickly, for one wild moment Ryan feared she meant to jump.

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