Page 65 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

“I’m not sure how or why to feel sorry about that.”

He let out a deep sigh. “You still don’t mince words, do you?”

“Sorry, I—”

“Don’t bother,” he said. “Sit.” We settled on the couch in the living room, facing the skyline. “So, are you going to tell me what happened? Those were some tears.”

But as I met his eyes, I lost my nerve. How could I reveal the grim, dark secrets of my family?

Before I realized it, I was on my feet. “I think this was a mistake.”

He held my wrist and gently said, “Hey, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s alright. Stay, we can talk about something else.”

I hesitated but sat down. “Is Aarti coming here today?”

Another sigh from him.

“I’m only asking because I don’t want to be here when she comes.”

“No, she’s not coming this weekend. I wanted to work.”

I sat up straight. “I didn’t realize. I keep barging in on your life. Maybe it’s best if I left.” I stood again.

He held my hand and coaxed me back to the couch. “It’s never a bother, Tara. You know that.”

After a few minutes of silence, he said, “I’m hungry. Is it okay if I make some eggs?”

I nodded and followed him to the kitchen. He pulled out eggs from the refrigerator and pointed to a barstool at the island. “Have a seat. I had just come back from the gym when you called. Took a quick shower and headed out.”

“I can’t believe rich boy is cooking.” I couldn’t hide the incredulity in my voice. “You didn’t cook when you lived alone in Baroda.”

He gave a restrained smile and said, “Times change.”

With a serrated knife, he cut precise slices off a loaf from a gourmet bakery I had seen around the corner and put them in a slot toaster. Then he turned on a fancy coffee machine that ground fresh beans before brewing. The sweet smell of a specialty roasted coffee replaced the delicious, yeasty aroma of the bread.

“How’s the response to your work been since the review?” he asked, working on the eggs.

“Good, a few other media outlets picked up the story, and now I’ve got two people bidding over Healing Love.”

“That’s great, Tara.” He appeared genuinely proud of my achievement.

“Yeah, my agent is hyping me up as the next big thing.”

“And I have the honor of being the first to own a Tara Kadam original.”

I smiled at his back. “And you’ve got the best one yet.”

“Hey, did you solve the mystery of those artists?”

I sat up. “Yes! It’s so intriguing. It was the same artist. Can you believe it?”

“How did you figure it out?”

“When Mr. Arlington showed me the painting, he flashed this sly, crooked smile, which stuck with me because it was at odds with how he had been all evening. So that got me thinking, and instead of focusing on the paintings, I began to research their family history. In one obscure biography, I found a clue. Turns out, Bayles, the artist who was hired by the estate, had a torrid affair with one of the daughters-in-law of the patriarch. So they ousted him and destroyed his early work. But the couple continued their clandestine relationship, and he used a pseudonym to sneak in several pieces depicting sexualities cloaked in landscape art. Dr. Hadden is ecstatic.”

“Then how come they still have the ones with his real name?”

“Ah, see, this is why I love talking to you,” I said, and he turned around to gift me a smile. “His lover hid them, and they were discovered long after the entire generation was dead.”

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