Page 30 of The Art of Loving You

His father’s gallery—no, his entire legacy—is under scrutiny.

Marshall’s revelation had thrown a spotlight on the side of the Devereux family that Lucas either didn’t know about or had chosen to ignore. Either way, I was honor-bound to keep the secret.

What about my friends? Marshall had taken a significant risk by confiding in me—protecting both Bess and me. If I revealed what I knew, it could not only cost him his job but also put him in danger. The stakes were incredibly high, and I felt trapped, like a tightrope walker without a safety net.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, my knuckles going white. Was there any way to balance honesty with Lucas and loyalty to Marshall? My stomach churned as I thought about it, my mind racing through scenarios that all ended badly. No matter what I did, someone would get hurt. The thought was paralyzing.

The sound of my car’s engine was punctuated by the occasional blare of a horn and the distant thrum of music from passing cars. Normally, I’d turn on the radio and let the upbeat tunes or soothing melodies drown out my thoughts. But tonight, silence felt more fitting—a reflection of the storm brewing inside me.

At least I didn’t have to deal with this tonight. I’d texted Lucas earlier, letting him know I’d be working late. It wasn’t a lie—not exactly. The Chagall exhibit needed my attention, and there were ads to monitor and last-minute details to finalize. But the real reason I’d postponed seeing him was the hope that I’d have more clarity by the time we talked. So far, that hope felt like a long shot.

I exhaled slowly, trying to shake the tension out of my shoulders as I turned onto Royal Palm Street, where my parents and I owned homes. Their house came into view, a cozy bungalow framed by the soft glow of porch lights and the sway of palm fronds in the evening breeze.

Despite the chaos in my head, a small part of me felt a flicker of relief. Here, at least, I could press pause on the storm and focuson Bess and my parents. The conversation with Lucas could wait until later. For now, I’d let the warmth of home be my anchor, even if only for a little while.

I barely had time to step out of the car before the front door flew open and Bess came running out, her laughter bubbling over as she barreled toward me. She was wearing her favorite pink leggings and a t-shirt with a princess on it, her pigtails bouncing with each step.

“Aunt Ella!” she shouted, flinging her arms around my waist.

I bent down to scoop her up, her little arms wrapping tightly around my neck. “There’s my girl! Did you miss me?”

“Uh-huh!” she nodded enthusiastically. “Guess what? Grandma, let me help make dinner! I put the cheese on the lasagna all by myself.”

“You did?” I asked, feigning surprise. “Then I’m sure it’s going to be the best lasagna I’ve ever had.”

“It is!” She declared confidently as I set her down. She grabbed my hand and started pulling me toward the house. “Come on! Grandma says it’s ready.”

Inside, the familiar aroma of garlic and tomato sauce greeted me, making my stomach rumble despite the tension still gathered there. My mom stood at the dining table, placing the last of the silverware. She looked up and smiled warmly.

“Ella, you’re just in time,” she said, waving me over. “I made enough for you, so no excuses.”

“You know I can’t say no to your lasagna,” I replied, my lips curving into a smile despite everything weighing on me.

We settled around the table, Bess claiming the seat next to mine and launching into a detailed retelling of her day. She’d painted a picture of a dragon at daycare, played hide-and-seek, and then helped my mom in the kitchen. Her infectious excitement drew me out of my head for a while.

“How are things at the museum?” Mom asked, passing me the basket of garlic bread.

“Busy,” I admitted, taking a piece. “The Chagall exhibit opens soon, so we’ve been finalizing ads and prepping the gallery. It’s a lot, but it’ll be worth it.”

“I saw one of the ads on TV earlier,” Dad chimed in. “It looked good. You’ve done a great job, Ella.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I smiled, warmth spreading through me at his praise.

It felt like old times for a moment—just us sitting around the table, sharing stories and laughs. But even as I giggled at one of Bess’s antics, my thoughts drifted back to Lucas. The weight of what I knew loomed in the background, impossible to ignore for long. How was I going to tell him? Could I tell him?

After dinner, I helped Mom clear the table and load the dishwasher. She glanced at me as we worked, her brow creased with concern.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she said softly. “Everything okay?”

I hesitated, then nodded. “Just a lot on my mind. Work stuff, mostly.”

“If you ever need to talk, you know I’m here,” she said, resting a hand on my shoulder.

“I know. Thanks, Mom.”

Once the dishes were done, I hugged them both goodbye and kissed Bess on the forehead. “Be good for Grandma and Grandpa, okay?”

“I’m always good,” she said with a cheeky grin.

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