Secrets At Maple Syrup Farm (27 page)

I wasn’t convinced. She needed to be at home, somewhere quiet, someone safe. When she wasn’t well, she’d have the privacy and the dignity that afforded.

“I’m going to try and get some rest now, most of my roommates have turned in, so it’s lights out. I’ll speak to you soon?”

We said our goodbyes, and I clicked off the phone, wondering how she’d managed to keep that from me for so long.

***

Sleep eluded me; I spent the better part of the might tossing and turning, my mind unable to stop spinning. I flicked on the bedside lamp, and snatched up the last journal.

No one knows I’m here, except my sister, and she’d never tell. I’ve changed my name. I get word from her that they’re looking for me. My work is now worth triple, apparently. They want to know where the last two paintings are. Those paintings, I could name the price. What’s money, though? The only person I’d give those paintings to is God, and that’s only if he brought her back to me for one more day. I’ll never leave here, not until I’m carried out. And no one will ever know.

I gasped. The paintings. I wrenched the covers back, and jumped out of bed. They were standing inside the closet, against the wall out of harm’s way. They must have been worth a ton of money. Or was Jessup a crazy old man, like Clay said?

Hastily, I snatched up my cell phone, and took two quick pictures and texted them to Adele in Paris. She hadn’t responded about the sketches but maybe she’d recognize the paintings. I kneeled down and took a close-up of the signature, which was scrawled in red paint: JDS.

Jessup…what? With shaking hands I sent the pictures to Adele with a text asking her who she thought JDS was and to respond urgently. In the meantime, I crouched in front of them. Were those earlier feelings of recognition with the sketches were because he was someone well known? Someone famous enough that he had to hide out in sleepy old Ashford in order for the world to forget he ever existed?

My phone pinged. Adele!

“
Is this some kind of joke?
”

My hands shook too much to text, so I dialed her number.

“Lucy, what’s going on?” Her voice was high-pitched with excitement. “Where are those paintings?” Her words tumbled out in haste.

“Here with me. In my room in Ashford.” I tried to keep my voice level, but it shook regardless.

“What? Are you kidding me? Please tell me you’re not playing some kind of prank.”

“No.” She must know! My hands quaked. “Who is he?”

She screeched right down the phone. “JDS is none other than Jeremiah David Sampson. And those two paintings are the ones that went missing when he did. Don’t you remember? It was all over the news for months… His wife, she died in a car crash. And he never painted again. Ever since there’s been conspiracy theories about where exactly those two paintings ended up. They were his last, and in an exhibition at the Steinwick Gallery in New York, but he took them back, and was never seen again. And neither were they.”

My palms were sweaty. I absently ran a hand down my jeans. “I must have been a child when that happened. But I knew his work was familiar. I recognized it.”

Adele cut in, “The eyes, he was famous for the way he made them a story unto themselves. I should have realized when I saw the pictures you sent of the sketches, but I thought maybe it was someone simply copying his style. And I hadn’t had a chance to get back to you because a friend had a crisis so I’ve been in Provence for the last few weeks.”

“The eyes…yes! That’s what I was drawn to as well. So Jessup was Jeremiah? And no one knew he was here except his sister?”

“I don’t know about his sister, but all I know is, people looked but they couldn’t find him. He vanished.”

“His nephew, Clay, inherited his farm, but I don’t think he knows about this either. He gave me the paintings like he was giving me a quart of milk…”

Adele gasped, shell-shocked, like I was. “They were there the whole time? I mean…I just can’t believe it. And Clay
gave
them to you?”

“He did, not knowing they’re worth a lot of money.” My heart raced and I tried to stay focused. “If you could read the things Jessup wrote about his wife, gosh, it’s heartbreaking. Without her, nothing mattered to him. He said the only person he’d sell those paintings to was God, and that’s only if He gave her back, for one more day.”

“Wait, so you have the journals, too, admitting who he was?”

“He alludes to it.”

She blew out a breath. “But his handwriting, they’d be able to analyze it. There’d be no question those paintings are genuine. And his sister, they’d be able to trace her.”

“You can make out a fingerprint on one of the sketches, where he’s smudged it. What would the paintings be worth today, you think?” I stuttered saying the words.

“I’d have to check, but, Jesus, I imagine a truckload of dosh. They’re
the
missing paintings.”

Tingles raced down my spine. “Don’t tell anyone, Adele, but can you do some investigating and let me know?” I gulped back guilt. If I sold the paintings I could help Mom. I could hire round-the-clock care; I could damn near buy her a whole ward to herself when she needed treatment. It would solve every single problem. My blood pumped, just thinking of the future and how perfect it could be. “I can sell them.”

“OK, I’ll keep it between us. But are you sure they’re yours to sell?”

Clay.

Mom.

She needed me; she needed a
solution
. “I’m sure,” I said too quickly. “He gave them to me.”

“There’s no harm in doing some research I guess. I’ll see what I can find out and call you tomorrow. Put them somewhere safe, for God’s sake.”

“I will. Call me as soon as you know anything.”

She let out a long, slow breath. “This is just unbelievable…I can’t even—” She stopped. “Right,” her voice was businesslike. “I’ll call you as soon as possible.”

“Thanks, Adele.”

We rang off, and I sat there bewildered. The paintings
were
mine. Clay had said so. I dreaded to think what he would have done with them had I not been there. Maybe used them on a bonfire, or dumped them with the rest of the trash.

My eyes were drawn to them again. Imagine owning them, having them propped on a living room wall, being able to gaze at that kind of beauty every day. I pinched the bridge of my nose, as a headache loomed.

If I sold the paintings at an art auction, I’d get more money than I’d ever dreamed of. A mystery that plagued the art world for so long would be solved, and someone wealthy would then own two of the most sought-after masterpieces in the world.

I bit my lip. But Jessup hadn’t wanted anyone to know. It was
his
secret. It wasn’t mine to share. Imagine if Clay found out that I knew the paintings were worth so much money, and on impulse had thought of selling them without even asking him. I would be as bad as his ex-girlfriend, and business partner, doing a midnight flit all for the sake of money.

My body slumped.

I couldn’t do it. Not to Clay, not to his uncle, or Clay’s mom, who kept her brother’s secret all those years. And while it would solve all my problems, it wasn’t right. And I knew Mom would agree. She didn’t raise me to go around and break people’s trust, just for my own sake.

Defeated, I climbed back in bed, and switched out the light.

Jessup had lost so much, and yet, he found a kind of peace at the farm. It was easy to see how, the way the sun drenched the meadows, and the light reflected off the lake, the view as pretty and inspiring as art itself.

The inner art critic in me fought against that. Wasn’t it a waste of fine work, for them never to be seen again? Wouldn’t I be doing the world a favor if I sold them? There was no question my mom would improve if we could afford better health care. She’d never fully recover, and our main battle was time, and how much she had left—wouldn’t it be wonderful if she could enjoy that time in comfort? A house of her own by the beach, where she could watch the waves from her porch. Nurses there twenty-four seven. Healthy food, sunshine, laughter, love.

Why should she suffer due to our finances? Surely that wasn’t fair. Out of all the people to find the paintings, maybe it was a sign, fate, that it was me.

I pulled the comforter up, and lay in the dark with my eyes wide open.

Chapter Twenty-One

The next morning, I woke bleary-eyed, having barely slept. My head throbbed from a headache that had taken residence in my temples and slowly increased like someone playing bongos inside my brain. Guilt. It was a guilty headache.

In the light of dawn, I realized the paintings were not mine. Even though Clay had given them to me, he had no idea they were worth so much money, and I would never break his trust like that. It was only my desire to save Mom that tempted me. I’d wait for Adele to call, and then explain the whole story to Clay and he could decide their fate.

I carefully bound all the journals together, and put them in my backpack. They would have to be returned too. They were the missing link, and proof of who Jessup was. I had an inkling Clay would keep his uncle’s secret. He knew better than anyone what it felt like to want to hide out, and I couldn’t imagine him desiring the kind of attention he’d get if he decided to share his uncle’s story.

Besides, his mother had been involved in the cover-up, and I doubted she’d want to be grilled by reporters the world over. She made a promise to her brother, and I respected that. I’d made one with my mom, and as hard as it was I was trying not to break it.

With heavy legs, and a throbbing head, I pulled on some clothes, to head to the farm. Despite everything, I still had to prepare for the Sugaring-Off Festival, so many people were expected to attend. Hopefully being busy would take my mind off it all. A cloak of regret hung around me… Even though no one would ever know, I was disappointed in myself for even thinking of selling the paintings without Clay’s knowledge.

I wasn’t that kind of person.

I crept from the B and B, and headed to the Gingerbread Café. There wouldn’t be many mornings left baking alongside Lil. It was almost time to head to Paris.

***

“So, the jazz band have confirmed,” Lil said, smoothing down her apron. “They’ve waived their fee, since it’s all about celebrating the art of maple syrup.” Lil smiled. “Our social lives are pretty quiet round here, so the townsfolk love this kind of community event. We used to have a lot more on throughout the year, because Janey and Walt were the driving force. Without her things have fallen away, a little.” Her eyes went glassy. “Anyway—” she fanned her face “—this is going to be brilliant for the town, and for the Maple Syrup Farm. Who knows, Walt might actually take up the reins again, after this.”

“Wouldn’t that be great?” It was hard not to draw comparisons between Walt losing Janey, and Jessup losing his wife. Jessup never really got over it, so maybe Walt would take a long time. Though, with everyone in town looking after him, things might be different.

“All we have to do then is make the food. Some I’ll do the day before, and the rest we can make fresh that morning.”

I nodded. “Great, Lil.”

She inclined her head. “What? What is it?”

I shrugged, my lip wobbling. For the first time ever I had someone to confide in other than my mom, but the list of things bothering me was so great I didn’t want to burden Lil with it all. “Spill,” she said. “Don’t make me beat it out of you.”

I averted my eyes. Unbeknownst to the entire town, they’d had a famous painter living among them and no one had been any the wiser.

“We all have secrets, Lucy. Some we spread; some we don’t. You know—” Lil leaned close to me “—sometimes, things are kept hush-hush though…depends on exactly what a person’s hiding.” She winked.

I held in a gasp. There was no way she could know about Jessup, or what I had discovered. My cheeks bloomed anyway. “I hope you’re right, Lil, because I almost made a very bad decision. I almost broke Clay’s trust, all because it would help my mom, and now I feel like the world’s worst person.”

“Almost? So you didn’t then?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t but I was sorely tempted.” I wanted to tell Clay about the paintings first, in case he did want the secret kept. That was the least I could do in the circumstances.

“Well, put it out of your mind.” She shook my shoulder. “I think you’re getting upset because you’re leaving soon. Is that what it is?”

The doorbell jangled and CeeCee wandered in. I forced a bright smile and we got back to our to-do list.

Alone, trudging to the farm, I dialed Mom’s doctor. He’d known us for a while and knew we’d avoided the facility. Now I knew where she was, I couldn’t function properly. It was like my life had been flipped upside down and a part of me worried Mom was still keeping something back.

The doctor answered abruptly, “Dr. Hoffley.”

I walked to the shade of a tree and sat down. “Hi, it’s Lucy.”

The doctor sighed good-naturedly. “I’ve been expecting a call from you. I thought it would come with a few choice words, yelled down the line.”

If it was another time I’d laugh. I’d lobbed some curse words at the poor doctor when he’d given me news that seemed so ridiculous that it couldn’t possibly be true. “It’s your lucky day. I’m too tired to be angry.”

He sighed. “Look, Lucy, I know you wanted to avoid the facility as long as you could. I get that, believe me I do. But with your mom, things are going to deteriorate. You won’t be able to care for her, Lucy—”

“Yes I can!”

“Let me finish,” he said softening. “You couldn’t. She’s close to needing round-the-clock care, Lucy. I know you don’t want to hear that, but she needs suctioning, her breathing monitored, all those kinds of things, with machines you don’t have at home. She’ll last longer in care—she will.”

I clenched my jaw, unable to speak. Tears rolled down my face, pulling my knees up, I thought of the bleak future without my mom. It was really going happen, sooner than I thought.

“I know this isn’t what you want to hear, and I’m sorry, Lucy.” When his voice came back, it was gentle, and I was thankful the doctor was honest with me. It couldn’t be easy for him either. We’d had some battles over the years, but he knew it was because I loved my mom, and it was because I was scared. He’d given me his private cell number once, when we were going away for a weekend, in case anything happened. He was a good guy, and I tried not to call him unless it was an emergency. “How long?” I finally said.