“Umm.”
My eyes search his. “Please.”
He steps aside and I walk in and take a seat on the couch.
He sits down. “What’s up?”
“So . . .” I pause as I try to articulate my thoughts. “I have a feeling that I’m missing something.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe I was meant to meet Kate.”
He listens.
“And I also believe that I was meant to meet the artist, but for what reason I don’t know.”
He frowns as if confused.
“Do you believe in fate, Brad?” I ask.
“Maybe.” He sits back in his chair. “Didn’t think you would be the kind of man who would, though.”
“Hmm.” I think for a moment. “Is there something I’m missing?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, I keep getting the feeling I’m missing something, but I don’t know what it is.”
Brad exhales. “She reads your letters.”
“She does? What did she say?”
“Nothing, only that you write to her every day and that it makes her happy.”
I smile as hope fills me.
“You know, for the first time since Mum and Dad died, she sounds back to herself.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s working nights and learning how to cross-stitch like Mum used to do. She even started painting again.”
What?
“She paints?”
“Oh, just mucking around, she definitely doesn’t see herself as an artist. But she used to love it as a teenager.”
“I never knew this about her,” I whisper, fascinated.
“I think she’d forgotten all about it. Oahu and time alone has been good for her.”
I smile as I imagine her painting at an easel . . . hmm. “She reads my letters, hey?” I should go. I pause, thinking of what else I can say. “Well, if you think of anything, can you call me?” I ask.
“I will.”
I exhale heavily as I stand.
“I thought you would have given up on her by now,” Brad says.
I turn to him in surprise. “I’m in love with her, why would I give up?”
“You did before.”
“I never gave up. I had to meet that artist and I don’t regret it; I never touched her and returned to Kate. Given, I did take too long to return . . . but still, my intention never wavered.” I shrug. “I guess I just needed some time to get my head around it too.”
He walks me to the door, and I hold out my hand to shake his. “Well, you’ve made my day, knowing she reads my letters means a lot.”
“No worries.”
“And if you think of anything . . .”
“Sure.”
I turn toward the door and glance up and see a photo on the sideboard.
I walk over and pick it up, stare at it, my mind a clusterfuck of confusion.
What?
It’s a picture of Brad and Kate, with Harriet Boucher.
My eyes meet his. “How do you know this woman?”
“Who?” He frowns.
I point to Harriet. “How do you know her?” I demand.
“She’s our sister, Elanor.”
Chapter 27
“What do you mean?” I frown.
“That’s Elanor, our sister.”
“Since when?”
“What are you talking about?”
“This woman.” I tap her face on the photo. “That’s Harriet Boucher, the artist I met in France.”
“What?” He screws up his face in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“The artist, the one whose paintings I love, it’s this woman.” I tap her face on the glass again. “Her name is Harriet.”
“No. It’s Elanor, you’re mistaken.”
I stare at the photo. “I swear, it’s her.”
“It’s not, you’ve got the wrong woman, maybe someone who looks similar. Elanor doesn’t paint . . . not at all.”
“Oh.” I think on it for a moment. “Hmm, maybe it isn’t her.” I give an embarrassed shake of my head. “I feel like I’m going crazy lately.”
He smiles. “That’s okay.”
I nod.
“I’ll let Kate know you dropped by.”
I give him a lopsided smile. “I just want her to come home.”
“She will.”
My eyes hold his.
“Give her time, she’ll come back.”
I smile, feeling a little better, and I shake his hand. “Thanks for listening. I’m completely out of my depth here with Kate, I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You’re doing okay, keep doing whatever it is that you’re doing.”
“Thanks.” I walk back out to the car with a spring in my step.
She reads my letters.
Trust your gut.
I frown; why did that thought just come to me? Trust your gut.
It was Harriet . . . I know it was.
What if?
No . . . couldn’t be.
I march back and knock on the door.
“What now?” Brad sighs as he opens it.
I bring up a picture on my phone and show it to him. “Have you ever seen this painting before?”
He screws up his face as he tries to focus on it. “I don’t know.”
I scroll through to another pic. “What about this one?”
He shrugs. “Not sure.”
I scroll through again. “This one?”
“Hmmm . . . don’t know.”
“Fuck’s sake, think.”
“Why?”
“I think . . .” I pause. “I know this sounds ridiculous and maybe I am completely off track here. I think—”
“What?” he cuts me off.