The Casanova by T L Swan
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.
“I think the paintings I’ve been buying off Harriet. . . are Kate’s.”
He chuckles. “You’re delusional. And correct, that is ridiculous.”
“Can you ask her?”
“What do you mean?”
“Without telling Kate why, ask her if she painted these pictures.”
“Don’t you think that if Kate was a famous artist, she would at least know?”
“Can you just do it? What’s your number? I’m sending you the pictures now.”
He finds his phone and saves the images I send him. “What will I ask her?”
“Um.” I try to think. “Just say you found these pictures; does she know who painted them.”
Brad shrugs and texts Kate.
Hey, I found these paintings in a charity shop.
They looked familiar, are they yours?
My heart is hammering hard and I pace. “What did she say?”
“No answer yet.”
I close my eyes and walk back and forth as my hands run through my hair.
“She’s typing, the dots are moving.” He holds his phone out and we both stare at it, waiting for the answer.
Now, there’s a blast from the past.
Yeah, they’re mine. I painted them years ago.
God knows why Mum insisted on keeping them.
I can’t believe Elanor thought someone would actually want them.
Lol, hilarious.
The air leaves my lungs and I grip the wall to steady myself.
Brad drops to sit on the couch and we stare at each other, eyes wide.
“So this means . . .” Brad frowns as he connects the dots.
“It was always Kate,” I whisper. “Of course it was.”