Authors: Jenny Lane
Family Secrets
Family Secrets
Jenny Lane
© Jenny Lane 2013
Jenny Lane has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2013 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Chapter
One
Rhianna stared transfixed at the phone.
“I’m
sorry, who did you say you were?” she asked the woman on the other end of the line, convinced that she must have misheard.
“Your
grandmother, dear – Letitia Delroy.”
“My
grandmother,” she repeated incredulously, “then I’m afraid you must be mistaken. I don’t have a grandmother.”
“Oh,
but you do and I am she,” the elderly voice quavered insistently. “As I’ve already said my name is Letitia Delroy – ring any bells?”
“No,
I’m afraid not, although we certainly share the same surname. You see my grandparents died many years ago - before I was born.”
“So
that’s what your parents told you. And of course, you can’t ask them, can you because they’ve both passed away now, haven’t they?”
A
tiny shiver ran down Rhianna’s spine. “How do you know that?” she asked.
“Because
I’m your grandmother,” the elderly woman repeated patiently, as if she were speaking to a rather slow child.
Rhianna
didn’t like to put the phone down because it was obvious the woman needed to talk to someone.
“Why
were you trying to get hold of me – I mean your grand-daughter. Are you in some kind of trouble?” she asked gently.
There
was a pause. “I might be – there are certainly things going on here that I’m not happy about. Look, is there any chance of us meeting up? I’d really like to talk to you.”
“I
– um – where are you?”
“I
live in Kent. Look, I’ll have to go now, but I’ll be in touch again soon.”
Rhianna
felt as if she had been having a particularly strange dream from which she was going to wake up at any moment.
*
“Your grandmother! If she’d said your sister or cousin it would have been more feasible!” Fiona Field exclaimed, leaving the picture she was hanging dangling precariously in mid-air. “I bet it’s a hoax – Marcus playing tricks.”
Rhianna shook her head vehemently. “No, it’s not Marcus’ style.” She told her friend and co-owner of the gallery where they both worked. “Whatever else my ex-boyfriend might be, I’m sure he’s not capable of that sort of behaviour.”
She thought briefly of Marcus and the pain he had caused her when firstly he’d told her he’d found someone else and secondly pulled out of the gallery they’d worked in together. He’d told her their relationship had been going nowhere and, on reflection, she’d known he’d been right. They’d been drifting apart for months.
Fiona scrambled off the stool. “Forget him,” she advised for the umpteenth time, catching sight of her friend’s expression. “Now, what d’you think of this?”
“It’s looking good,” Rhianna said, surveying the effect, head on one side.
The gallery with its white-washed walls was a perfect foil for the vibrant landscape paintings of the local artist.
“Of course there is just one problem…”
Fiona glared at her. “Go on,” she challenged, a glint in her hazel eyes.
“It would be even better if we had any customers.”
Fiona
tossed back her mane of red hair. “Oh, that problem. Well, it’s always a bit sluggish this time of year but our online shop is doing well.”
“Huh,
the art and craft materials might be flying off the shelves, but we’ve sold exactly two paintings in the past month.”
“Well,
business is always rather slow after Christmas and we’re still in a recession. Perhaps we should consider running a few more workshops – now, I could murder a cup of tea. How about you?”
Rhianna
nodded. She looked around the small gallery with a sense of pride. Her father had helped her and Fiona to set it up when they’d left Art College. It had been the fulfilment of their dreams.
Since her father had died, almost a year ago, they’d made a few changes, but there had always been Marcus in the background, ready to step in should there be any problems. She blinked back the tears.
“Didn’t
you ever want to know about your family tree?” Fiona asked, as they sat drinking tea and munching digestive biscuits.
“Nope.
We were a happy family unit - just the three of us and we had plenty of friends, but now…Well, I suppose it would be nice to discover I’d got one or two relatives. I’d always understood I was the last of the Delroy line.”
“Yes,
I can’t imagine what it must be like to be an only child.”
Rhianna
suddenly snapped her fingers. “I’ve just remembered something. There was that beautiful floral tribute at Dad’s funeral with the message,
Always
in
my
thoughts
,
M
. I never did discover who’d sent it…”
Fiona
stared at her. “And now you’re thinking
M
could stand for Mother!”
Rhianna
bit her lip. “Well, it certainly wasn’t Marcus. His wreath was very distinctive. Oh, I don’t know. It seems a bit far-fetched, doesn’t it? I think I’ll stick with your theory about someone trying to wind me up.”
They sat in companionable silence, staring out at the bleak February afternoon and the deserted street.
Suddenly
Fiona sprang to her feet. “Great we’ve got a customer!”
*
Rhianna had virtually dismissed the incident when the letter arrived. The woman claiming to be her grandmother had withheld her phone number and Rhianna was the only
Delroy
listed in the directory.
Letitia Delroy’s handwriting bore an uncanny resemblance to Rhianna’s father, Joe’s.
Rhianna read and re-read the letter. It was concise and to the point. Mrs Delroy was very keen to set up a meeting.
“
I
could
arrange
for
Mrs
Blackett
,
at
the
post
office
,
to
put
you
up
for
a
day
or
two
.
I
enclose
her
phone
number
.
I’ve
told
her
to
expect
a
call
from
a
young
woman
called
Rhianna
Soames
,
who
was
the
daughter
of
a
friend
of
mine
.
I
think
it
would
make
sense
to
keep
the
real
reason
for
your
visit
between
ourselves
for
the
time
being
,
don’t
you
?”
Perhaps
you
could
bring
some
identity
with
you
.
Your
birth
certificate
would
be
good
and
a
photograph
of
your
parents
.
Also
,
if
you
happen
to
have
come
across
a
painting
entitled
,
The
Woman
in
Blue
,
amongst
your
father’s
possessions
,
I
would
dearly
like
a
photograph
of
that
.”
*
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Fiona said, studying at the letter. “Of course, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it – this painting. Have you the remotest idea what she’s talking about?”
Rhianna frowned. “Well, yes actually. There is a picture fitting that description in the attic, but I’m sure it isn’t worth anything – Dad would have said, wouldn’t he? The frame might be worth a few pounds though.”
Fiona handed back the letter. “Well, there’s nothing to stop you going down to that place - wherever it is - is there? I mean the gallery’s so quiet at the moment it could practically run itself and we’ve already discussed closing for a month or two and just running the business online. Why don’t you suss it out - otherwise, you’ll always be wondering what it’s all about.”
Rhianna got cold feet for a moment. “Will you come with me, Fi?” she asked.
Fiona shook her head. “No, Rhia this is your thing, not mine and, besides, one of us needs to keep an eye on things here. Anyway, where exactly does this woman live? What’s her address?”
“She
hasn’t given me one. Just the one for the post office. It’s in a village called Brookhurst in Kent.”
“Sounds
like a set-up to me. You have to admit it’s weird. Would you like me to look this place up on the internet?”
“Yes,
please, Fi, that would be brilliant. Somehow, I just can’t bring myself to do it.”
Rhianna
slipped out to the post office. When she came back, it was to discover there was a customer in the gallery. She registered two things about him; first that he was extremely good-looking, probably mid-thirties, with a mop of rich chestnut hair and a finely chiselled profile and, second, that he was looking intently at their computer.
“Hallo,
can I help you?” she asked coolly.
Startled,
he looked up and she found herself gazing into a pair of eyes that were like chips of jade. She swallowed, finding his intense stare un-nerving.
“Sorry.
I’m afraid I’m something of a computer bod. It’s my line of business along with dabbling in painting, as I was explaining to your colleague just now.”
“I
see – well please feel free to take a look around. Is there something in particular we can help you with?”
“Oh,
actually, I was just passing and thought I’d take a look – never could resist a gallery. I love the colours of those paintings. They’re very vibrant.”
“Yes,
that’s a collection from a local artist, Matt Collins. He’s extremely talented. We try to support as many as we can. Are you a collector?”
He
shook his head. “Regretfully, no. I’m afraid I don’t have the space, but I sometimes buy for other people. You don’t have any portraits?”
“Not
at the moment, no, but we try to change our exhibitions on a regular basis so it’s worth dropping by, although we’ve only just finished assembling this one.”
To
Rhianna’s relief, Fiona reappeared at that moment, clutching a couple of catalogues and some postcards which she handed to the man.
“So what do you two do? Is any of your work exhibited here?”
Fiona
pointed to her sculptures. “Those are mine. Rhianna is very versatile - as you can see from the postcards. At present, she just has those photographs of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee at the far end.”
Rhianna
pushed back a strand of honey-blonde hair, uncomfortably aware that the man’s attention was focussed on her.
“I’m inclined to work from photographs - land and seascapes - mainly watercolours and oils. Sometimes, I do pastel drawings - mostly of animals or children.”
His
green eyes were full of interest. “Very impressive.” He crossed to the display of photographs. “Wow! These are amazing.”
“And
what about you?” she asked curiously.
He
was still studying her photographs. “Oh, as I’ve said, I try my hand at painting, but it’s mainly a hobby.”
Shortly afterwards, the visitor departed.
“Fi,
you really ought to be more careful. He was looking at our computer.”
Fiona
raised her eyebrows. “So where’s the harm in that? It’s his line of business – computers. He told me so. Drop dead gorgeous, wasn’t he?”
Rhianna
pursed her lips. “If you say so. Can’t say I noticed.”
Fiona
laughed. “You’re a hopeless case, don’t you know that? How could you have helped noticing that physique? He must have been at least six foot tall and in really good shape. Bet he works out.”