How Sweet It Is (22 page)

Chloe had already done her homework, so she had her Kindle out, rereading the parts where Marco kissed Celia in
The Night Circus
. Now that she’d kissed Hunter, she understood the sentiment of it better.

Celia had never shown Marco her breasts.

Chloe shifted on the seat. She couldn’t believe she’d done that. She couldn’t believe Hunter hadn’t wanted to touch them.

She glanced down at what she had. It wasn’t that impressive. Maybe he liked more? The girls at school were always discussing their breast sizes.

Her mother wasn’t super big either, and Finn seemed to like her. Maybe it didn’t matter.

Frowning, she set her Kindle down. “Have you had sex with Finn?”

Her mum’s head popped up, her face turning red. “
Chloe
. What kind of question is that?”

“It seems fairly obvious.” She shrugged. “I was just wondering.”

Viola’s eyes narrowed. “Why do I feel like this has to do more with you than me?”

She shrugged again, lowering her head so her mum wouldn’t see her blush. “I was just wondering. Sorry I asked.”

The silence in the kitchen was beyond awkward. Chloe kept her head lowered, pretending to be absorbed in her book.

Her mum’s hand covered hers.

Slowly, she looked up.

Her mum’s face was reddish, but she held Chloe’s gaze. “Sex is a natural thing when two people care about each other. There’s nothing wrong with making love as along as both parties agree on it.”

“So you and Finn agreed?”

“Chloe.” She made a pained face, but then she nodded. “Yes, we agreed.”

She’d figured. She’d seen the way Finn looked at her mum. It was the way Hunter had looked at her when she’d lifted her shirt—like he could never stop looking.

“Is this about your new friend?” her mum asked.

It was her turn to blush. “
Mum.
”

“Please, child.” Viola rolled her eyes. “You just asked
me
if I’d had sex, and I can’t ask you the same thing?”

“I haven’t, okay?” She retracted from her mum’s hand. This was so embarrassing, and she only had herself to blame.

“If I had my way,” her mum said, running a hand down her hair, “I’d keep you young and happy forever. But you haven’t been happy, have you, darling? I can’t guard you from hurt. But I can help you be prepared.”

“With, like, what?” Chloe wrinkled her nose. “Condoms?”

Her mum grinned. “Yes, I guess, but that wasn’t what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

Mum took her face in her hands and held it close. “You’re smart and wise. You see people in a way I’ll never be able to. Trust yourself. When it’s right, you’ll know. Not every person works out, but you have the strength and character to deal with whatever you need to.”

Chloe nodded, even though she wasn’t sure she agreed.

Her mother sat back down. “When can I meet him?”

Chloe shrank back in horror. “
Never.
”

“It’s me or Rowdy, and I’ve heard that Rowdy’s killed people in the past.”

Chloe grinned. “Rowdy is a teddy bear.”

“Rowdy loves you and would do anything for you.” Her mother kissed her forehead. “The same goes for me.”

She felt funny in her chest, so she just nodded while she thought about it all. Then she said, “At one time, you cared about Charles.”

Viola stared at her for a long moment before she said, “At one time I really did. He hurt me, but in retrospect, I think everything happened the way it was meant to.”

Chloe wrinkled her nose. “That he was a wanker and cheated on you?”

“That he gave me the greatest love of my life.” Her mother cupped her face. “No matter what a wanker he is, I’ll be forever grateful for you.”

She bit her lip. Then she threw her arms around her mum and squeezed her tight.

Schrödinger jumped up and barked around them.

Viola laughed, wiping under her eyes. “He wants in on the love.”

“He’s a good guy.” Chloe scratched his head. Then she swallowed and looked at her mother. “So is Finn.”

Her mum froze. Then she tried to smile blithely as she turned back to her papers. “He’s going back to Paris, darling. Finn isn’t forever.”

Really? Because Chloe wasn’t sure she agreed. But she knew better than to say anything, and her mum was like her: smart enough to trust herself.

Chapter Twenty-five

The door to Jasmine’s home opened as Finn strode up the walkway. Jasmine stood in the threshold, which wasn’t completely unusual. She’d been clingy the past week, probably because she instinctively knew he was close to finishing his project.

Not just close—he finished restoring the chair today. It looked perfect, even if he said so himself. Even up close it was impossible to see the seams of the wood where he’d replaced the destroyed pieces. His favorite bit was the lion he’d carved—he’d felt closest to Henry during that part.

He hadn’t told Abigail Potter he was done yet: He wanted everything to dry and set first.

Which was true, but not the whole truth. He wasn’t ready to leave either. He figured he’d be able to spend the extra few days with Viola before he went back. Maybe he’d be able to figure out what to do about her, because he wasn’t ready for their affair to end.

He was beginning to suspect he might never be ready for that. He was beginning to understand her. More than that, he admired her.

Thinking of Viola made him warm, but the feeling dissolved when he noticed the look in Jasmine’s eyes. It was more than her usual disenchantment. It was a combination of fear and horror.

Finn slowed down. “What’s wrong?” he asked as he reached her.

She took his arm. “I don’t know why he showed up. I didn’t tell him you were here.”

His father
. Finn stiffened, not needing confirmation to know that was who Jasmine meant. He looked past her into the house.

“He’s in the living room.” She stepped aside, twisting the rings on her fingers.

Nodding, he patted her shoulder and went to face the devil.

James Buchanan lounged on a feminine settee surrounded by colorful pillows, and yet he still looked every bit the tyrant. One leg crossed over the other, he sat still like a predator waiting to pounce. He wore unrelieved black except for his signature white pocket square, his only jewelry an expensive watch and a ring that managed to be both discreet and not.

He flashed a toothy smile when Finn walked into the room. “I wondered when you were coming home.”

Finn knew he meant London rather than Jasmine’s. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

“I could say the same.” He smirked. “You’re a sneaky bastard, aren’t you?”

“That’s the pot calling the kettle black.”

“Fair enough.” James gestured to the couch. “Why don’t you sit down?”

Crossing his arms, he shook his head. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here?”

“Dispensing with the formalities. You always were direct.” His father raised a folded paper on the couch next to him. “I knew you’d see reason one day.”

Finn shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. If you mean returning to London, I’m going back to Paris shortly.”

“I mean the gallery show.”

“What gallery show?” he asked carefully, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

His father offered him the paper. “The gallery opening you’re in. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? I notice even the small places like this one.”

Finn took the paper and scanned the article, which was about
Rebirth
, a show at a new gallery called What You Will opening in a couple weeks, owned and managed by Viola Summerhill. At the end of the artists listed, it said
Phineas Buchanan
.

He felt coldness seep through his body—the chill of betrayal. He scanned over the list of artists slowly, wishing that he’d read incorrectly or that his name would magically disappear.

“I have to admit,” his father said, spreading his arms out along the back of the couch, “I’m disappointed that you wouldn’t allow me to represent your work, but I’m gratified in seeing that you’re finally showing it. You have too much talent to waste whittling furniture.”

Stiffening, he tossed the paper aside. “You wouldn’t understand the importance of preserving the work of other artists. You’re not interested unless you can profit off it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with money.” James shrugged. “It can do a lot of good, and I enable a lot of artists to live their passion without having to work in menial jobs to support themselves.”

“How long did you have to practice that in the mirror before it sounded natural?” Finn asked.

“Really, Phineas.” His father smiled the hollow smile of a shark. “You’re so dramatic. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were Henry’s son instead of mine.”

He narrowed his gaze. “I’d have been honored. He was the better man.”

James tipped his head. “Was he? Because if my memory serves me, he took his life because he couldn’t deal with it.”

“He couldn’t deal with the way you were exploiting him.” Finn glared at the man, who sat there looking unconcerned by any of it. “You don’t feel any responsibility in what happened to him, do you?”

“No, and you shouldn’t either.” James stood, straightening his pants. “Henry’s decisions were his own. Don’t let his insecurities become yours. You were always stronger, despite the strange sentimentality you harbor.”

Finn crossed his arms. “I take it you’re leaving now.”

“I seem to have worn-out my welcome, so yes.” James reached into his pocket and held out a card as he passed by.

Curiosity got the better of him, and he took it. He read the front: James Buchanan, Art Dealer, Buchanan Art Collective. Frowning, he glanced at his father.

“For when you decide to let the best represent you. I’d give you a fair deal, since we’re family.” He gave Finn a small knowing smile and sauntered out of the room.

A moment later Jasmine peeked her head into the room. “Is it safe to enter?”

Finn sat on a chair, away from where his father had been. “Viola published that I was going to be part of her gallery opening without my consent.”

Jasmine stared at him. “Will you bite my head off if I say you should consider doing it?”

He glared at her. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am, which is why I’m telling you it’s such a waste for you to never show your paintings to anyone.” She leaned forward, her gaze lit with conviction. “Imagine if Chagall never allowed the world to see his work. How much the poorer would we be for it?”

“I’m hardly Chagall.”

“I disagree.” She sat back, glaring at him in return. “You have a way of showing the beauty and vulnerability in people, and instead of showing other people how to see it, too, you selfishly hide it. You’re an art miser.”

“Henry—”

“Henry didn’t have the backbone to stand up for himself,” she declared loudly. Then she clamped her hand over her mouth.

Finn blinked, shocked. “Is that what you really think?”

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, looking wretched and apologetic. “But, yes, it’s what I think. He loved you, but he was wrong telling you not to sell your art. Because you’re not being true to who you are.”

He stood, taking the paper James had brought with him.

“Where are you going?” Jasmine asked, craning around.

“To see Viola.”

“Don’t bite her head off either,” Jasmine called after him. “She did you a favor.”

“Is that what they’re calling betrayal these days?” he yelled back, slamming the door on his way out.

***

Finn arrived at Viola’s house without a plan, not even knowing if she was home. He rang the doorbell and waited, but there was no answer.

He leaned in the doorway, out of the rain. Likely he should call her to see when she’d be home or to meet her somewhere. But he couldn’t make himself call her. The more he thought about what she’d done, the more upset he became.

She knew how important it was to him to keep his art private and she’d done it anyway. He jammed his hands in his pockets, wishing he had someone to punch.

A Ferrari pulled up to the curb. Finn was going to dismiss it, but then he saw Chloe in the passenger seat.

She was talking to the man inside, who was glaring at Finn through the window. Obviously Viola’s ex-husband. Finn started to push off—he wasn’t in any mood to deal with that bastard.

But then Chloe bounded out of the car, her face set and determined. “Come inside,” she commanded, unlocking the door and pulling him after her as she pushed her dog back in. “Schrödinger, calm down.”

“Are you sure?” Finn said, scratching the dog hello as he watched her close the door and peek outside. “Your father couldn’t be happy about that.”

“He wasn’t.” She rolled her eyes as she dumped her bag on the floor. “Mum’s not home?”

“No.”

Chloe bit her lip, her forehead furrowed. “She was going to the doctor, but she should have been back by now.”

“She still isn’t feeling well?”

Chloe shrugged, though her concern was palpable. “She had a relapse, so she agreed to go. Her appointment was at noon.”

He glanced at the time. She should have been home a long time ago.

Why was he worried about her? He cursed his foolish heart for being soft for someone who only pretended to care for him.

“Want a snack while you wait?” She headed down the hall, her dog by her side. She glanced at him over her shoulder. “You’re waiting, right?”

“Yes.” He followed the girl into the kitchen. “Do you know when she’ll be home?”

Chloe shrugged as she took out two glasses. “She was supposed to pick me up, but she sent Charles instead. She’d been really busy with stuff for her gallery.”

“I’ve noticed,” he said flatly, taking a seat at the counter. He nodded in thanks as she set a glass of milk in front of him, wishing it was something stronger.

“These are Fran’s shortbread,” she said, opening a tin and setting it on the counter. “Fran was Mum’s and her sisters’ nanny when they were growing up. She’s still grandmother’s housekeeper, kind of, but she’s more like a part of the family. Her shortbread is fabulous.”

He nodded again, eating one without really tasting it.