Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN WHO WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO BE REMEMBERED
“She was my grandmother.”
The words settled over the gallery like a warning.
Catherine Turner stared at Adrienne Mercer, the billionaire who had just offered her five million dollars for a painting she had purchased with grocery money.
Something about his expression disturbed her.
He wasn't looking at the canvas the way a collector examined a valuable discovery.
He was looking at it the way a man looked at someone he had lost.
“Your grandmother?” Catherine repeated.
Adrienne nodded.
“Rose Mercer. She died forty-one years ago.”
“Was she married to the man who owned this painting?”
“Yes. My grandfather, Harrison Mercer.”
Catherine glanced at the catalog her father had left behind.
“Then why does the catalog say the painting disappeared during a family dispute?”
Adrienne's jaw tightened.
“Because my family spent forty years telling lies about what happened that summer.”
Marcus Hale cleared his throat.
“Mr. Mercer, perhaps we should discuss the preliminary authentication process before—”
“Not yet.”
Adrienne never raised his voice.
He didn't need to.
His attorney, a silver-haired woman named Evelyn Price, shifted her briefcase onto the table.
“Mr. Mercer,” she said carefully, “we agreed that this meeting would concern the painting's provenance.”
“It does.”
Adrienne pulled a chair toward Catherine.
“May I?”
She nodded.
He sat, studying her for a moment.
“How much did the seller tell you?”
“Almost nothing. Her uncle kept the painting in storage. She didn't know where he got it.”
“His name?”
“Mrs. Hammond didn't mention it.”
Adrienne turned toward Evelyn.
“Find out.”
Catherine stiffened.
“You can't send people investigating an elderly woman because she sold me something.”
Adrienne looked surprised.
“I wasn't suggesting we frighten her.”
“You didn't ask whether she wanted to be investigated.”
For the first time, something resembling a smile touched his face.
“You're right.”
He took out his phone, then hesitated.
“Would you be willing to contact her instead?”
Catherine nodded.
But she wasn't finished.
“Why offer five million dollars before anyone has confirmed the painting is real?”
Adrienne looked toward Rose's painted face.
“Because there is something in that picture I haven't seen since I was a boy.”
He pointed toward the cottage.
“Look at the second window.”
Catherine leaned closer.
The cottage had two windows facing the lake. One stood open. The other reflected a pale shape that might have been a curtain.
“Do you see it?” Adrienne asked.
“A reflection?”
“No. A ribbon.”
Lydia Brooks brought over a magnifying lens.
Under the old varnish, a narrow blue ribbon appeared tied to the window latch.
“My grandmother wore one in her hair,” Adrienne said. “My grandfather gave it to her on their wedding anniversary.”
Catherine frowned.
“That's a very small detail.”
“Yes.”
His voice hardened.
“And the police report says she was wearing that ribbon when she drowned.”
Silence filled the room.
Catherine slowly lowered the lens.
“You said she died. You didn't say she drowned.”
“She went into the lake one evening and never came back.”
“Was it an accident?”
“The official ruling said so.”
“And you don't believe it?”
Adrienne didn't answer immediately.
“My grandfather blamed Elias Vance.”
Marcus looked up sharply.
“The painter?”
“He claimed Vance had become obsessed with Rose. That they argued on the day she disappeared.”
Catherine glanced at the painting.
“But she's sitting peacefully beside the lake.”
“The painting was completed before her death.”
“Are you certain?”
Adrienne's expression changed.
He looked toward Lydia.
“That's one of the things I want you to establish.”
Evelyn opened her briefcase.
“Mr. Mercer, I recommend we proceed with the purchase offer.”
She placed a prepared document before Catherine.
Catherine read the first paragraph.
Then the second.
Her eyes narrowed.
“This says I relinquish all rights to information discovered during restoration.”
Evelyn folded her hands.
“Standard confidentiality language.”
“Is it?”
Marcus reached for the document.
Catherine pulled it back.
“You're asking me to sell not just a painting, but whatever might be hidden inside it.”
Adrienne looked at his attorney.
“Remove that clause.”
Evelyn hesitated.
“Adrienne—”
“Remove it.”
Catherine stared at him.
“Why was it there?”
Before he could answer, the gallery's front door opened.
A tall woman in a cream-colored coat entered without waiting to be greeted.
Her dark hair was pinned neatly behind her head. She appeared to be in her early fifties, and her expression carried the confidence of someone accustomed to having doors opened before she reached them.
“Adrienne.”
His face lost its color.
“Vivian.”
The woman looked from him to Catherine.
Then her attention landed on the painting.
For one brief second, fear flashed across her face.
She recovered quickly.
“Good heavens,” she said. “I thought that ugly thing had been destroyed.”
Catherine felt the room grow colder.
“You've seen it before?”
Vivian Mercer studied her.
“And who are you?”
“Catherine Turner. I own the painting.”
Vivian laughed softly.
“I'm afraid you've been misinformed, dear.”
Adrienne rose.
“Vivian, leave.”
She ignored him.
“That painting belongs to the Mercer family. It was stolen decades ago.”
“Then you can provide documentation,” Catherine replied.
Vivian's smile disappeared.
“You have no idea what you're holding.”
“Then explain it.”
“Catherine,” Marcus murmured, “perhaps we should—”
“No.”
Catherine kept her eyes on Vivian.
“If someone claims I possess stolen property, I deserve an explanation.”
Vivian stepped closer.
“Your father should have taught you better.”
Catherine went still.
“What did you say?”
Vivian glanced at Adrienne.
Too late.
Catherine's heartbeat accelerated.
“You knew my father?”
Vivian's lips pressed together.
Adrienne spoke quietly.
“Vivian, don't.”
But Catherine had already noticed something.
Vivian knew her surname.
Nobody had introduced Catherine as Daniel Turner's daughter.
“How did you know who my father was?”
Vivian looked toward the exit.
“I knew several restorers.”
“That's not what I asked.”
Adrienne moved between them.
“Catherine, there's something you should understand.”
His voice sounded different now.
Regretful.
“My grandfather employed Daniel Turner briefly. Many years ago.”
Catherine stared.
“My father never mentioned working for the Mercers.”
“He may have had reasons.”
“What reasons?”
Vivian suddenly laughed.
It was a cruel sound.
“Oh, Adrienne. Are you really going to tell her?”
He turned sharply.
“Enough.”
But Catherine had heard too much to stop.
“Tell me what?”
Vivian looked directly at her.
“Ask your mother why your father stopped restoring valuable paintings.”
Catherine felt as though the floor had moved beneath her.
Her father had always told her he preferred small jobs.
Damaged portraits.
Forgotten landscapes.
Family heirlooms.
He had never explained why galleries that once hired him suddenly stopped calling.
Vivian continued.
“Ask her why he changed his business name. Ask her what happened at Blackwater Lake.”
Adrienne grabbed Vivian's arm.
“Get out.”
She shook him off.
“You think buying that painting will fix everything? It won't.”
Vivian turned toward Catherine.
“Some things were buried for a reason.”
Then she walked away.
No one spoke until the door closed.
Catherine looked at Adrienne.
“Who is she?”
“My father's younger sister.”
“Then why does she seem more frightened of this painting than you are?”
Adrienne rubbed a hand over his face.
“Because she was there the night Rose disappeared.”
Catherine's phone vibrated.
Her mother was calling.
She answered immediately.
“Mom?”
“Catherine.”
Laura Turner's voice trembled.
“Where are you?”
“At work. Why?”
“Did you buy an old painting yesterday?”
Catherine's stomach tightened.
“How do you know?”
A long silence followed.
Then Laura began crying.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“Mom, what's wrong?”
“I need you to come home.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Laura lowered her voice.
“Your father made me promise something before he died.”
Catherine gripped the phone.
“What promise?”
“That if The Last Summer ever appeared again, I would tell you the truth.”
Catherine could barely breathe.
“What truth?”
Her mother whispered:
“Daniel Turner didn't just restore that painting, Catherine.”
A sob escaped her.
“He was the last person to see Rose Mercer alive.”
And before Catherine could answer, someone knocked loudly on her mother's front door.
Laura whispered one final sentence.
May you like
“Oh, God. They've found me.”
The call disconnected.
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