Читать книгу Ancient Inheritance - Rita Vetere - Страница 6

Chapter 1

New York City – Present Day

Catherine Caldwell concentrated on applying a rich shade of ochre paint to the damaged portion of an eighteenth century oil portrait using deft, tiny strokes. As she worked, a picture of last night’s lovemaking flitted across her mind, distracting her. Tiny butterflies fluttered against her stomach as she remembered the way Matthew looked, naked above her on the large cast-iron framed bed, both of them surrounded by soft white cotton sheets, the pleasing sensation of his tongue on her nipple, her hands tangled in the waves of his thick, blond hair as he entered her.

“Catherine.”

Startled, she looked up to see her boss, Henry Rathburn of Rathburn and Sons, standing in the doorway, and felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. It’s not as if he can read my mind.

He walked around to her side of the easel to inspect her handiwork. “You’ve made good progress with this. Mr. Robinson was just on the phone. He was hoping to have the restoration done in time for his mother’s seventy-fifth birthday next week.”

“Oh, it’ll be ready,” she told him. “I’ve only got these two small areas left to work on,” she said, pointing with her brush to a spot on the subject’s forearm and another above the right eyebrow.

“You’ve done a good job of it,” Rathburn said. “He’ll be pleased. I’m not sure if I mentioned it, but Robinson’s a friend of mine.”

Catherine smiled. “Thanks,” she said, inwardly beaming. Her boss was not a man who was prone to handing out compliments unnecessarily.

Rathburn checked his watch. “Remind me to speak to you tomorrow about the oil landscape that came in today. I’d like you to start on it next.”

“Sure, I’ll be happy to,” she told him.

He raised a hand in acknowledgment as he turned and left her to her work.

After he was gone, she finished in-painting the area she’d begun, a portion of the subject’s silk dress, then started her clean up. As she washed out her brushes, Catherine’s thoughts returned to Matthew. He was far and away the best lover she’d ever had. Not that there had been that many, three had gone before him. But none of them had even come close to understanding her like Matthew did. And lovemaking aside, there were so many other things about Matthew that endeared him to her, his understated sense of humor and quick wit, for instance. He could always find a way to make her laugh, even on her worst day. And he was considerate of others in a way that made Cat think that his own life had not always been easy. It was nothing he’d ever voiced, just a sense she had. She was happy when she was with him, lonely for him when she wasn’t.

She had a decision to make, and soon. Tomorrow was her birthday, and she was convinced Matthew was going to ask her to marry him. As of this moment, she had not made up her mind what her answer would be.

What’s wrong with me? I love him. Why not just say yes?

She tried telling herself that the reason for her hesitation in committing to Matthew was she cherished her independence and was reluctant to hand over her power to someone else. But that wasn’t completely true. She did enjoy her freedom, but Matthew, in the more than two years they had dated, had never infringed upon it, and had always respected her boundaries.

The real reason for her indecision, she knew, was the voice, or more precisely, the absence of the voice, which had remained curiously silent on the subject of Matthew.

For as long as Catherine could remember, whenever she felt troubled or unsure, she found if she became quiet and stilled her thoughts, sooner or later, a tiny voice would pipe up, guiding her, telling her what to do. In adulthood, she came to think of the voice within as her ‘higher self’—at least that’s what most people called it. Granddad had always told her the voice belonged to her Guardian Angel, and she should always pay attention to it. She always had. Yet, here she was with the most important decision in her life so far looming before her, and the little voice she had come to rely upon would not speak to her. She kept waiting, hoping for affirmation, but the voice had so far remained stubbornly silent on the subject of Matthew.

So, I’m supposed to turn him away because the voice won’t talk to me? And yet she trusted the voice. It had never let her down before.

I’ll ask him to come with me on the weekend when I go home, to meet Granddad. Then I’ll decide.

Even as she determined this, she listened inside herself for confirmation but, once again, the voice responded with silence.

* * * *

“I’ll have the shrimp stir fry please, to go,” she told the clerk at the take-out counter of Ho Min’s, where she stopped in to pick up dinner on the walk home from work. After paying, she stepped out onto the busy Soho street, carrying her take-out bag. She moved with natural feline grace, weaving her way among the pedestrians, unconscious of the stares she garnered from the men who passed her. The oversized black leather jacket and snug-fitting low-rider jeans she wore emphasized her slender, petite form, giving her a waif-like appearance. At intervals, she brushed aside the long bangs of her otherwise short black hair.

At the intersection of Grand and Wooster, she turned right and headed for her apartment, a classic five-story stone and cast iron building that had originally been a warehouse, and converted to lofts in the sixties.

“Hi, Jimmy.” She flashed the concierge a smile as she entered the backlit foyer of her building.

“Evening, Miss Caldwell. All done for the day?”

“Uh-huh. Finished up early. Have a good night,” she said on her way to the keyed elevator.

It was a short ride to the top floor, and when the doors opened, she stepped off the lift directly into the high-ceilinged, enormous open space of her apartment. The long wall facing her was made up entirely of leaded windows that ran almost from floor to ceiling. The spectacular view still awed her.

Cat always felt a secret pleasure when the elevator doors closed behind her, as if she were entering a private sanctuary; a peaceful place surrounded by feverish activity. Her home was a fortress, impenetrable.

She would never have been able to afford such a place on her own, real estate in Soho being what it was. The apartment, in fact, had been a gift from her grandfather. Eleven years ago, when she approached him about moving to New York from Louisiana, telling him her heart was set on living in the Big Apple, not only had Granddad acquiesced, he had presented her with a set of keys. He owned a large apartment there, he told her, an investment facilitated years ago through his old war-buddy Joe, who had worked as a real estate agent in New York. She would be comfortable there, he said, and it was close to NYU, where she would be working towards a fine arts degree. The news had come as a thrilling surprise, and when she first saw the place on her arrival in the city, she could barely contain her excitement at having such a magnificent place to call her own.

She kicked off her boots and walked the length of the open living area toward the bedroom, dropping the bag of take-out on the kitchen counter in passing.

She got out of her clothes and slipped into a soft terry robe. Back in the kitchen, she decanted a generous amount of Pinot Grigio into a long-stemmed glass and carried it with her to the Zen-like atmosphere of her bathroom, where she drew water for a bath in the rectangular soaking tub. The scent of lavender filled the room as she stepped into the deep tub and ensconced herself in the silky water. This after-work ritual was her way of putting the day behind her.

Afterwards, she heated up her take-out dinner in the microwave and brought it with her to the low, rectangular modern couch. Famished, she dug into the food, balancing the plate on her lap as she ate. By the time she was done, she still had not decided what her answer would be if Matthew popped the question tomorrow.

“Give it a rest,” she muttered to herself. “He hasn’t even asked yet.” She picked up the remote control and flicked on the television. The national weather forecast came on. A smiling woman with impossibly long eyelashes spoke with false solemnity: “…severe storm warnings in effect for parts of the southern states. Louisiana and Missouri looking to be hardest hit by the heavy line of thunderstorms moving across the region.”

Catherine frowned, thinking of Granddad. He was all the family she had left and was getting on in years. She hated the idea of him alone in the old house back home with bad weather approaching. The bayou region of Louisiana where she’d grown up was isolated, no one around for miles.

The news of impending bad weather made her uneasy, and she picked up the phone to dial his number. Catherine exhaled in relief when he answered after the third ring, not even aware she’d been holding her breath.

“Hi, Granddad, it’s Cat. I heard on the news you might be getting some weather and just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

“Hello, sweet pea. Yes, I’m fine, don’t worry. They’re calling for thunderstorms, but nothing too serious from what I can tell. How have you been? Are you planning to visit soon for your birthday?”

The booming sound of thunder traveled through the phone line from half-way across the country, followed by static. “Yes, I—”

The line went dead. “Hello? Granddad?” She redialed the number and heard the blat-blat-blat that signaled a disruption in service. Storm must have knocked the power out.

Disappointed, she hung up, consoling herself with the fact that, even though he was old and arthritic, Granddad was the smartest man she knew and could take care of himself better than most people half his age. Perhaps Evangeline had decided to stay over with him. The old Creole woman who had helped raise Catherine took good care of her grandfather.

The thought did nothing to dispel her apprehension; the disquieting feeling remained. She would have to wait. Hopefully, phone service would be restored soon.