Chapter 29
Samantha stood at the French doors of her room that opened onto a balcony that overlooked the lake in front of her and made a list of things that had happened to her recently.
It was, after all, one of the things that she did best. It was in no particular order, just things that came to her as she stared out over scenery that apparently artists had been making tracks to see for decades.
First on the list was that she had insisted that she was simply too old to have to sleep on a cot in her parents’ hotel room.
If they could afford a room facing the lake, then so could she.
She had paid for it with her own money, which had seemed like a reasonable thing to do.
She had been there for a week, staring out the window, spending vast amounts of time on various benches, sketching. It had been glorious.
Having her own room had also given her the chance to unpack in privacy.
She had been extremely relieved to find there had been nothing added to her suitcase.
It was just the clothes Emily had bought for her, clothes Samantha was utterly convinced Derrick would get billed for. She hoped he didn’t mind.
Her bag, however, had not been similarly free of interlopers.
She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised given the fact that Derrick had a cadre of snoops and procurers of the impossible, but a bright, shiny new cell phone had been in her purse, already loaded with a list of numbers she might like to use in the future.
Derrick’s had been first, but she assumed that was just because he was first alphabetically.
Her phone’s wallpaper had been a shot of the sea from his house on the coast. She knew that because she could have drawn that view from memory.
She had drawn it from memory, as it happened.
It haunted her dreams, actually.
Second on her list was that she had decided that perhaps she could occasionally be a textile historian.
If absolutely necessary. If it were required by someone who might, if necessary, call upon her for her services.
If that someone was a Scot who might want to decorate his empty house with the odd, historically significant piece of cloth.
Or need company on an adventure to perhaps a safer time period, like Regency England or a duller part of Victoria’s reign.
Third on that list was the fact that she didn’t really want to date anyone. She wanted to just meet a certain someone in a parish church, take her vows, and get on with her life.
A life that she had no intention of living under her parents’ thumbs any longer.
Fourth was the fact that there was a rather substantial manila envelope sitting on her bed, an envelope that had been delivered half an hour earlier with only her name scrawled on the front of it.
She contemplated the view in front of her for a bit longer, then decided that there was nothing to be done but actually go and see what was in that envelope and who had sent it.
She was fairly sure it wasn’t from Lydia Cooke, who was now safely wrapped up in a straightjacket, or her husband, who was still spending as much time in front of cameras as possible, apologizing for his sins, or Connor Cameron, who she imagined was polishing the handlebars of his bicycle—which was likely the only mode of transportation he could afford—and cursing his brother.
She was fairly sure of all those things because her name had been written on that envelope in Derrick’s hand.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, opened the envelope, then spilled everything out onto the coverlet.
There was a set of keys, a handful of photographs that looked as if they’d been cut straight from books they should have remained attached to, and what turned out to be a sketchbook bound in leather, but bound in a way that it would lie flat when being used.
She looked at the keys. They were a mystery she would have to solve in a minute.
She settled more comfortably on the bed and reached for the pages.
They were attached with a binder clip that she removed so she could get a better handle on what they were.
On the first, printed in very bold letters, was the following:
A List of Important Sights for Artists Who Have Just Earned a Great Whacking Check Selling Their First Piece.
She set that page aside and saw there in black and white a check for ￡3,250, made out to her.
Next was a letter from Robert Cameron explaining to her that the check had been cut from an account he’d set up in her name.
The original funds had come from Gavin who had sold her painting to a very interested buyer.
He apologized for having to pay a gallery fee but offered to continue to act as her broker with her brother for as long as she wanted to keep her identity secret.
He suggested that perhaps she might want to keep that up until Gavin had sold enough of her art that he would feel an arse if he refused to sell her work simply because she was his sister.
Samantha heartily agreed. She set the letter aside.
Next was a list of sights not to be missed, with the aforementioned pilfered pages offered as exhibits and mini-maps. She flipped through them slowly and noticed that they seemed to be leading her in a particular direction. A particularly northerly direction.
That left her a little breathless, actually.
She sat there for a moment or two, then looked at the clock. It was barely ten. It might take her a couple of days to get herself to that final X on the map she realized was the last page, but that wouldn’t happen if she didn’t get an early start and go find a car to rent.
She made a decision and decided there was no time like the present to implement it. She put everything back in the envelope, pocketed the keys, then quickly packed everything into her suitcase. Then she walked out onto the veranda, locking her room behind her.
Her father was sitting at a table, obviously going over some script or other. She didn’t care, honestly. He would be, she had to admit, brilliant in whatever he chose to do. She might even come see him, if she had the time and money to cross the Pond.
He looked up as she approached and actually smiled. “Samantha.”
“Father.” She sat down in a chair at his little bistro table. “Interesting script?”
“I’ve read better, but one does what one must when the director is tempting.” He set it aside and looked at her. “What about you?”
She was fairly sure that was the first time in her life he had ever asked her what she was up to.
“Someone sent me a list of sights to see. I thought I might like to go see them.”
Richard considered her for several minutes in silence. “I had an email from someone earlier this week. Actually, more than one, if memory serves.”
“From whom?” she asked in surprise.
“Derrick Cameron.”
“Oh,” she said faintly. “What did he say?”
“He sent me something from his accountant.”
She blinked. “He has an accountant?”
“He definitely needs one.” Her father looked at her shrewdly. “You have no idea what he’s worth, do you?”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, he obviously thinks your father might care.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“I imagine that will occur to you in time. You’re an exceptionally bright young woman.”
She hoped he would mistake the color crawling up her cheeks for something she’d eaten for breakfast that maybe she shouldn’t have. “What else?”
“Oh, just something from his attorney, a few character references from other people, and a couple of reviews from his LAMDA days.” He shrugged. “I believe they were get-to-know-you things.”
“And what did you send him back?”
“Oh, nothing yet. I’m working on what would be appropriate. I’m not sure I’ll have any say in it, actually.”
“In what?”
He only smiled.
“Cryptic.”
“So it is, and here comes your mother.” He looked at her quickly. “Don’t you dare cave, Samantha.”
She blinked. “Cave?”
He reached out and covered her hand with his. “I’m sorry I didn’t help you out of the nest sooner. Consider this penance—ah, Louise, here you are.”
“And here you are,” Louise said, sounding extremely put out. “Really, Samantha, trying to find you this week has been a study in frustration. I have things for you to catalogue for me before I send them off back to the States.”
Samantha had a look from her father that she had no trouble interpreting. If the time was ever to be, it had to be then. She stood up, took her mother’s hands, then kissed her on both cheeks. Her mother recoiled as if she’d been bitten.
“What are you doing?”
Samantha only smiled, then leaned over to kiss her father’s cheek. He smiled up at her.
“Have a lovely drive, Sam.”
“I think I will.”
“Well, you’ve certainly had enough practice over the years, haven’t you?”
She smiled. “I’ll call you when I decide what I’m doing.”
“What?” her mother screeched. “What are you talking about, you silly child?”
Samantha turned away, then stopped. She turned back to her mother. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “You’ve given me a love for old things. I think that will serve me well in the future.”
Her mother started babbling. Samantha shot her father a meaningful look, then walked away before Vesuvius erupted.
She went back inside her room, grabbed her suitcase, her bag, and Derrick’s envelope, then hurried to the front desk.
She was somehow unsurprised to find she’d already been checked out and her car was just out the back doors, ready for a hasty getaway.
She nodded over it all, then froze and looked at the manager.
“My car?” she echoed.
The manager took her suitcase for her and ushered her out the door. And there, underneath the portico was a 1967 MG, mint condition, wire wheels, and painted a lovely British racing green.
She caught her breath. Then she looked around quickly.
Those Cameron Antiquities, Ltd., lads could be, as Oliver would freely admit, ghosts when the situation warranted.