Chapter 35
PRESENT DAY
Mia stood in her apartment, dropping her bag to the floor.
It was exactly as she’d left it; nothing about her life in London had changed in the time she’d gone, but everything about the way she felt was different.
It was as if she’d arrived home a different person, yet everything was waiting for her here as if she’d never left; a timestamp marking what she might now think of as her life before France.
Or maybe, more accurately, her life before Joe.
She’d expected to feel tearful when she got off the train, but instead she felt more determined than ever.
The last weeks had changed something inside her, and as hard as it had been for her to leave Joe, she wasn’t going back to the version of herself she’d been before.
It was the strangest thing, saying goodbye to him, because it had felt like they’d known each other forever, when in reality it had barely been long enough to count as a summer affair.
But now she understood how people fell in love so fast and so hard, because if Joe had been here, in London…
She sighed. It didn’t even bear thinking about.
Mia turned on the lights and walked into her kitchen, finding an unopened bottle of wine in the fridge and deciding to order a pizza.
She smiled as she did it because there was a familiarity in her actions, but also a sense of new beginnings.
She and Ethan had always ordered pepperoni and poured a glass of Pinot when they were on a deadline, especially when they’d started to work on projects together.
He’d peer over her shoulder at images and she’d sit back with eyes closed as he read aloud passages of his writing.
And tonight, that memory made her smile.
She’d expected to return from France determined to pack up their apartment so that she could have a fresh start.
But instead, she’d arrived home happy to be surrounded by memories of what had come before, more comfortable with them than she’d ever been.
She no longer wanted to forget the past—her time searching for answers to Hope’s past had shown her how important it was to embrace history rather than extinguish it—and she was determined to focus on her new project.
She poured a generous glass of wine, placed it on the table and went to her bag to take out her laptop and notebook.
She also removed Hope’s bottle and notebook, putting them within reach of her workspace.
She’d carried the items with her for so long that it felt only right to have them close while she went through the past two weeks of photos.
Mia had enough work to keep her busy for months, and when she checked her overflowing inbox, she saw that every one of the granddaughters connected to Hope’s House had come back to her.
It made her heart sing to see that they’d all agreed to be part of her exhibition, and the local gallery she’d contacted who’d previously displayed some of her work had confirmed they would have space for her before Christmas.
Mia swallowed. She hadn’t been creatively fulfilled in so long, and it wasn’t until she’d held her camera again that something inside her had come back to life. She decided not to reply to any of the emails straight away, instead opening a file she’d hidden away so long ago.
It was time to look at the photographs from that trip. It was time for her to go back to the work she loved so much.
For so long, her fingers had ached to dial Ethan’s number to hear his voice. But tonight, it was Joe she wished she could call. It was Joe she wanted to stroll with, his hand in hers.
But Joe had his life in Paris and she had hers in London, and as easy as it would have been to call him, she needed to learn how to be happy and fulfilled on her own. If he’d lived closer, then it might have been different, but what they’d had was a holiday romance, nothing more.
Even if her traitor heart had led her to believe otherwise.
She took a deep breath and realised there was only one voice she wanted to hear tonight, and she was long overdue to call her.
‘Mia? How are you?’
She smiled into the phone. ‘Hey, Mum, I’m good. How are you?’
‘Well, I’m better for hearing your voice.’
Mia swallowed, suddenly feeling tearful just hearing her mother.
‘Is everything okay, darling? Are you home now? How was Paris? I want to hear everything!’
Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away. ‘I’m okay. I’ve just had the most amazing trip, but…’ Her voice trailed away.
‘Mia, what is it? From your messages it sounded like everything was going so well.’
‘I just, I miss you. I met a guy I’m never going to see again, and just finding out about Hope, I—’
‘Mia, when I moved away, we always said that if we needed each other, all we had to do was say the word,’ her mum said, interrupting her. ‘I can be on a flight within a few days if you need me to be.’
‘I have a gallery exhibition coming up,’ she started, not quite trusting her own voice. ‘And I…’ She sighed. ‘I’d love you to be here for it.’
‘Darling, that’s all you had to say.’ She could almost feel her mother smiling down the line. ‘I’ll be there. You just let me know when and I’ll be there with bells on. And I want to hear all about the guy, okay?’
Mia laughed, wiping away her tears and settling in to tell her mother everything about Paris and Hope’s past. She just left out the bit about quite how hard she might have fallen for the man she had most likely seen for the last time.
Days later, Mia’s apartment was a mess. There was barely a square inch of hardwood floor not covered by photographs or scraps of paper and Post-it notes, other than the spot she’d occupied, and her kitchen table had fared no better.
She was trying to piece together her exhibition, and she’d barely left her apartment except to buy groceries and stretch her legs for the occasional walk and coffee run.
And it wasn’t until she stood up to answer her phone, which she’d annoyingly left in her bedroom, that she realised quite what a disaster her living room was.
‘Mia, it’s Chelsea here, from the gallery.’
‘If you’re asking for a sneak-peek viewing, it’s currently in various sections on my floor. But I promise you, I won’t miss my deadline.’
The woman on the other end of the line just laughed. ‘As long as you have it here in three weeks’ time, I’ll be happy,’ she said. ‘I’m actually calling about the paintings you brought here for us to sell on your behalf.’
Mia had forgotten all about the artwork from Hope’s House. She’d intended to keep one piece, but had sent it in to be reframed, and had asked for an appraisal on the rest.
‘I thought one of my colleagues had already called you, but the piece you’re retaining is ready for collection.’
‘Great, I’ll grab it tomorrow.’ She was quite looking forward to having the painting back so that she could hang it in her living room.
‘Mia, the signature has been cross-checked to ensure it isn’t of significance, and we’ve found a record of another painting being sold by the same artist in France.
The signature was very faint, but just for your records, and in case it means anything to you, the name of the artist is Hope Berenson. ’
Mia was silent. Her aunt had painted all the pieces hanging in the house?
‘Mia?’
‘I’m sorry, I just…’ She swallowed, hardly able to believe it. ‘That was my great-aunt’s name. I had no idea she was the artist.’
‘I was worried you’d be disappointed that they weren’t worth anything, but at least you have a nice connection to each piece. Let me know if you’d like to change your mind about selling the rest of the collection. There’s no hurry.’
They chatted for a little longer before saying goodbye, and when she’d ended the call, Mia burst out laughing.
She couldn’t believe it. The painting of Hope’s, the one she’d retrieved from the wall in the entrance of her house before it had been demolished because she’d loved it so much, and the other pieces she’d taken, weren’t just any old pieces of art. They had all been painted by Hope.
She closed her eyes, seeing the painting in her mind.
Maybe this is where my love of art comes from.
Perhaps she and Hope had more in common than she’d realised, and perhaps this was the part of her story that she’d been supposed to discover.
There was so much she still didn’t know—about how an artist became a bootlegger in France before fleeing to England and creating a completely different life for herself.
But maybe she wasn’t supposed to uncover everything.
Because now she understood. Hope had been an artist first, and all the drawings Mia had found in her diary and notebook had been a part of this.
It probably explained her creativity in making the boxes as well, and was maybe the reason why she’d been involved in the green fairy drink, too.
It was her people, her fellow artists, who’d fuelled the love of absinthe.
So there was a link to connect the different parts of her life.
I wish we could have had longer, Hope. I wish you were here so that I could ask you all the questions I have, so that your work and your legacy weren’t such a mystery. So that I could honour you and make sure that everyone knew who you were.
But knowing that Hope had come to London alone, that she’d forged ahead with such ambitious plans despite the tragedies and hardships she’d faced, that she’d been an artist no one had discovered, only made Mia more determined to throw herself into her own work.
If her aunt could be so brave, then she could, too.
They’d both faced heartache that was impossible to describe, but there was nothing Mia could do to change her past. But what she could do was focus on the future and build the life she knew she deserved.
Invite him. She groaned and padded through her apartment to get a drink, her hand trembling as she reached for the glass.
There was nothing she wanted more than to invite Joe to come to her exhibition, and part of her believed that he would if she asked him, but wouldn’t it make things harder?
They’d parted amicably, but seeing him would only remind her of what she couldn’t have.
Of how much she wished things could have been different, or that they’d met at a corner bar in London instead of in a different country.
She shook her head, draining the glass of water and going back to her living room floor to pore over the photographs she had spread out; photographs that would form her exhibition in only a few weeks.
Mia closed her eyes and imagined them blown up and hanging throughout the gallery, gracing the light-filled space, and it was impossible not to recall the memories that came with them.
But she was ready. She had to be ready. It was time to tell part of Hope’s story, and the stories of the descendants of some of the women who’d passed through her house.
It’s now or never, remember?
And if not now, then she might not ever summon the courage to do it again.