Winning Amelia. Ingrid Weaver

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СКАЧАТЬ returning his smile, she shifted uncomfortably and glanced at her wrist. It likely was a reflex action, since she wore no watch. “Thanks,” she said. “I apologize if this seems rude, but would you mind if we do the catching-up later? You weren’t open yesterday, and I’m a little anxious to get things going.”

      The old Amelia used to charge straight ahead once she’d decided on her course of action, too. He could see for himself that she was anxious. The skin beneath her eyes appeared shadowed, as if she hadn’t slept the night before. There were new lines at the outer corners, which added maturity to her gaze. The color was as striking as ever. He’d once compared it to the shimmering patches of blue-green his father’s outboard used to leave on the surface of the water when they went trolling back when he was a kid. Not the smoothest compliment to use when trying to impress a girl, comparing her eyes to an oil slick.

      “Hank?”

      Her tone wasn’t exactly cool, but it wasn’t warm, either. It was cautious. Businesslike. Which he should have expected. As she’d just made clear, this wasn’t a social call. He picked up a pen and readied a fresh page in his notepad. “You said that you want me to find a painting?”

      “That’s right.”

      “I’ll need as many details as possible before I can plan how to proceed. You do have time to answer some questions, don’t you?”

      “Go ahead.”

      “How did the painting go missing?”

      “My sister-in-law held a yard sale on the weekend. She sold the painting yesterday while I was at work. She remembers getting thirty dollars for the painting, but she doesn’t remember anything about who bought it.”

      “So it was your sister-in-law who sold the painting.”

      “You remember Jenny? Will’s wife?”

      He and Amelia had been in their final year at high school when they’d gone to her brother’s wedding together. They had laughed and danced and figured it was fate when she had caught the bouquet. They’d been sure they would always be as happy as they’d been then. That alone was proof they’d had a lot of growing up to do. Less than three months later, they had broken up.

      “Yes,” he replied. “I remember. How are she and Will doing?”

      “Fine. They’re expecting their fourth child next month.”

      “Is your brother still working at that custom furniture place north of town?”

      “Lancaster Cabinets, yes.”

      “I heard business wasn’t good last year. Are they doing okay now?”

      “As far as I know.”

      “Why did Jenny have the yard sale?”

      “She wanted to clean the excess junk out of the house.”

      “Can’t blame her, with a fourth kid on the way. So this painting had been kept at their place?”

      “Right. I’ve been staying with them since...” She hesitated.

      He wouldn’t pretend ignorance. “Since your legal troubles?”

      “I see you’ve heard about it.”

      Anyone not living in a cave would have heard about it. The scandal and ensuing criminal trial that had bankrupted Amelia and her husband’s investment business more than a year ago had been featured on the nightly news of every major network. It had been splashed across the national papers, too. There had been a mini business boom for local hotels and car rental agencies caused by the reporters who had come to her hometown looking for information to do background pieces. For a while, she had been Port Hope’s most infamous native.

      The scandal had also ended her marriage to Spencer Pryce. Feeling any satisfaction over that fact would have been mean and petty, so Hank had tried not to. Despite what she’d done to him, he would never want to see her hurt. “I’m sorry you had a hard time, Amelia.”

      She acknowledged his sympathy with a tight nod. “Thank you, but that’s in the past, too. My only concern now is with the painting.”

      “I assume it was valuable?”

      “Only to me.”

      “Could you explain that?”

      “You know about my troubles, as you put it, so you must also know the courts seized Spencer’s assets to make partial restitution for the money he stole. That included our joint property.”

      “I heard. It wasn’t fair.”

      “Depends on your viewpoint. Our former clients thought it wasn’t enough. They would have preferred a few pounds of flesh, too.” She made an impatient motion with her hand. “That’s beside the point. I’m telling you this because I want you to know how important that painting is to me. I have practically nothing left from my old life because I ended up liquidating my personal property in order to pay my lawyer’s fees.”

      “Except for the painting?”

      She hesitated. “No, it wasn’t part of our art collection. Jenny found it at a yard sale last year. She bought it because she liked the frame.”

      “Are you saying this painting belonged to your sister-in-law, not you?”

      “Technically, yes, but I thought of it as mine.”

      “I don’t understand. Why?”

      “It hung on the wall in their back room. That’s where I’ve been sleeping. The painting was the last thing I saw at night and the first thing I looked at in the morning. I got to know every detail. It became very special to me. When I came home from work yesterday and discovered it was missing—” Her voice hitched. She swallowed, taking a moment to regain her composure. “All I’ve been able to think about since then is how to get it back.”

      Her emotion over the painting appeared genuine, but it seemed out of proportion. Her reaction didn’t make sense. The Amelia he remembered had been impulsive at times, yet she’d also been practical. There must be something she wasn’t telling him. “What was the painting like?”

      “It was a landscape, a grassy hill with an old farmhouse and weathered barns. Oil on canvas. The scene looked a lot like the countryside around here.”

      “How big was it?”

      “I couldn’t give you exact measurements, but it was large. At least three feet wide and two feet high.”

      “Do you know who painted it?”

      “The signature at the bottom corner was hard to decipher. It started with an M and could have been Mather or Martin. Possibly Matthews. The name’s not important because I’m sure whoever painted it wasn’t a professional artist.”

      “Why not?”

      “It’s not very good.”

      “But you liked it?”

      “Yes.”

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