The Art of Stealing Kisses - Stella London Page 0,27

to introduce Mum to Grace here. Grace, this is my mum and dad, Alice and Richard.”

“Hello, nice to meet you.”

There’s a long silence as they look me over. I feel like I should curtsey or something. Do I shake their hands? I don’t know what to do with myself. I knew there wouldn’t be warm fuzzies, but this is so awkward. The silence stretches as the large grandfather clock ticks back and forth. I finally settle on, “You have a lovely home.”

St. Clair says, “Grace is helping me with the final art show for the London College of Art.”

Richard snorts. “Still wasting your time on those artsy flights of fancy then.”

“Your son is supporting a wonderful school,” I pipe up. “There are some really talented artists—”

“What about the company?” Richard interrupts me. “Or are you running that one into the ground, too?”

“We have company,” Alice says quietly just as St. Clair’s phone rings.

He looks at the screen. “I have to take this.”

“Of course you do,” Richard says.

“It’s business, father. Remember what it’s like to have a job?”

I cringe inside but watch St. Clair leave through the stone archway. Richard walks out in the other direction without a word.

Alice looks awkward. “Boys will be boys.”

I laugh nervously, not sure what to do here. But clearly, St. Clair’s mother is a practiced hostess. “How about we go have some tea?” Alice suggests. “You must have had a long drive. We could stretch your legs in the garden, have a little walkabout?”

“That sounds great,” I breathe, grateful for an end to the tension.

Outside, in what is obviously her sanctuary, Alice seems to come alive. She shows me her prize rose bushes bursting with color and scent, her pale blue and white clusters of hydrangeas, the bright yellow and magenta snapdragons. We settle at a table by the kitchen door, and she brings out the tea. I can see beyond the garden there’s a pasture with two horses grazing and a stable off to one side. It’s breathtaking. “It’s like a painting,” I say, awed by the natural beauty. “Or something I wish I could paint.”

“You are an artist, too?”

I shrug, embarrassed. “I dabble. But I really love art.”

“Like Charles.” She passes me a cup. “His father wouldn’t let him pursue anything creative, but I’ve often wondered if he might have gone on to great things if he’d had the choice.”

I nod, not sure how much to disclose. St. Clair has not painted a glowing portrait of the family patriarch. Alice chuckles. “Ah, so he told you.”

“A few things,” I admit.

She looks out onto the hillside, the dappled gray horses that look small like figurines in the distance. “I’m very proud of my son. I do worry he works too much, though.” She squints at me. “He does, doesn’t he?”

I smile. “He does work a lot. But I think he enjoys it.”

She nods. “Still, it is nice to see him finally settling down,” she says, looking at me approvingly.

I stop. Wait, does she mean me? “Oh, um, we just started seeing each other.”

She lifts her eyebrows. “Oh?”

“It’s still really new.” I blush.

“Well, it must be serious for him. Charles has never brought a girl home before.”

I’m surprised. “Really?”

She grins, and I see St. Clair’s playfulness, a softer version of his dimples in her cheeks.

“Really, dear.” She reaches out and pats my hand and I feel how cold her fingers are despite the sun. “You be careful with him. He seems like a statue but he cracks more easily than it appears.”

We sit a while longer outside, and I tell her about my own childhood – Mom, and meeting St. Clair at Carringer’s. Then she says she better see to dinner, so I head inside to find my weekend bag, and maybe take a shower. I’m walking back through the mansion and notice the chinks in the estate’s armor: some crumbling stones in the walls, creaking stairs, chandeliers and sconces missing their crystals, dead flowers wilting in tarnished silver vases. It’s a strange place, more like a mausoleum than a home, and I can see why St. Clair wanted to run far away to start his own life.

I hear St. Clair’s voice as I pass the library, and I’m about to go in and tell him how much I like his mother when I realize he’s dropped his voice to a whisper.

I lean in closer to listen at the open door.

“…can it be moved without a frame?” St. Clair asks. “What are its dimensions?”

I pause.