One Summer in Cornwall by Karen King (best books to read for success .TXT) 📕

it, he guessed a painting like that wouldn’t fit into the modern flat Hattie would be moving into, and she didn’t know he’d painted it, did she? She probably hadn’t spotted his signature in the bottom-left corner. He shouldn’t be so quick to jump to conclusions, though, they could be moving it out so that they could paint the room.

He’d go down and ask, maybe offer to lend a hand.

‘What shall we do with all this? It’s junk mainly, but maybe a charity shop would be interested in it?’ Nick said as he came out carrying another box of stuff.

‘There’s one in the town, we can take everything there,’ Hattie called from inside.

So they are chucking it all out. Well, they weren’t taking his painting to a charity shop, no way! He’d ask for it back and hang it on the wall himself, it would be nice to have something to remember Albert by. He’d been like a substitute grandfather to him.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Hattie came out then, carrying a tall lamp that had seen better days.

‘Hi. You been painting?’ she called over the wall to Marcus.

‘Obviously,’ he said curtly – why else would he be wearing his old paint-spattered clothes? – then saw her frown and wished he hadn’t sounded so off. He swallowed. ‘You’ve started clearing the house out, then?’

‘Yes, Nick’s only here until the weekend so we need to get done as much as we can before he goes.’ She thrust a floppy strand of hair back off her face. ‘There’s such a lot to do.’

‘Well, don’t throw that painting out – I’ll take it.’ There he was again, sounding all huffy and abrupt.

She looked at him in surprise. ‘Oh . . .’

‘If it’s not a problem?’

She shook her head. ‘No, of course not.’

Nick looked over at her. ‘I thought you—’

‘No, it’s fine, let Marcus have it. He painted it, didn’t you?’

So, she knew that and was still going to dump it? ‘I did.’ He walked over to the wall. ‘I’ll take it now, if that’s okay?’

Nick shot Hattie a glance.

‘Of course.’ She picked it up and passed it over the wall. ‘It’s a good painting.’

Not good enough to keep, evidently. ‘Thanks.’ He took it off her and carried it into the house.

Well, the closeness of yesterday was well and truly gone. To think he’d been planning on cooking her a meal, spending the evening – and maybe the night – with her. But now her long-lost stepbrother had showed up, all she could think of was selling Fisherman’s Rest.

They need the money from the cottage. And it isn’t just her decision, he reminded himself.

Even so, she could have kept some of Albert’s stuff, and the painting had looked good over the fireplace, given the cottage’s character. He expected that they wanted it to look bland though, and that the painting and Uncle Albert’s things would all look out of place in the modern home Hattie would be buying for herself.

He studied the painting. It needed a clean, the frame was filthy and the painting itself was smoke-stained – Albert had been far too fond of that pipe of his, to the detriment of his health, but whenever Marcus, or the doctor, had suggested he cut down, he’d always said, ‘When your time’s come, it’s come. Until then, I’m going to make the most of the few pleasures I have.’

Marcus welled up as he thought about the old man. He put the painting down by the side of the sofa. He’d clean it later. Right now, he needed to grab something to eat then go back up to the attic to continue painting. Yesterday’s garden party had led to talk of another couple of commissions and before they got finalised he wanted to finish the painting he was working on.

Half an hour later, a mug of coffee in his hand, he climbed the narrow steps to the attic. The painting was of a woman dressed in black leather astride a motorbike, her white-blond hair blowing in the wind. Bike Rider he’d called it but he might as well have called it Hattie, because that’s who the woman was. He’d copied it from the photo he’d taken of Hattie that day at Thomwell Manor, obliterating the background. It was as if Hattie was looking out of the painting at him. She was laughing, her eyes sparkling. She was alive.

This was one painting he had no intention of selling.

‘Why didn’t you tell him that you were keeping that painting?’

Hattie shrugged. ‘He painted it. And he spent far more time with Uncle Albert than I did, so I think he deserves it more.’

‘The thing is, I think he got the impression that you were dumping it. And as he painted it, that probably bugged him.’ Nick leant back against the sink and folded his arms. ‘Are you two an item or what? You seemed pretty close on Sunday night but now you seem a bit edgy around each other.’

‘No, we’re not. He needed someone to partner him to a garden party so I agreed to do it.’ She told him about the painting he’d been commissioned to do for Lord Thomwell’s birthday. ‘He’s a really talented artist.’

‘I can see that by the fishing boats painting he did for your uncle.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘So, you’re not interested in him, then?’

‘A romance with my next-door neighbour is the last thing I need right now,’ she told him. ‘Now, how about helping me with these boxes instead of speculating on my non-existent love life?’

He grinned and did a mock salute. ‘Your wish is my command.’

Hattie smiled. Nick hadn’t even been here twenty-four hours but already they had slipped into an easy familiarity. It was nice to have an older stepbrother, she decided, especially right now when she was trying to get the cottage sorted to put on the market.

By the end of the day, the back yard was so full they could barely move, but the lounge was