Page 28 of Canvas of Lies (Spruce Hill #3)

Chapter Twenty

Kat

T hat night, Nico made love to me slowly, tenderly, like he was taking particular care to show me just how precious I was to him.

When we first arrived, we’d both thanked our lucky stars that Uncle Philippe hadn’t been so cruel as to insist on separate bedrooms under his roof.

We had only one more full day in Avignon before flying home and, despite having little to show for our efforts, I knew we both felt like we’d been handed a second chance.

Even as we settled down on the living room floor to sort through the last of the boxes the next morning, Nico seemed to be feeling optimistic to an almost unsettling degree. How long had it been since he’d looked to the future and seen a chance at real happiness ?

I noticed his bright mood right away and tilted my head at him.

“You’re awfully chipper this morning.” I leaned close and whispered, “I can’t possibly imagine what might contribute to such a sunny outlook first thing in the morning, dear Nico.”

He winked at me. “I have the most beautiful woman in the world by my side, what more could I ask for?”

I shuffled through a stack of papers, shaking my head. “Solid legal proof of ownership of the painting, maybe.”

“I wouldn’t turn it down, but I don’t think we’re going to find anything along those lines here. I’m prepared to accept defeat.”

Still, we worked side by side until the final box was emptied and repacked. Despite Nico’s resignation, I had to fight against the wave of disappointment rising in my chest. Too often, I’d seen my father win because of his money, his connections, or his willingness to play dirty.

It would’ve been beyond satisfying to beat him at his own game.

Philippe and Camille insisted that the two of us spend the rest of the day playing tourist, so Nico dragged me off to see some of the sights in Avignon.

It was every bit as glorious as I’d hoped, especially with him at my side.

We toured the Palais des Papes, wandered through the museums, and strolled hand in hand through the Place de l’Horloge.

Nico seemed to glow brighter throughout the day, as though the wonder in my eyes fed some spark within him as well .

“We’ll come back someday soon,” he said softly, kissing my temple as we returned to his uncle’s house. “As often as you want.”

I nodded and leaned into him for a moment. We hadn’t found all that I’d hoped for, but the trip felt almost like a honeymoon, a little bubble of solitude and beauty so far removed from our regular lives that I was tempted to just hide away here forever.

“Your father must have missed this, after you moved to the States. The place, the people. Even the language,” I mused.

“He did, I’m sure. But no matter how much he loved it here, after my mom died, there were just too many painful memories for him. That’s why he took your father’s job offer.”

“Did he ever regret leaving?”

“No, I don’t think so. While I was growing up, he told me so many stories, about her, about the family. I barely remember living here, but when we showed up, it felt like coming home. Having you at my side this time just made it that much more meaningful.”

I squeezed his fingers. “I’m sorry we didn’t find what we were looking for. I really hoped there’d be something for us to use against him.”

“Don’t be sorry. Everything works out the way it’s supposed to—my father always said that. I used to think it was ridiculous and sentimental, but now I’m beginning to realize maybe he knew what he was talking about. ”

He tugged me in for a quick, fierce kiss before we entered the house.

We were home just in time for a boisterous family dinner that included Jér?me’s girlfriend, Angélique, Philippe’s sister and brother-in-law, and their son, Francois, who was a few years younger than me.

Though Nico gave the young man a sharp look when he lingered over kissing my cheeks, Francois had an infectious grin and accepted the admonishment good-naturedly.

“Before you two go home, Katherine should see some pictures of baby Nicolas. Best to know what to expect before your own little bundle comes, non?” Aunt Camille smiled slyly at Nico’s startled expression and my crimson cheeks.

“Oh, I really don’t think that’s necessary,” Nico protested, but he was immediately overruled by the ladies at the table, including me.

There was no way I would miss this chance. Nico had been gorgeous from my first memory of him—I was willing to bet he was a ridiculously cute baby.

He allowed himself a groan when we cooed over the photo albums that were conveniently at hand, but after a moment, he sat back to watch me smile with delight as I turned the pages.

That particular joy dissolved into shock about three minutes later, and Nico jerked to attention as my expression shifted.

“What is it?” he demanded, leaning toward me.

“Nico . . . look. ”

My finger landed on a photo of him at age three or four, sitting on his mother’s lap as his father looked proudly down at his little family from behind her chair. At first, Nico’s gaze lingered on his mother’s image, but I knew the moment he saw it.

Hanging on the wall behind them was the Clément painting.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, earning himself a sharp jab in the ribs from his aunt. “ Pardon, Tante Camille. This is it, Kat. This is our proof that your father was lying. This was right before Maman died, which refutes his story about buying it when you were born.”

A flurry of activity rose up around us even as Nico and I continued to stare at one another.

At Camille’s insistence, I carefully removed the photo from the album, then we pored over every remaining page, searching for more.

Within minutes, everyone at the table had been handed a photo album from various generations and we scoured the images, some in color and others black and white, looking for any that captured the painting in the background.

Every so often, a triumphant exclamation rose from one relative or another, and a small pile of photos showing the painting through the decades formed at the center of the table.

The level of excited chatter grew along with the collection, which gave a clear glimpse of the family growing and changing over the years under the watchful eye of Céleste Bicardeau .

Both Nico and I took pictures of each photo found, in case anything happened to the originals.

“I’m an idiot for not thinking of this sooner,” Nico muttered.

Francois and Jér?me exchanged grins before Jér?me spoke. “Oui, cousin. It is very lucky you have such a brilliant family to assist, n’est-ce pas?”

I snorted, but I understood Nico’s comment all too well.

What better proof of provenance than several generations’ worth of photographic evidence?

Our focus had been on the kind of things my father dealt in—paperwork, wills, insurance records.

It hadn’t occurred to either of us to search the very heart of an extended family history like Nico’s, namely the countless albums piled beside us, consisting mostly of childhood photos.

Twelve more hours and we would’ve set off home without ever seeing these pictures, without a single speck of proof to contest my father’s lies.

By the time the group finished, I was fighting tears—tears of relief, of satisfaction, of the overwhelming love I felt not only for Nico, but for all of these people who’d welcomed me into their home and into their lives.

The sun had long since set and the pile of photos had been carefully packed up for us to take home when the guests departed. Each warm embrace threatened to tip me over the edge of letting the emotion loose, but I managed to hold it together until Nico and I finally crawled into bed .

He’d seen the sheen of moisture in my eyes during the family’s farewells, so he simply opened his arms. Within seconds, I was curled against his side, tears cascading soundlessly down my cheeks and trailing over his bare chest. There were no murmured words of reassurance this time, just his warm embrace, his lips against my hair.

I let out a long, shuddering breath as the tears dried on our skin. Maybe we could win this, after all.