Carly entered the spacious screen porch of the house Sebastian had rented. “Owen is sound asleep.” She placed the monitor on the rattan table and took a seat. “I want to go on the record as saying that I think it’s a terrible idea to sell your mother’s paintings, Julianne. They are all you have left of her. If you don’t want me to invest, than at least let me loan the money to you.”
“Actually, the paintings have already been sold.” Nicky wrung his hands as he looked between both women.
“They have?” Julianne had trouble controlling her emotions. She needed the money their sale would generate, but she thought she’d have a little more time to adjust to the loss of her mother’s heirlooms. Carly was right, the paintings were the last link to her mother, and Julianne suddenly felt a little sick to her stomach at the thought of never admiring them again, and of Owen never seeing them. “Will they go to a private collector?” she managed to choke out.
“Yes, but he’s allowed for them to be displayed indefinitely at a small gallery in Milan.”
Hope burned in her chest once more. “So Owen might be able to see them when he grows up?”
Nicky looked sheepish. “Actually, he’ll be able to do more than that. The paintings now belong to Owen.”
“What?” Julianne leaned forward in her chair. “Owen doesn’t have any money, Nicky. Who bought those paintings?” She glanced sharply at Carly, figuring it would be just like her friend to find a covert way to lend her the money, but Carly’s face showed as much bewilderment as Julianne felt. She shrugged her shoulders at Julianne’s questioning glare.
“They were bought by the person who gifted you the paintings in the first place.” Nicky reached out to take her hands between his. “Your father.”
Shock reverberated through Julianne’s body as Carly released a surprised gasp.
“I don’t understand.” And really, she didn’t. Her father had barely been able to look at her much less speak to her since the accident that took her mother from them so many years ago. He’d washed his hands of any reminders of her mother—both her artwork and Julianne—immediately after the funeral and moved on with his life. The scars left from his rejection still stung. Will’s rebuff had stirred up all the insecurities her father’s banishment had caused, and Nicky’s words weren’t helping. Julianne was suddenly light-headed and unable to manage coherent speech.
Nicky gently squeezed her hands as Carly left her chair to kneel at Julianne’s feet.
“Breathe,” Carly prodded. Julianne’s chest squeezed and tears pooled in her eyes as her body ached for the feel of Will’s big hand comforting her, admonishing her to breathe. How could this be happening?
“Why? My father doesn’t care about my mother’s paintings,” she managed to sputter out. “Or me.”
“That’s not true,” Nicky said.
Anger pulsed through Julianne, rapid and hot. She yanked her hands out of Nicky’s as if her skin was burned by his betrayal. “Don’t you dare take his side!”
“I’m not taking his side.” Nicky reached for her hands again, but Carly had gathered them up in her own, throwing a menacing glare at the priest. He pressed on anyway. “You know I disagree with how your father treated you. But grief is a weighty emotion. It does things to people. Changes them. Believe me, in my profession you see what type of damage grief can do, how it can destroy a person. Or, worse, a relationship.”
Julianne choked back a sob. Her father had rejected her. Now Will had, too. Was she destined to be rejected by everyone she loved?
“I’m not defending his behavior, Julianne. Just explaining it. He was wrong to push you away. But I refuse to believe he did it out of hatred. At least not hatred toward you.”
“Of course he did,” Julianne cried. “He blames me for the accident and he hates me for it!”
Carly wrapped an arm around Julianne’s shoulder and pulled her into a hug. “Shh, it’s all right.”
“The accident wasn’t your fault, Julianne. If anything, your father blames himself for it, for demanding that your mother return home before she wanted to and for using you to make sure she did.”
Julianne’s head was swimming. Her memories of that night and the days preceding it had always been a jumble. The doctors and counselors told her it was better that way; it was the brain’s way of protecting her. The little snippets she did recall never made sense. But Nicky had been with them. It was time he filled in the blanks.
“Tell me,” she demanded.