Ivy gazed at each painting in turn. They spoke to her heart and filled her with such joy and inspiration. She would paint again soon, she decided. While she would never be on par with these masters, she could share her artistry, passion, and point of view with others who appreciated the beauty she still saw in the world—the beauty she’d found again at Summer Beach.
“These works have been hidden for decades,” Ivy said. “It’s almost as if we were guided here to find them, and it’s time they were enjoyed again.”
“The artists must be smiling down on us.”
“What a nice thought,” Ivy murmured.
Ivy recalled photographs of this room in the book that Nan had given her. Amelia Erickson also had beautiful art on the walls. Again she wondered how Amelia had come by these, and why she kept them under wraps. Ivy breathed in as she stared at each painting, hardly believing she was in the presence of such greatness.
By tomorrow morning, they would be gone. Seeing the paintings here made Ivy realize how much the room cried out for artwork.
After Ivy and Shelly changed, Shelly insisted on taking photographs of Ivy with the paintings. “When will you ever have this chance again? Remember the Mona Lisa?”
Ivy groaned as she recalled trying to view the painting in Paris. “It was worse than a rock concert. I thought we were going to be crushed by the surging crowd. You could’ve written a book: Death at the Louvre.”
Shelly went downstairs to photograph the rest of the paintings. While her sister did that, Ivy went back to her bedroom to change into the sandals her mother had given her. Since her mother would be here soon, she wanted to wear them to show her appreciation.
Ivy slipped behind the antique Chinese screen and into the dressing room. She scooped the jeweled sandals from a shelf and sat on a round, upholstered ottoman to slip them on. As she did, the mirrored closets, shelves, and cubbyholes drew her attention. She rose to explore.
Already she had found two of Amelia’s hiding places: the concealed ledge under the library desk and the bricked-up lower level. Amelia was a woman who had harbored secrets. Here, in her most intimate space in the house, would she have had another hiding place?
Ivy tapped on the cedar planks in the closets, hoping to hear a hollow spot. With patience, she combed the closets, tapping the interior walls. In the far corner of the farthest closet, a hollow sound rewarded her.
She ran her fingers along the edge of the tongue-and-groove planks. Smooth notches carved into one piece gave her just enough room to gain leverage with her fingertips. She tugged, but nothing happened.
Stuck.
She got up and retrieved a metal nail file from her cosmetic kit. After positioning it just so, she tapped on the end. The plank popped open, revealing a cubbyhole. In it was another small leather volume with the same feathery writing she’d found earlier. She pulled it out, plucked her glasses from the side table, and sank into a chair to read an undated entry.
My fog lifted today, and, as I write this, I have the distinct feeling that I have written my thoughts many, many times in a journal such as this, yet I cannot find any such writings in my home. My young maid is of no help, not like Mathilda, who was with me for so many years. Perhaps I hid them or burned them for safety.
Like my mother before me, I have threadbare patches in the fabric of my brain as if the pattern of my memories has been rubbed off. Today my trustee asked me to deposit all my important papers in his care, but I do not know if I have any. He is exasperated with me, but I am more so. For it is I who suffer the daily frustrations. My life is like a novel with missing pages.
Perhaps the trauma of too many wars has taken its toll on me, and my brain erases that which it cannot bear to recall. Yet this is different than before. Although Las Brisas del Mar has been my beloved retreat for many years, I fear I must leave until I am once again well. I only wish that I could recall where the cherished paintings have gone. Did I give them away? Hide them? I am told I do that, but I simply cannot know. Now that the war is over, they must be returned. Someone is waiting for them, but who? I pray I recall soon.
Ivy turned the page, but there were no other entries. She took a photo of the written passage and closed the journal. Perhaps this would help Cecile and Ari untangle the web of mystery.
While Ivy waited for her parents, she hoped to have a few words with the chief and the FBI agents and give them the journal. She opened the door to step outside, but she was immediately inundated with reporters shoving microphones in her face and snapping photos. Ivy flung up her hands.
“Ms. Bay,” one reporter called out. “Any comment about the artwork you found?”
“How’d you know those paintings were the real deal?” another asked. “Could they be forgeries?”
“No comment,” Ivy muttered, caught off guard. “Please, I can’t comment.” Horrified that their secret was out, she darted back inside and slammed the door shut.
“Shelly, come quickly!”
Her sister clattered up the staircase from the lower level just as Ivy’s phone buzzed. Bennett Dylan.
“Bennett, I’m so glad you called. I was just outside…”
“I know. The Chief called me. We’ve got a media situation on our hands, Ivy. More security is on the way. So am I. Stay put and don’t answer the door or your phone for anyone you don’t know.” He clicked
