Chapter Two

On the other side of town, her future employer stared at a blank canvas in his studio, seeing in his mind’s eye the swirls of color that would cover it, pinks, blues, purples, green, yellow. He could almost reach out and touch the texture of the paint he would load onto his brush.

The piece would be vibrant, exciting … and he would see very little of it. The colors had started to change a few months back and today, his best friend—and his optometrist—told him why.

He was losing the ability to see color. Him, River Giotto, the wunderkind of the painting world for the last few years, the natural successor to Rothko or Hans Hofmann. Celebrated, feted, and admired and he was losing the colors. The cruelty of it took his breath away.

“Riv?”

River turned to see Luke, his best friend, standing in the doorway of the studio. “I didn’t know you were still here.”

Luke half-smiled at him. “I was talking to Carmen. She’s worried about you. We all are, Riv.”

River turned away, not wanting his friend to see the pain in his eyes. “I just need to adjust.” He sighed. “Goddamn it, Luke, of all the things to happen.”

“I know, buddy. Look, you’re only thirty-six, still young. With care and the right treatment, there’s no reason you can’t …”

“I’m already losing the colors, Luke. They’re not as sharp or as rich.” He went to a stack of canvases in the corner of the studio and found what he was looking for. “Look at this. When I painted it, the greens popped, the reds were sumptuous. You know what I see now? Watered down. Faded color. It’s not the same painting.”

“It is to everyone else, buddy.”

River shook his head. “But if I can’t express what I want to, paint the way I have, what kind of artist am I? What do I have left?”

Luke took a deep breath in. “River … I’m going to say this because I’m your best friend, your brother, and I love you. Art … while it may be a part of you, isn’t all you are.”

River gave a humorless laugh. “Then why I am I so terrified that it is?”

Later, when Luke had gone, unable to cheer his friend, River went to his bedroom. The house, a piece of art itself, felt hollow and empty, ringing with silence. His housekeeper, Carmen, no longer stayed at the house at night, wanting to be with her husband, and he couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t been good company for anyone for he didn’t know how long.

River stared back at his reflection. His large, bright green eyes didn’t look any different. They had always been his best feature, he thought, and now they were failing him. His dark, shaggy curls were wild about his head, three days of beard on his handsome face. There was a crease between his eyes that, along with his heavy brow, always made him look brooding and unapproachable and, being as reclusive as he was, he’d used that to his benefit.

He’d also used his good looks to sleep with some of the most beautiful women around the world without ever getting too involved. Except one time, and to his chagrin, in that case he’d broken his one rule—never get involved with women in his hometown.

Aria Fielding still lived and worked in Rockford, and although River didn’t often go down the hill into town, he still felt bad about the way he had treated her. The sex had been good, but emotionally he had felt nothing. Aria had deserved better, and from what he heard, she still held a grudge about the way things had ended between them, even after almost a year.

Now, since his eyesight had been failing him, myopia as well as the colors fading, he had become more reclusive, by choice. His father, a man River had adored, a second-generation Italian immigrant, had passed ten years ago, fifteen years after River’s mother, and had left his billion-dollar fortune to his son, rather than his spiteful, much younger stepmother.

Angelina Marshall-Giotto love to portray herself as a saint. A charity maven in New York, she had wasted no time after her husband’s death in trying to seduce his son. River, who had always loathed her, rejected her without thinking twice, and since then Angelina had made it her mission to destroy his life.

His carelessness in sleeping with woman after woman had come back to bite him and Angelina had made sure that everyone found out about his secret daughter.

River had gotten one of his one-night stands pregnant, and Angeline had used that to funnel money from River to herself. Finding out, River had met with the mother of his child and offered her a settlement. Lindsay, the woman, had turned him down. “I don’t want your money, River,” she’d said coolly. “I want you to know your daughter.”

He’d balked but, knowing Angelina would swoop in and turn the girl against him, he’d finally agreed.

The moment he’d met five-year-old Berry, however, his life had changed. The little dark-haired girl stared back at him with clear green eyes, so like his, and River had been lost. Berry was the very best of his world. He and Lindsay had reached an agreement on custody and child support, taking Angelina out of the loop once and for all.

His one regret was that Berry lived in Phoenix most of the time. It had been on her last visit to him that he’d begun to notice the changes in his eyes. She had been wearing a little dress that he’d brought back from Paris. The flowers on it, which had been a vivid mix of red, oranges, and pinks, to his eye suddenly looked faded. He’d frowned. “I guess your mom has to wash that a lot, huh?”

Berry, already precocious, completely confident in front of her father, shook her head. “No, I only wear it on special occasions, Daddy.”

River had brushed the matter aside, putting it down to his memory, but later, when his paintings had begun to change, he had known it was something serious.

River leaned his head against the cool glass of his window and closed his eyes. I have to get out of this funk, he thought. Berry needed him. Luke, Carmen … he would have to try to make the best of his situation, even if his heart was breaking. He sighed and went to bed.

The next morning, Sunday woke, freezing cold and stiff. Groaning, she rolled out of bed and felt the radiator. Cold. Dammit. Her lower back ached—the bullet had smashed into it and was still lodged there—and she felt a wave of nausea at the pain. It was always worse in the cold.

She cranked the heating up to full and made herself some tea while she waited for the apartment to warm up. In New York, things like that had always been taken care of for her.

She grinned to herself. Talk about entitlement. Sunday pulled the comforter around her as she drank her tea and soon enough, her new home was warming up.

It was still early, just after dawn, and when she could face going to the window, she looked out onto the streets of the small town. It looked quaint, even old-fashioned, to her Manhattan eyes, but she could see from the lines of stores and businesses that it was a working town, not as flashy as its near neighbor, Telluride. She’d never been to Colorado before and the sight of the mountains, the snow, the pine forests was almost magical to her.

It was February, and the snow lay in thick drifts at the sides of the street. Even this early, some people were clearing the sidewalks, sprinkling salt or kitty litter down on the ground. Nothing got in the way of the business here. She saw a tall, pale white young woman emerged from the coffeehouse on the corner, her long dark hair flying as she skidded on the icy ground. Sunday grinned as she saw the girl laugh, her head thrown back as she clung to the streetlight nearest to her. Sunday heard some men calling out to the girl, saw two local deputies going to her aid, watched as the girl laughed with them and beckoned them into the coffeehouse.

She looked so free, so relaxed. Sunday made up her mind to go to the coffeehouse as soon as she was dressed and say hello. The girl looked approachable and fun.

Luckily, in the shower, she took care to wait until the water ran warm before stepping into it. Once in, Sunday shampooed her dark hair then let the water soothe her aching body. The bed was little more than a makeshift cot, and she resolved to buy herself a proper bed as soon as she could afford it.

Which was weird. In her New York account sat nearly two million dollars … and she couldn’t touch it. Her credit cards, were all destroyed now. The FBI had given her a certain amount to survive on while she earned her first paycheck and waited for new credit cards in her new name, but it would only be enough for food and rent.

Jesus, she thought now as she dried her hair, all of this because of one asshole’s obsession. A whole life erased. She felt a jolt of guilt. At least you have a life to be changed, Marley Locke. What about Cory?

She dug the photograph of him out of her jacket and traced the shape of his face. God, I miss you, baby. I’m so sorry, so, so, sorry. She could feel tears threatening again but dashed them away with an impatient hand. No. No more wallowing.

Outside, the temperature was below freezing and big clouds of her breath almost fogged her vision. Sunday tottered uncertainly along the sidewalk, smiling shyly at people who said hello to her, hoping no one would recognize her. Without her signature blonde hair, without the carefully applied makeup, she doubted it. She had, after all, decided against the violet contact lenses. She hated the feel of the things and besides, she mused to herself, her brown eyes were nothing remarkable, especially without makeup.

She pushed her way into the Lumia coffeehouse to be greeted by a wave of chatter. Clearly, everyone in Rockford gathered here, and for a moment, she almost thought about turning around and escaping.

But then the girl she had seen this morning appeared in front of her with a wide smile. “’Allo,” she said in a broad English accent, “You’re new here, ain’t you?”

Sunday grinned back at her. The woman’s smile was huge, infectious, and friendly. “I am. Hello, I’m Sunday.”

She held out her hand, and the other woman balanced a tray on her other arm and shook it. “Hello, sweets, I’m Daisy. Nice to meet you. Want some coffee?”

“Please.”

“Come and sit at the counter with me and I’ll give you all the gossip.”

She followed Daisy back to the counter, nodding politely at some curious customers. Daisy was resplendent in a red dress which clung to breakneck curves, her almost-black hair tumbling in waves down her back. Even at eight in the morning, Daisy had applied bright red lipstick, which only enhanced her thousand-watt smile.

“What’s your poison?”

Sunday settled on the stool at the counter and looked at the beverage list. “I’d kill for just a huge mug of black coffee.”

“My favorite too,” Daisy said easily and poured out a steaming cup for Sunday. “Here. Now, welcome to Rockford.” She studied Sunday as she sipped her own coffee too. “You here with family?”

Sunday nodded. Here we go. The questions she and Sam had practiced until she was word perfect. The lies. The fake histories. “No, just for work. Time from a change from California.”

They’d decided on California because of the accent. She could pull that off easily. Daisy rolled her eyes, grinning. “Yes, a break from all that sun sounds like heaven.”

Sunday smiled. “Seriously, when there is no change of season for years on end, it gets a little wearying. So, I decided to come here. It’s beautiful.” That wasn’t a lie, at least.

Daisy nodded. “It is, I’ll give it that.”

“You’re obviously not from these parts.”

“How d’you guess?” Daisy chuckled. “My dad met my step-mum in London, but she had to come back here. She was the daughter of the owner of the old ski place up the mountain so when he died, she had to run it. So me and Dad moved over to the States.”

“You like it?”

“I do, actually. It was so different to me, the whole culture, but I’ve been here nearly half my life now, twelve years. I’m used to it.” Daisy nodded at her coffee. “It’ll get cold.”

The coffee was smooth and rich. “God, that’s good.”

“I thank you.” Daisy did a small curtsy which made Sunday laugh. She warmed to the woman instantly. “So, what do you do?”

“I’m a copywriter and transcriber. I’m here to work for River Giotto, transcribing his father’s journals.”

Daisy stopped and a wary look came into her eyes. “Really?”

Sunday nodded, her interest piqued. “Is that notable?”

Daisy shook herself. “No, no, just a little surprising. River is a little reclusive. I’m surprised he’s allowing a stranger—no offense—into his home. You know where he lives, right?”

“Kind of. I mean, I have an address.”

Daisy made a signal for her to wait and disappeared into the backroom. A second later she emerged and waved an iPad at her. “Look.”

She turned the tablet towards Sunday so she could see. Sunday gave a gasp. The house—was it even right to call it a mere house? —was magnificent, set by a lake and surrounded by mountains. A sprawling single-level home which almost seemed to be made entirely from glass, it had clean lines and a simplicity to it which belied the majesty of the place. Daisy flicked to a photograph of it lit up at night, reflected back at itself in the surrounding lake.

Sunday could feel herself boggling at it and knew Daisy was gauging her reaction. “It’s beautiful.”

“Isn’t it? We tend to call it ‘The Castle’ but in truth, we’re all slavering to own something like that. River can afford it, of course.”

“What’s he like?”

Daisy considered. “For an old dude, he’s okay. Very handsome, very rich. Listen,” she leaned in closely, “my stepsister, aka ‘the dragon,’ used to date him so don’t mention him around her.”

“Mention who?”

Daisy sighed as the voice came from behind her. Sunday saw a diminutive, but staggeringly beautiful woman behind them. Her hair was cut short, close to her head, and her face was utterly exquisite, and her dark brown eyes were piercing as she looked at Sunday with a distinct lack of friendliness. “Who’s this?”

“Ari, this is Sunday, my new friend. She just moved here. Sunday, this is the Dragon, or Aria, as we sometimes call her when she’s being nice. Which is rare.” Daisy grinned easily at her stepsister, who scowled at her. Aria slipped out of her coat, and Sunday saw she had the athletic body of a dancer. Something clicked in Sunday’s brain.

“You’re Aria Fielding.”

Both Daisy and Aria stopped. Aria studied Sunday. “You know me?”

“You used to dance at NYSMBC … under Grace Hardacre.”

Aria’s eyes were flinty. “You know ballet?”

Sunday shook her head and cursed inwardly. “Not a lot. A cousin I was staying in New York with took me to a performance. You were wonderful.”

There was no discernible thawing in Aria’s attitude; if anything, she seemed even frostier now. “Thank you.” The words were stiff, and she soon walked away from them.

Daisy sighed. “Sorry about her. She’s, um, difficult.”

“Artistic temperament,” Sunday said, patting her new friend’s hand and Daisy smiled at her gratefully.

“You’re a sweetheart. Listen, if you need anything, any help to settle in, you’re always welcome. I know all the best maintenance guys or the best stuff at the farmer’s market—avoid the cheese counter. Seriously. Go into Telluride for your dairy cravings.”

Sunday chuckled. “I’ll remember that. I guess I’ll just take a drive around, get my bearings.”

“Come and have supper with me tomorrow night,” Daisy said. “I’m not much of a chef but I can rustle up some pasta.”

“I’d like that, thank you.” The weight of her new life was already lifting, thanks to this sweet English girl. They arranged a time and Sunday thanked her again.

She found the farmer’s market and shopped for a week’s worth of groceries, avoiding the cheese counter as Daisy had advised. Feeling restless and not wanting to spend all day alone in the apartment, she flicked her phone onto GPS mode and decided to go check out her future employer’s place.

She drove up the mountainside carefully, cringing a little at the sheer drop on one side, imagining her SUV crashing through the pine trees and exploding. Dramatic, much? She chuckled to herself and concentrated on the road ahead. Soon enough, she was turning into a long driveway.

She parked a little way from the house, not wanting to intrude, but she could see from here that the photographs of the place didn’t do it justice. She felt a pang of sadness—Cory, one of New York’s up-and-coming architects, would have loved this place. Not only was the design out of the world, but the tranquility here, the peace, was breathtaking.

She heard another vehicle coming up the hill behind her and got back into her station wagon guiltily. She smoothed her face into a bland smile as the car pulled up beside hers. A pleasant young man smiled at her as he rolled down his window. “Hey, you lost?”

“I’m fine,” she said, feeling her face burn. He had kind hazel eyes and a sweet smile. “I’m just checking out my new job.”

His eyes lit up. “Oh, are you Sunday?”

Was this River Giotto? No, surely not. This man seemed far too outgoing to be a reclusive artist. He seemed to read her mind. He got out of his car and shook her hand. “Luke Maslany. I’m River’s friend, for my sins.”

“Sunday Kemp. Honestly, I didn’t mean to intrude or pry, I was just getting my bearings. Ready for Monday morning, you know?” She was rambling in her embarrassment, but this guy had the nicest smile.

“Listen, why not get a proper jump? Come up to the house. Carmen will be there—River’s housekeeper. You’ll probably see more of her than anyone. We might even be able to persuade River to show his face.”

Sunday hesitated. She had no makeup on, her hair was a mess … did she really want to make this first impression? “I think maybe I should wait until Monday. I don’t want to intrude.”

Luke Maslany nodded, but his eyes crinkled when he smiled and Sunday couldn’t help but like him. “Listen, entirely up to you, but I know for a fact that Carmen is making brunch, and she always makes a ton. River barely eats, so I,” and he patted his flat stomach, “get the guilts on his behalf and end up stuffed. You’d be doing me a favor.”

Sunday laughed. He was so charming … and once again she found herself marveling at the friendliness of these people. “Well, if you promise I’m not imposing.”

“Of course not. Shall we?”