Chapter 57
You have to be kidding me. How had the press found out already? Sarah wrinkled her nose at the headline that glared back at her from one of the computers in the nurse’s station at work the following afternoon: Joan Morgan Cancels another Mentorship. Who the heck was leaking this stuff to the press? Was there any point in telling the Morgans it hadn’t been her?
The answer was interrupted by one of her fellow nurses saying, “Mrs. Collins, stop.”
Sarah swiveled in her chair. She saw a wheelchair bound lady with unkempt white hair, throwing fists at the nurse.
The nurse screeched, “Mrs. Collins, you need to calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Sarah rushed to help, making sure she stayed out of range of the elderly woman’s hands.
“Look at this, Mrs. Collins.” She pointed to a painting on the wall. “It’s Van Gogh. Your favorite.”
The mention of the painter’s name stopped the punches, though the agitation Mrs. Collins felt was still visible in her body language. They had a small window of opportunity to get this situation under control.
Sarah continued, “Come with me and have a look.”
The woman’s expression and body language mellowed. Sarah grasped the handles on the wheelchair and pushed it toward the painting. The other nurse mouthed a “thank you” before she left.
They reached the painting. Mrs. Collins seemed captured by the dozen or so sunflowers, placed in a simple yellow and cream-colored vase.
Knowing Mrs. Collins would like it, Sarah read aloud from the plaque underneath the painting, “The subject of sunflowers was first tackled by artist Vincent Van Gogh in the year 1887, when he was living in Paris. A year later, he revisited the subject, which resulted in four more paintings. The one he signed with a simple ‘Vincent’ is reproduced most often, but is not the first he painted. In fact, this version caused controversy at the time because of the almost complete use of yellow, albeit in varied shades. It is due to this controversy that some scholars are surprised Sunflowers has become one of the most iconic paintings by the artist.”
When she reached the end, Mrs. Collins was beaming and calm.
Sarah whispered, “You ready to go back now?”
The woman nodded but didn’t speak.
Sarah smiled, “Okay, let’s go.”
***
“Dammit.”
“What is it, darling?”
Charles shook his head and minimized the news article he’d been reading on the computer, “Nothing. I think I might head back to the cottage and finish this chapter off there.”
He could investigate this latest media leak better without his mother in the room.
She nodded, “All right. I’ll see you for dinner, won’t I?”
“Of course.”
He shut the computer down, pushed himself upright, strolled toward his mother and kissed her on the cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
He glanced over at the blonde sitting on the other chair in the study and aimed a faint smile at her, “Evening, Tamara.”
She peeked up at him, “Evening, Charles.”
***
Sarah parked her car in her garage and grinned at the thought of what she had planned for the evening: a hot bubble bath, some wine, and any book not written by somebody with the last name Morgan. Just thinking the name made his face form in her mind. She pressed her lips together. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she forget him?
She gripped the steering wheel tightly. The ring on her finger dug deep––into both her finger and her heart. She wouldn’t waste time on the wrong man. That’s what the ring represented. Never again, Sarah. Charles Morgan was definitely the wrong man.
She reefed the key from the ignition and opened her door. She didn’t care that she banged it shut with more force than was good for it. As she made her way up the staircase, she allowed her thoughts to wander.
Poor Joan, having to put up with a son like that.
Memories of her favorite author filled her mind. Their first phone conversation when Joan had made her feel relaxed. How excited Sarah had felt holding the piece of paper with Joan’s address on it. Well, it had been Charles’s address in the end, but still.
Her mind flicked to the first session, when Joan had welcomed her with an easy embrace and Charles had stayed to help. The second session had been much the same as the first. She’d been anxious because of the first news article that had been leaked, but Joan and Charles had both behaved as though they didn’t blame her.
Her nose twitched.
Everything had gotten a bit strange from there.
The third session. Charles had come to her apartment without Joan, but cut it short due to some mysterious phone call from Tamara, the nurse who had been helping Joan through her illness. Which, now she was thinking about it, was a tad weird. Why was Tamara still there? From what Sarah had seen, Joan was fully recovered from whatever illness, probably that nasty flu that had been going around, had prevented her attending the EWA awards.
Hmm . . .
She turned her thoughts to the fourth session. The one she’d been pushed out of early after a supposed publishing emergency.
Her mind lingered on the weekend she’d spent at the cottage. Joan’s behavior had been so uncharacteristic. She’d lost the plot over the spelling of one word: “park.”
Wait a minute . . .
Sarah drew in a sharp breath as a new insight came. She shook her head, refusing to believe it. It couldn’t be true.
“It’s not possible.”
Is it?
She paused at the top of the apartment buildings steps and made a quick mental inventory of the evidence to support her theory.
She gasped when it all fit. “No!”
The missing piece of the puzzle, she had it. She felt her forehead crease. Why hadn’t she picked it before? It all made sense now. The disrupted sessions, Joan’s behavior, even Charles’s behavior.
Oh no. Poor Charles.
She’d been awful to him; said terrible things to him; and accused him of being a bully.
It was so obvious now. He really did love his mother. Without thinking about the consequences, Sarah darted back down the staircase, jumped into her car, and drove in the direction of Greenville, South Carolina.
***
Dammit. Charles paused beside the white gardenias in the cottage’s garden. He felt his expression harden. The walk and fresh air hadn’t helped get his mind off the article. Or Sarah Woodward. She was everywhere, even in the flowers that reminded him of the secret message he’d left for her.
Why had he gone and done something stupid like fall in love? Of course it wasn’t going to end well. This wasn’t one of his mother’s romance novels. He released a deep exhale at the thought.
Mom’s romance novels.
Better get back to it.
He turned from the gardenias and went inside.