“I’ve never even seen the place. By the time your mom and I were married, the cottage had been closed for nearly twenty years.”

“Do you know if Mom has any pictures of it?”

“I have no idea,” he answered. “But even if she does, by now they’re so old that they’d probably make the place look a lot better than it really is. Would you like me to come along and help you check it out? I’d be glad to do it.”

Chelsea almost agreed before stopping herself. She would need privacy if she were to properly follow Gram’s instructions. Even so, she briefly lamented the lost chance to be with her father for a few days.

Chelsea shook her head. “Allistaire told me that a caretaker has been looking after the place,” she answered. “He and his wife are supposedly going to meet me there and show me the ropes.”

“Well, if you find that you need anything, call me and I’ll drive up. If not, come and see me when you get back, because I’ll be eager to hear all about it. And now, I’m going to get a stiff drink and find your mother. I’m sure she could use some support. In our own way we still love each other, you know.”

Chelsea kissed him on one cheek. “I know, Dad,” she said.

With that, Adam headed off toward the kitchen. Hopeful that he might provide them with some food, Rhett and Scarlett eagerly scampered along after him.

While taking another sip of scotch, Chelsea again looked out the broad picture windows, thinking. Since her grandmother’s death two days ago, she had been trying to summon up some courage and store it away in her heart, against the awful day when she would again lose someone she loved. Perhaps then she could call upon those carefully preserved armories of strength and use them as shields against her pain. Then she shook her head a little. Was she deluding herself? Probably, she realized, but it was a pleasant fantasy to nurture.

Brooke had known many people in Syracuse. She had also been well recognized for her charity work and was a driving force on the board of the Everson Museum of Art, an avid painter right up to the day of her death. Her donated works hung in many local homes and cultural facilities. And it was from her that Chelsea had acquired her own love of art and painting. In the end, Brooke died in her sleep, passing from this world in much the same way that she had lived in it—quite peacefully, and without being a bother to anyone.

To her surprise, just then Chelsea thought she heard Gram’s comforting voice, whispering to her from afar. That wasn’t really the case, of course. Even so, she could clearly remember the many times that Gram had advised her as she was growing up. Gram was always there, always kind, always ready to help with any concern. If Chelsea didn’t seem to grasp her answers, Brooke would usually say, “When you’re older, you’ll understand.”

How odd, Chelsea thought as she again focused her gaze outside. That’s much the same thing that she said in her mysterious letter . . .

As she thought more about it, her fingertips unthinkingly sought out the little key that lay underneath her blouse. This time, touching it came automatically. And for some reason she had yet to understand, she found the gesture oddly reassuring.

Chelsea finally arose and walked to the far end of the sunporch. It was here that Brooke had sat and painted.