Chapter 6
On the plane, I cradled Aaron’s urn and the torn remnants of my father’s painting.
The man taking the seat beside me gasped. “Is that Edward Lane’s painting? How could it be damaged like this?”
When I looked up, he froze.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.” His gaze locked on the fragments, his tone urgent. “Is that really Spring Rain Returns by Edward Lane?”
I gripped the fragments tighter and nodded. “It was my father’s. Now, only this remains.” “You’re Edward Lane’s daughter?” He straightened, offering his card. “I’m Adrian Shaw. I’ve admired your father for years. I came to the U.S. to bid on Spring Rain Returns, but the flight delay made me miss the auction.”
His voice softened as he spoke of my father. “Years ago, he was accused of plagiarizing the Pacific Northwest series. But it was a setup–drafts forged by rivals. He was too proud to defend himself, and soon after, depression overtook him. Five years ago, an old collector produced his early sketchbooks, clearing his name. But by then, most of his works had been destroyed.” “I founded the Edward Lane Art Museum in San Francisco,” Adrian continued. “I’ve been collecting his works worldwide, determined to prove his paintings were his own true artistry.” My nose burned with grief. I lifted a hand to wipe my tears, brushing stray hair behind my ear. Adrian froze. His sketchbook slipped onto his lap, his eyes locked on me. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he stammered, “You… you look so much like my adoptive mother.”
Before I could react, he fumbled through his wallet, pulling out an old, yellowed photograph with trembling fingers.
The woman in the picture had the same tilted eyes, the same dimples, even the stubborn lock of hair by her temple–so much like mine.
“This is her, when she was young,” Adrian said hoarsely. “Over twenty years ago, she and my adoptive father lost their one–year–old daughter at Pike Place Market in Seattle. It was crowded, and she disappeared. Ever since, my mother has carried this photo, asking strangers. She always said her daughter had a beauty mark by her eye and smiled like a crescent moon.”
My hand instinctively touched the mole near my eye. My heart skipped a beat.
Mother had once told me I lived in Seattle until age five. But of my first years, I remembered only a worn silver locket engraved with an ‘E‘.
I shook my head, my voice tight. “I’m Evelyn Lane, daughter of Edward Lane. I’ve never heard of being lost as a child.”
Adrian’s eyes dimmed with regret. He tucked the photo away carefully. “Perhaps it’s just a
coincidence. Women from the Pacific Northwest often look similar.”
As the plane descended, Adrian helped me with my suitcase. His gaze lingered on the urn in my arms, his tone gentler. “Miss Lane, the museum still keeps the pen your father once used to teach me. You’re welcome to visit anytime. Perhaps it will bring back memories of painting with him.”
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667
Holding Aaron’s urn, I could almost hear his voice in my ear: Sis, this must be fate.
Yes. After losing everything, perhaps this meeting was not chance.
As the car drove me to my temporary apartment, Adrian sent me the museum’s address. Looking at the fragments of my father’s painting, I realized his art had not vanished. It lived or the museum’s walls, in Adrian’s sketchbooks, and in my own lingering desire to paint again.
As a child, I had studied painting under him. But when the Lane family fell into ruin, I had turnec to design to survive. After marrying Ryan, I even abandoned that.
Now, free from a toxic marriage, with one hundred million at my disposal–perhaps it was time to pick up the brush again.
