Just Pretending: Chapter 29

About a month later.

I didn’t want to get out of bed. Every time I tried to sit up, the world tilted to the side. My choices were to close my eyes and hope it would stop soon, or run to the bathroom and be sick. I didn’t like either option.

I wanted to be able to wake up, and if not feel wonderful and perfectly healthy, at least not feel like I was going to throw up everything I had eaten in the past week. I went back to sleep, like I had every day so far this week.

I heard a soft tapping on my door.

“Yeah?” I sat up slowly.

“I thought I’d check to see how we’re doing this morning?” Hannah said as she came into my room.

She carried a tray with a cup of hot tea and a plate of sugar cookies.

“You didn’t have to bring that up here. I would have made it downstairs eventually,” I responded, groggily.

“I know you haven’t been feeling well in the mornings. Now, I know some people will tell you that saltines or potato chips first thing in the morning make the difference. I think it’s sugar, so cookies.” She handed out the plate to me and I picked up a cookie.

I smiled weakly. “You know you could make oatmeal ones with cranberries and it’s almost as good as oatmeal and fruit.”

She returned my smile. “You must be feeling better. You’re making jokes.”

“This helps a lot.” I lifted the mug of hot tea and nodded toward the cookies. I didn’t know what I would do without Hannah.

That wasn’t true. I knew exactly what I would do, I would eat all of my meals alone. I would have a passing acquaintance with the rest of the staff, and not know the details of Rebecca’s mother’s cousin’s whatever. The cleaning staff would keep to themselves, and I would keep to myself. With Hannah as a go-between, I at least knew that Rebecca, one of the cleaning staff, had a complicated family life that was straight out of a soap opera, with all the drama and the plot twists.

Without Hannah, I would be even more alone in this museum than I already felt.

She patted my foot through the blankets. “Take your time. Come downstairs when you’re feeling better. Nothing is happening today, so if you want, you can stay up here all day.”

I stayed in bed until Jessie came up a few hours later.

“Harleigh,” Jessie said as she knocked on my door.

I wasn’t feeling woozy any longer, but a lazy day in bed reading had seemed like a good idea in the name of self-care.

“Come in,” I said.

She leaned in, never quite stepping all the way into the room.

“Mr. Sanderson stopped by to see you. Do you want me to tell him you aren’t taking visitors today?”

“No,” I shook my head. “Ask him if he minds waiting. Hannah made cookies this morning, feed him those while I get dressed and come down.”

“Will do,” she said as she closed the door.

I slipped out of bed and changed from my pajamas into my trusty yoga pants, soft shirt, and oversized cardigan. I saw no reason why I needed to put shoes on, so I slipped my feet into fuzzy slippers and made my way down the long walk across the house and down the stairs to the library where Jessie usually put visitors.

I saw Mr. Sanderson admiring the Picasso as I headed down the stairs. Once on the main floor, I crossed into the parlor with the majority of my father’s art collection.

“Mr. Sanderson,” I started, “It’s lovely to see you. I’m sorry it took me so long. I wasn’t expecting anyone today, so I had decided to lounge around. What brings you by this afternoon?”

“Harleigh, it is good to see you. I just thought I would stop and see how you are adjusting to all the changes. It’s been quite the year this painting has had.”

“It’s been quite the year all of us have had. And a messy one at that. I guess that’s just something I’m going to have to learn to deal with. Life is messy, and just gets messier.”

I gestured for him to have a seat on one of the couches. I sat so that my back was to the Picasso. Positioning Mr. Sanderson on the opposite couch, giving him a continuous view of the painting.

“It’s good to see that back on the wall where it belongs.”

I shrugged. “With all the hoops the insurance company is having us jump through to increase security because of it, I think it would be better off in a museum.”

I signed and looked around. This house was a museum. “A real museum,” I added.

“The house is rather a bit of a showcase, isn’t it?” He asked.

“It’s another layer of detail that I’m having to learn to deal with. My father didn’t exactly dump all of this in my lap, but he didn’t share any of the details. If I want to know about certain things I’m either asking Jessie to the point she can’t get her work done, or I’m chasing after the estate’s lawyers. You aren’t still reporting everything back to them, are you?”

He shook his head with a slight chuckle. “No, that particular task ended when you and Devin met the requirements of the will.”

My insides twisted with the mention of Devin, or maybe I was able to feel the baby move around. I figured it was my nerves. The baby wasn’t far enough along yet for me to feel any movement.

“I almost can’t believe all of this is actually mine. I expect the lawyer to pop in and tell me there was a surprise caveat my father had slipped in that no one had noticed.”

“This is all yours, Harleigh. You don’t have to worry about something like that happening.”

“So I could sell this all off and no one could stop me?”

“Not at all. Do you want to sell it all off?”

I thought about it for a moment. “I kind of do. I hadn’t started thinking about it until The painting came back. I don’t like it that much.” I emphasized the word ‘that’ and twisted to look at it. At some point, Picasso had become so famous that he could do whatever he wanted and people would call it art and clamor for him to sign it so that it had value. It could have been a pencil scribble, but if it had his signature…

“It needs to be where it will be appreciated. I grew up with it, and I know that makes me sound like a spoiled brat, but it’s my father’s art, not mine. Can I tell you a secret?” I leaned forward conspiratorially.

Mr. Sanderson leaned in to join me in my secret.

“I don’t even think my father liked it. If he liked weird taxidermy like Devin said, the Dali makes sense, the Picasso doesn’t. My father liked things, and people, that would make others jealous of him. He married models. He’s got a Picasso, he must be important. He was important without the painting.”

Mr. Sanderson sat back. “He was important, painting or not.”

“If I decide to sell it, or the house, do you think you could help me navigate the process?”

“I’m sure I could help you find someone to help you with the art collection. Are you sure you want to sell it all off? There must be some pieces here you like.”

I nodded, of course, there were pieces I wanted to keep, but there were pieces that didn’t feel like I should be the one who owned them.

“Are you sure you want to sell the house?”

“It needs a big family, but it’s not child friendly. The wallpaper is hand painted, the antiques are either covered in lead paint or too fragile. I’m looking at packing up and replacing rooms worth of furnishings.”

“Why don’t you give it some time. This past year has been excessive.”

“You can say that again,” I commented. “This year has turned everything upside down. I’ll never know what normal looks like again.”

“Why don’t you let yourself get settled into your new normal. Start dating, take up a new hobby, remodel the back patio to be the way you would like.”

A laugh escaped from my mouth before I had a chance to stifle my reaction. Dating, that was an idea that wasn’t going to happen. “Dating sounds like too much work in my condition. Besides, I’m still married.”

Mr. Sanderson narrowed his eyes.

“Devin is taking care of drawing up the divorce papers. He hasn’t sent anything over for me to sign. So, that means we are still married, right?” I explained. “I knew he had some concerns regarding certain household accounts coming from the company. I have the estate lawyer, Mr. McGrady, handling the divorce for me. He hasn’t received anything either.” I didn’t want to mention that I was holding on to the hope that Devin was taking his time because he didn’t want to get a divorce. I harbored fantasies of him being too stubborn to admit his feelings for me.

“He must have encountered a situation regarding those accounts you mentioned,” Mr. Sanderson said.

That was more likely the real reason I hadn’t been served with papers yet. He would want to make sure that all of the household accounts were separated from the company. The way my father had everything intertwined, I could only imagine the nightmare mess that would add to the division of assets.

“My father never did anything cut and dry, did he?”

“He did not,” Mr. Sanderson confirmed.

“I can only imagine that Devin is having to pull at threads and hope they don’t unravel something unexpected. Dividing the house and the company’s assets are probably taking some time.”

Sanderson nodded. He didn’t offer any insights as to why Devin might be taking so long. Or why I hadn’t heard even a peep from the man in weeks.

“You haven’t seen him recently, have you? I haven’t heard from him since the day he left.”