I listen intently.
“And not one of them had one thing to say that interested me.”
I frown.
“It was like a lightbulb went off, and I had an epiphany, one that for some reason had previously eluded me. I realized that my only connection with America and New York was my family, and I see them all the time wherever I am. I decided that day, then and there, that I would make my life here.”
I smile.
“And besides”—he picks up my hand and kisses the back of it—“I have a thing for English girls.”
I smirk. “Plural, Elliot,” I remind him.
“Girl,” he mouths.
We walk for a while. “And the art thing?” I ask.
“Ah.” He smiles, as if he’s been waiting for me to ask. “I’ve collected art since I was old enough for pocket money.”
“Why?”
He raises his eyebrows as if searching for an answer. “It calls to me.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.” His gaze goes over to the paddocks as he contemplates his answer. “It’s like I feel the artists’ emotions as they painted.” He bends down and picks a flower and passes it to me.
I feel my heart constrict.
“There’s this one artist, for instance. Harriet Boucher. I am totally and utterly besotted with her.”
I giggle. “Should I be worried?”
He picks up my hand and kisses my fingertips. “She’s old.”
“How old?”
“I don’t know, I think in her nineties. I’ve been searching for her because I know my time to find her is running out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I own all but three of her paintings that are out in public. But there are more that I don’t own, and they’re probably all in storage somewhere. I want to find her before she passes so that I can make her an offer and ensure that they aren’t lost.”
I frown. “What’s so good about these paintings?”
“Everything.” He smiles. “I know it sounds ridiculous but I have an affection for them that I can’t explain. I stare at them for hours and still I need more. It’s like they speak to me in an otherworldly way.”
I smile as I listen.
“I have a connection to the artist.” He shrugs as if embarrassed, bends and picks another little pink field flower and passes it to me.
“Thanks.” I take it from him.
“I don’t know what it is. Perhaps we knew each other in another life.”
Goosebumps scatter up my arms as I stare at him and, unexpectedly, I well up, and blink to try and hide my tears.
“What’s wrong?” He frowns.
I shrug, embarrassed. “Nothing.” I give a subtle shake of my head. “That’s just . . . probably, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard anyone say. You need to find this old woman so you can tell her in person.” I smile dreamily. “I can’t imagine how happy you will make her heart.”
“Most people think I’m crazy.”
“I think it’s . . .” I pause as I search for the right word. “Magical.”
He smiles shyly. “I don’t know about that, it could be one big wild goose chase.”
“Well, you were chased by ducks.” I widen my eyes to accentuate my point. “Kind of the same thing . . .”