Girl Abroad

WE DON’T TALK DURING THE TWO-HOUR RIDE SOUTH, OUT OF THE suburbs and through the countryside to the coast. It’s just the rumble of the machine between our legs and the wind across my face. The blur of green and smell of briny waters as we draw closer to the riverside village.

Nate slows as we drive along cobblestone streets lined by Tudor buildings. Rye is one of those adorable, picturesque English villages I imagined from movies and books. A collection of old houses beside quaint shops, centuries-old lampposts, and ivy climbing the walls.

We park along the curb a few blocks from the museum, and I pull out my phone to map the walk.

“If you have other stuff you need to do, I can entertain myself here for a while,” I say, setting my helmet on the seat.

He pops out the kickstand and turns off the bike. “Wouldn’t be a very good escort if I abandoned you in the middle of nowhere, now would I?”

The word escort exiting his mouth does weird things to me. His whole mouth does things to me, in fact. The curve of his lower lip when he talks. The flash of white teeth. I become stupidly entranced until he pulls his helmet off and runs his hand through his hair.Têxt © NôvelDrama.Org.

His hair.

“Well, okay then.” I abruptly head for the sidewalk, because another second of staring at him and I’ll become embarrassingly obvious.

“Lead the way.” The soft chuckle tickling my back says he damn well knows I was checking him out.

The museum is in a small two-story building in the village center beside a café and used bookshop. Inside, white walls display framed portraits and muted landscapes. An older woman comes to greet us at the sound of the chime above the entrance.

“Good afternoon. Welcome.” She’s short and petite, wearing all black save for a colorful scarf hanging delicately over her slight shoulders. “I’m Marjorie, the curator here. What brings you in today?”

Her gaze lingers questioningly on Nate as he drifts away to look at the art. Admittedly, he stands out in a place like this, wearing a leather jacket over a simple T-shirt and lived-in jeans.

“My name’s Abbey Bly,” I tell her. “I’m a student in London, and I wondered if I might ask you about a painting by Franklin Dyce. I understand he’s from Rye.”

“Yes, of course.” Her face lights up, giving the impression she doesn’t receive many visitors. “We have several of his works here on display. I’m happy to help if I can.”

I pull up a photo of the painting on my phone to show her. Marjorie slides her glasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose, then holds the phone closer to get a good look.

“Anything you could tell me would be helpful,” I say hopefully.

“Without seeing the painting itself…” She continues to examine the image. “Yes, I’d say the color and composition are consistent with Dyce’s portraiture. Come.”

She leads me to a room off to the right. On the near wall are several portraits of ladies in postwar-style dresses and men in formal military uniforms.

“These are all Dyce. Let’s see…” She studies them for a moment, then the photo again. “An educated guess would be between 1946 and 1952. A young woman of nobility wasn’t wearing her hair like this much later than that.”

“Any idea who she might be?” I try to temper my excitement.

Marjorie furrows her brow and zooms in on the face. “I’m sorry, no. Can I ask where you found this? If it is Dyce, I’m not aware of it.”

“I bought the painting from an estate sale. It was owned by the Tulley family in Surrey.”

“Yes, that would seem right.” She beckons me with a wave to follow her to yet another small room of portraits. “These two are Tulleys. Donated after their deaths to the museum. Prewar.”

My gaze eagerly sweeps over the paintings. These are the great-great-aunt and uncle of the three brothers. Great-aunt and uncle to the duke and duchess on the father’s side.

“Painted not long before their deaths, in fact. As I understand it, they weren’t particularly well-liked. Excellent artistic examples, however.”

Hence they were donated. It seems tossing out portraits is a Tulley tradition.

“Would it be possible to find out if this is an authentic Dyce painting?” I ask her.

“Certainly, yes. If you’d like to forward me any other photographs you have, I can get you an answer. If further verification is required, we’ll need to examine the painting itself. That is if you’re able to send it to my contacts in London.”

“Yes, for sure.”

We return to her desk at the front of the museum where she hands me a business card. Nate is still wandering on his own. She casts a suspicious glance in his direction as he disappears around a corner.

“If the painting is authentic,” she continues, “would you consider allowing the museum to display it? It likely isn’t terribly valuable, I’m afraid.”

“Picked it up for a hundred pounds,” I agree.

Marjorie shakes her head. “That family would sell their own offspring if they could make a quid. In this case, Dyce isn’t van Gogh, and the subject isn’t Queen Margaret. But the museum would be proud to hang it. We would credit you, of course. From the collection of Abbey Bly.”

I smile to myself. Right, as if I’m so sophisticated an art buyer as to have my own collection. Only if some IKEA and Anthropologie prints count as a collection.

“If you can help me, I suppose it’s the least I could do for your time,” I say.

I don’t need the painting itself for my research. Anyway, it’d be pretty cool knowing that when I leave England, my name is written on a wall in a small southern village, forever connected to an artist and his infamous patrons.

Next door, Nate and I order lunch to go before driving south along the river’s edge to a pebble beach where the river meets the ocean. There, a tiny black hut with a red roof stands alone on the shore.

The ocean here is breathtaking. Cool salt wind whips my hair around my face. Only the occasional seagull or lone pedestrian walking their dog interrupts the natural setting. On the concrete steps of the hut, we sit with our takeout containers of fish and chips.

“Find what you were looking for at the museum?” Nate asks.

“Maybe. The curator is authenticating the painting for me.

Doesn’t tell me who the woman is, but at least I’ll know if I’m on the right trail or if it’s back to square one. If it isn’t a real Dyce, then she might not be a Tulley at all.”

“Do you have any theories?”

“I do,” I admit. “But I don’t want to say just yet.”

It’s a bit weird, but I’ve become protective of her, this forgotten girl with no voice of her own. A man doesn’t get discarded for reasons women often are. He barely gets a finger wag for a scandal that would otherwise brand a woman for life. I don’t know yet what got her tossed outside on that table, but I don’t like the idea of anyone speaking ill of her.

“What about you?” I shift the focus to Nate.

“Do I have a theory?”

“No. I mean, I feel bad. You had plans today, and I hijacked them. Weren’t you supposed to visit your family?”

“If I’d wanted to, I would have.”

The bitterness in his voice sets me back.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, seeing my reaction. “That wasn’t at you.”

“I just thought, because Yvonne said…”

“It was Yvonne’s idea. My mum got to her.”

Nate stares out at the water. There’s this distance about him that comes and goes. A tidal force that ebbs only a moment before rushing back in.

“You don’t get along?” I ask.

He picks up a smooth bluish-black pebble and rubs it between his fingers. He’s got great hands. Big, masculine. Musician’s fingers. They’re sexy as hell.

“Mum and I are fine,” he finally says. “Most of the time.”

“Things not great with your dad then?”

“No, not great.” Letting out a long breath, he flicks the pebble away, then pops a fry into his mouth. He chews slowly before saying, “I’m not going to be good company if we stay on the topic.”

“Right, sorry. My name’s Abbey and I have trouble with boundaries,” I say with an apologetic laugh.

That earns me a crooked grin. “Never apologize for being curious.”

“Hmm. Okay. Then tell me about yourself. You were nice enough to bring me all the way out here, and I barely know you. Hell, I don’t even know your last name.”

“Mitchell.” A fleeting smile appears before his brow furrows. “As for the rest, there isn’t much to tell.”

“I don’t believe that.”

He dodges, dipping a piece of fish into some tartar sauce before sliding it into his mouth.

“Where I come from,” I say when he doesn’t respond, “girls aren’t supposed to accept rides from strange men on motorcycles. So you’ve gotta help me out here.”

He capitulates. “All right then, Abbey. What would you like to know?”

“Hmm. Okay. You’re a musician. Is that your dream?”

Nate smiles. “No, not at all. It was something I picked up as a kid out of boredom. Got good at it by accident.”

That comes as a relief for some reason. I suddenly hear Celeste’s voice in my head, teasing me about daddy complexes and bad-boy musicians.

“Okay, then what do you want to be when you grow up?”

He chuckles at the question. “I want to travel. And I think I’m a decent writer. If I could do both, travel and write about my experiences—that’d be all right.”

“Well, that’s unexpected. I didn’t peg you for the Jack Kerouac type.”

“Minus the drug abuse and alcoholism,” he says dryly.

My gaze sweeps over his jaw, the beard growth shadowing it. His gaze is on the water again, dark eyes taking on a faraway glint.

“You’re a romantic.”

He glances over at me. “Are you having a laugh?”

“Not at all. I’m impressed, actually.”

Nate has a depth and sincerity about him I hadn’t expected. Far more than a bad boy on a motorcycle. I mean, I don’t hate the motif. It suits him. But it’s nice to know there’s some meat on the bone.

“Any more questions?” There’s a note of humor in his voice.

“Nah, I’ve grilled you enough.”

“It was quite torturous.”

I laugh and say, “Here—you get a free pass at retaliation. I give you permission to ask me anything. Whatever tickles your fancy.”

The second the words exit my mouth, I realize how suggestive they sound.

But Nate doesn’t go there. Entirely, anyway. He goes there, but in a PG manner.

“What’s your story, Abbey? You have a man back home?”

“Oh. Um. No. I don’t.”

His lips curve slightly. “I see. So you left a trail of broken hearts in your wake, I presume? A rock star ex-boyfriend with a guitar, singing bad Gunner Bly covers outside your window? Telling you his heart is a windmill.”

I blanch. “Definitely no. First of all, if anyone tried serenading me with my father’s love songs, I’d hurl. And anyway, I’ve never been into musicians. Feels too close to home, you know?”

Nate watches me for a beat. Thoughtful. Then he nods. “I get it.”

Shit. Was that a mistake? Did I basically just say, I would never be interested in you because you play in a band?

And does it really matter if that’s how he took it? He’s with Yvonne. He’s not supposed to care whether some random American girl has the hots for him.

Not that I have the hots for him.

I don’t.

Truly.

Like, just because he’s insanely good-looking. And smart. Interesting. Enigmatic. Exudes a raw sex appeal that makes my knees weak…

None of that means I have the hots for him. Get a grip, Abbey.

“Go on. Tell me your life story then,” Nate says, sipping his water bottle.

“It’s short and uneventful,” I warn him. “All the most interesting things about me happened to someone else.”

“I don’t believe that. You come off much older than nineteen. That doesn’t happen on its own.”

“Side effect of being a rock star’s daughter. Trust me, it’s not as glamorous as it sounds.”

When his insistent stare begs me to elaborate, I sigh and unpack the short version.

“You want my story? Okay. It’s being raised by nannies and microwaving SpaghettiOs for dinner. Reading about yourself in stories by people you’ve never met. Seeing pictures of your dad stumbling out of bars or getting arrested for another DUI plastered on the cover of a magazine. Celebrating a birthday in an empty house while he’s playing to a packed stadium. I guess that stuff ages you.”

I love my dad. We have a great relationship now, but there are just some things that, even after you’ve forgiven them, still linger in the blood. Especially when you’re little. The earliest scars last the longest.

Nate looks at me, and for the life of me, I can’t discern his expression.

“What?” I ask, self-consciously wiping at my mouth.

“You’re nothing like I expected either.”

“Don’t believe everything you read,” I joke. “I’m jaded beyond repair.”

“I don’t think you believe that.”

“Oh, you know me so well now, huh?”

Nate’s eyes lock with mine. “I’m starting to.”

It begins again. The tickle in my gut. That feeling of numbness in my toes. I watch his eyelashes flutter against the wind, and if this isn’t smitten, then the fish in this Styrofoam box has gone bad.

And I have no business feeling this way about another girl’s boyfriend.