Chapter Two Hundred Forty-Seven: The Portrait
The discovery happened by accident, as most discoveries did in the Blackwood family.
Lina was exploring the attic again, as she often did, searching for old photographs and forgotten treasures. The attic was dusty and cluttered, filled with boxes that had not been opened in decades. She loved the attic. It felt like a museum of her family's history, a place where the past was still alive.
She found the portrait hidden behind a stack of old canvases, propped against the wall in the darkest corner of the attic. It was large, almost life-sized, covered in a dusty white sheet.
Lina pulled the sheet away.
A woman stared back at her.
She was young, beautiful, with dark hair and kind eyes. She was wearing a green dress—the same green dress that Lina had seen in the old photographs, the same green dress that her namesake had worn the night she met Ethan.
But the woman in the portrait was not her namesake.
Lina's hands began to shake.
She carried the portrait downstairs, struggling with its weight, and found Lily in the garden.
"Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandma," Lina said, breathless. "I found something."
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Lily stared at the portrait.
Her face went pale. Her hands began to tremble.
"Where did you find this?" she asked.
"In the attic. Hidden behind some old canvases."
Lily walked closer to the portrait, her eyes fixed on the woman's face.
"That's not your namesake," Lily said.
Lina shook her head. "I know. Who is she?"
Lily was quiet for a long moment.
"That's Margaret," she said. "Your namesake's best friend. The one who wrote the letter. The one who saw everything."
Lina's eyes widened. "Why is there a portrait of her? Hidden in the attic?"
Lily turned away from the portrait.
"I don't know," she said. "But I think it's time we found out."
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Lily called the family together.
The penthouse was filled with people. Every generation was there, from the oldest to the youngest. The rooms were crowded with whispers and questions, the air thick with anticipation.
Lily stood at the front of the room, the portrait beside her.
"I have something to show you," she said.
The room quieted.
She told them about the portrait. About Margaret, her mother's best friend. About the letter she had written, confessing that she had seen everything the night of the coma.
"This portrait was hidden in the attic," Lily said. "We need to find out why."
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The search began.
Lina led the investigation, her notebook in her hand, her questions sharp.
She searched through old letters and photographs. She interviewed distant relatives and old family friends. She spent hours in libraries and historical societies.
She found a lead.
Margaret had not died. She had changed her name. She had moved across the country. She had started a new life.
And she was still alive.
Lina found her address. She lived in a small town three hours away.
"What do I do?" Lina asked Lily.
Lily took her hand. "You go see her. You ask her about the portrait. You bring her home."
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Lina drove to the small town.
She sat in the car for a long time, her heart pounding, her hands shaking.
Then she got out and walked to the door.
An old woman answered. She was small and frail, her hair white, her face lined. But her eyes—her eyes were the same as the portrait. Kind. Warm. Familiar.
"Margaret?" Lina asked.
The old woman's eyes filled with tears.
"You look just like her," Margaret whispered.
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Margaret invited Lina inside.
The cottage was small and cozy, filled with books and photographs and the particular clutter of a life well-lived.
"I painted that portrait," Margaret said, "when I was twenty-five. I was in love with your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother. Not in a romantic way. In a way that was deeper than friendship. She was my other half."
Lina listened.
"But I couldn't tell her. I was afraid. I was ashamed. So I painted her instead. I poured all my feelings into that portrait."
She looked at Lina.
"When she died, I couldn't bear to look at it. So I hid it. In the attic. Where I thought no one would find it."
Lina took her hand. "Why did you write the letter? Why did you wait so long to tell the truth?"
Margaret's eyes filled with tears. "Because I was afraid. Because I was ashamed. Because I thought she would hate me for not saving her."
Lina squeezed her hand. "She wouldn't have hated you. She would have understood."
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Lina brought Margaret home.
The family gathered to welcome her. Every generation was there, from the oldest to the youngest.
Margaret stood in the living room, looking around at all the people, her eyes wide with wonder.
"She built this," Margaret whispered. "She built all of this."
Lily walked to her and took her hand. "She did. And now you're part of it."
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That night, Lina sat in the garden with Margaret.
The stars were out, scattered across the sky like tiny diamonds. The air was cool and quiet. The city hummed in the distance.
"Margaret," Lina said, "do you think she's watching us? Right now?"
Margaret looked up at the sky. "I know she is."
Lina pointed to a bright star. "Is that her?"
Margaret nodded. "That's her."
Lina stared at the star for a long time. "Hi, Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandma," she whispered. "I found Margaret. I brought her home. She told me about the portrait. She told me about her love for you."
The star twinkled.
Lina gasped. "She blinked at me!"
Margaret smiled. "She's saying she's proud of you."
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End of Chapter Two Hundred Forty-Seven