“Eight.”
“You look like a mini version of your adult self. Same beautiful face. Your bravery and confidence are obvious in every inch of you, even at this age.” He turned the photo toward her.
In the snapshot, Isobel stood with perfect posture, feet together. Already then, she'd been a lady. By contrast, Fiona had plunked her hands on her bony hips. One leg bent to the side, feet placed wide. The photo could have been titled,Serene Older Sister and Feisty Younger Sister.
He continued studying the items.
“The article's a lyrical piece,” Fiona explained, “about the wonder and awe that the coming eclipse will bring to Maine.” At the end of the article, Fiona had simply scrawled a heart and her initialF—which was how she'd signed all her notes and letters to Isobel before they'd become enemies.
“I think this is a good approach,” he said.
“Excellent. I'll send it on Monday.”
He handed the envelope back and their fingers touched, giving her a pleasing jolt of awareness.
Back in late November, when he'd expressed his interest in dating her, they'd been sitting in these same seats in this same room.
Since then, she'd replayed the words he'd spoken again and again.
“I’m crazy about you, just the way you are.”
And then,“I want you to know that with patience and time . . . I think I’ll be able to win your heart.”
He hadn't raised the subject of dating since then. But that sentiment—I'm crazy about you—was in his eyes . . . eyes not of a boy or a young man. On the contrary, Burke had the wise eyes of a man who'd lived a long time and loved his people very, very well.
I’m crazy about youwas also in the way he showed up for her faithfully.
I’m crazy about youwas in the laughter they shared.
She had the sense that Burke was biding his time, like a woodsman coaxing an injured fox to come inside the warmth and safety of his home.
* * *
A week and a half after Jude’s last communication with Gemma, he arranged a meeting with her mother.
Because he’d arrived early at the Bayview coffee shop mid-morning on this April Saturday, he was waiting for Simone Clare by the door when she arrived.
Gemma’s mom greeted him warmly, hugging him longer than expected.
They chatted while they placed drink orders. A vanilla steamer for her, a latte for him. He paid, then they carried their to-go cups to a booth. Seeing Gemma's mom in person was satisfying and tortuous. Satisfying, because he was finally doing something about his compulsion to help the Clares. Tortuous because he couldn't look at Simone—with her red hair and the elements of her features that echoed Gemma's features—without thinking of her daughter.
He missed Gemma. Constantly. So much his chest burned with it.
“Hearing from you was a wonderful surprise,” she told him when they were settled. “You're back in town so soon!”
“Yes. Just a quick trip this time.” She still knew him as Jude McConnell. Which was tricky but not insurmountably so.
“You said over the phone that you wanted to chat about how you might be able to assist our family. I've been eager to learn what you meant by that ever since.”
“I’m an attorney.” He and McConnell both were. “I’m hoping that my law background might be helpful to you.”
“Oh? How so?”
“In the area of law that pertains to debt collections. The more time I've spent with Gemma, the more aware I've become of the debt collectors who send her mail and call her.”
He watched Simone’s shoulders slowly sag. “That's my fault.”
“No,” he said, unequivocal. “It’s not your fault.”
