“Are you cold?” Liam asked, glancing at her clothes. Pierre’s gypsy blouse had short bell sleeves and a nearly off-the-shoulder neckline that tied with a blue string at the front. It matched the blue and white loose skirt.
She shook her head. “No. It’s a hot day.”
“The way you look, it may as well be raining.”
Yes. The way she felt, too.
“Getting over heartache takes as long as it takes,” Liam finally said. “There are no rules. My brother has said goodbye to more girlfriends than I can count, yet I doubt it ever took him longer than a drive back from the airport to get over them. You’re just a more loving person.”
Suddenly she couldn’t bear talking about this anymore; she pushed herself up. “I have to do a bit more work before this paper is finished. And I promised Lord M I’d show it to him by the end of the week.”
She worked all afternoon until the library closed at half-seven. By then the article,Ancient Brewing and Oenology on La Canette,was complete. Time to go home; dinner would be over by now, but she wasn’t hungry.
Liam’s words had struck home. Gabriel probably knew how she felt about him. But did she know how he felt about her?
He liked her. She knew that. He was attracted to her. But did he love her? Or was it just an attraction, a holiday romance? It would explain why he had made the choice he did.
In which case, it was so much better that she had held on to her self-respect and not repeated the mistake she’d made with Martin, waiting around for him to love her enough to commit.
She stuffed her things into a tote with enough force to crumple the papers. Too much thinking was bad for her.
A long walk might clear her head. If she took the South Lane, she would miss all the landmarks that held memories of their time together. And the exercise would help her sleep. April daylight saving meant it was still fairly light.
Thirty-Three
Two hours later, the sky was deepening from blue to purple when she finally got home. There were faint voices in the kitchen, but she didn’t stop. Still no appetite. Calling out a loud “Hi” she went directly upstairs to her room.
An envelope lay on the floor by her door. Since she no longer went into the office, Mrs B had started leaving her post on her doorstep. She bent down to pick it up before opening the door into her room. It looked official. Tearing the flap open, she swept her hand inside and pulled out several pages. The first was a letter with the logo ofThe Edinburgh Review.
Heart leaping, she read it. It was from the commissioning editor telling her they liked her article on wedding traditions and wanted to publish it. Her writing, he said, struck the perfect balance between intellectual and engaging, and they were impressed with her ability to see beyond the obvious.
She drew in a huge breath, then released it.The Edinburgh Reviewwanted to publish her work.
Scarcely able to believe it, she looked at the rest of the papers. Five pages stapled together; it was a contract. An actual contract, waiting for her signature. She had done it!
She read the letter again, more slowly. This time, the rest of the offer registered. They wanted to discuss future articles; they were especially interested in the topics relating traditional customs with ancient religious beliefs. Pierre couldn’t help grinning; in her submission to them she had proposed several articles. Brewing, birth, harvest, fire, wandering spirits, and healing. SinceThe Edinburgh Reviewwas a quarterly, there might be three years’ worth of publishing, of exciting research and writing.
In her mind, she saw the kingfisher again, diving to make his catch. Like him, Pierre had jumped, stretched out an arm and caught a dream and was finally abona fideanthropologist.
She hurried down the hallway towards her office. Inside, her desk looked empty and untouched. She searched for a pen. Why was it that whenever you needed to sign an official paper, you only found pink glitter gel pens? And blue glitter, and green metallic pens, and calligraphy tips. Breathing fast, she tipped her in-tray upside down before she found what she needed, a black ink felt-tip fine point pen.
Her hand shook so she pulled a chair out and sat down so her writing would be even and steady. Carefully, she signed.
Her breathing slowed to normal as she looked at the black cursive letters,Pierre Marie Ashley.Her job had become truly fabulous.
The desk was scattered with papers, books, pens, and all sorts of long forgotten things. She stood up and started gathering them to put back in the tray when she noticed a sealed A4 envelope. No address on the front, just the one hand-written word.Pierre. Frowning, she picked it up.
How long had this been here? It was padded with a stiff back, the kind used to post important documents.
Or photographs.
Her heart suddenly stilled as she opened it and looked inside: it contained several large 8 x 12 photographs.
Breath caught in her throat and stuck there. Gabriel must have put these here for her the day he left, thinking she would find it. Not knowing she had avoided this office for a month.
Hugging the envelope to her chest, she walked slowly to her room.Be patient, she told herself.Be patient. Everything seemed unreal; even her feet didn’t make a sound on the carpet.
Her patience lasted until her bedroom door then evaporated, and she couldn’t wait.
