“Please don’t use that name. Just call me Lessa.”
“Sorry, Lessa. I meant that the spare room is yours until you find another solution.”
A tendril of shame curls deep in my chest. Because, you see, I’m an expert at sounding chivalrous as long as there’s no danger of any real involvement.
She saves me from my internal angst. “We’d better find a plausible way to explain my departure otherwise they might think you murdered me.”
The tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth tells me she’s joking. So I play along.
“I’ll tell them we broke up. We can stage a fight in a bit. Maybe I’ll dance with a girl, and you can march over and throw a drink in my face.”
“And make you look like a cad?”
“Cad? Is this the old fashioned way of saying an arse?”
She shrugs. “Why not. It’s an old fashioned island.”
“I’ve been called worse before, I’ll live.” I say easily, but in my mind’s eye, Liam’s ghost shakes his head, disappointed.
Well, what am I supposed to do? Move a woman in with me? Six months? A year? Longer? I can either stick to Liam’s celibacy condition or live with a woman I find attractive. Not both.
“I’m being serious.” Lessa’s voice breaks into my defensive thinking. “You’ve been very kind to me and I don’t want to make you the subject of gossip. Just blame me.”
Hadn’t she just done that for her lover? Given out a false public statement taking the blame to save his reputation?
She’s homeless, jobless, pregnant, and alone with the world against her. Anyone else in her position would be begging for help. Not Alice Trapper though. No matter what the press have been calling her, she’s a good person. And self-reliant. With men like Clive Smith, she has to be.
With men like me, too. Men who value their own needs, their convenience, and their freedom above all else.
As she goes on talking, Liam’s ghost is wagging his index finger at me again.Do something to help someone in trouble. And no, I don’t mean give money to charity. Give your time, a little part of your life.
God knows she’s someone in need.
On the other hand, every self-preservation instinct is telling me to walk away. What the hell do I know about pregnant women, anyway? Yes, I can help in practical ways. I can teach music for free to every kid on the island. I can even help Lessa, too. I’d gladly drive her to the ferry – or walk her to the ferry, even carry her.
A young woman nearby catches my gaze and gives me a suggestive look. She must not have heard the gossip yet. I blow out a breath laden with frustration. Being a single man is going to be an issue very soon. When I’m in a relationship, I’m faithful, it’s easy to be faithful. But when I’m single, I’ve never found it easy to turn down a night of sex. It’s going to be hard enough maintaining celibacy without temptation making eyes at me from across a village green.
Having a ‘wife’ might keep other woman away.
Talk about a rock and a hard place.
I turn back to Lessa and only then realise she’s stopped talking mid-sentence and swivels round so her back is to the crowd, her face ashen.
“Are you okay?”
“Behind me, the roasted nut stand.” Her voice is barely audible. “Don’t look. There are two men, one with a camera.”
“What?” I glance over her shoulder and see them. They were at the donkey race earlier taking pictures. One is snapping pictures now, the other talking to people and asking questions.
“The one with the camera.” she says, her lips white. “He was camped outside my building.”
I look at them again. The camera guy looks bored. “It’s nothing, probably a freelance photographer, hired by someone covering the fair.”
“He’ll recognise me.”
The dance has come to an end, the band stops while the organiser calls up more names. The journalist moves towards the dance circle, taking advantage of the break in music to talk to the spectators. They’re coming closer and one of them catches my eye and heads towards us.
“Come on.” I grab Lessa’s arm and pull her with me onto the dance floor.
