“They’re related, cooking and gardening.” He smiles over his shoulder. “I enjoy both. How are you sleeping?”
“Better,” I say. And I have been sleeping a bit better this week, now that my days have fallen into routine out of necessity and my nocturnal trysts with Weston have come to an end.
“I’m relieved to hear that. I didn’t want to tell you this ...” He looks away from me, then back. “But I saw you again before Melva left, wandering the grounds at night. Talking to yourself. And I’ve seen you do other things, too.”
I blush at the innuendo in his voice. “I didn’t know ... how embarrassing.”
“Marguerite is worried, too.” He turns back to the stove, adds a sizzling splash of water to the pot. Steam clouds the air. “Your brother even mentioned how oddly you were acting when I drove them to the station after their visit.”
Irritation flares beneath my skin. “The only thing Felix is concerned with is who will get this house when Marguerite dies. And he’s veryconcerned you’ll be that person, if you must know. He doesn’t trust you.”
Beckett stills. “Doyoutrust me, Sadie?”
“Of course I do. I stuck up for you, with him.”
He smiles. “I don’t know if I believe you.”
“I thought we were past all that.”
“You mean you no longer think I’m a gigolo, seducing Marguerite with my devious charms?”
I laugh. “Heavens no.”
“Your brother has nothing to worry about from me. And I know I questioned your motives for coming here, at first ...”
“You did.”
“But try to put yourself in my shoes, Sadie. You hadn’t visited Marguerite in years, and all of a sudden, you turn up. Wouldn’t you be suspicious?”
“I suppose so. I had plenty of suspicions about you. I thought you were trying to drive me away. Frighten me into leaving with your scary stories about Sybil and the Blaylock murder.”
He slides the pot to the back of the stove, then takes a step toward me, his eyes softening. “Only because I was worried. I don’twantyou to leave. I’ve grown rather used to having you around. We’re managing things quite well, the two of us.”
“I think so, too.”
As he stands there, looking at me, I’m softened by his earnestness. I feel any remaining suspicions I had about him dissolve ... only to be replaced by another feeling, something that Marguerite had hinted at. Attraction. Nascent and unexpected, but undeniably there, all the same. Perhaps it’s been there all along, under the surface, and our shared sense of duty toward Marguerite has brought it to the fore.
“What are you thinking about?” He smiles that fox-like smile.
I’m thinking about what it might be like to kiss him, to lose myself in those marvelous eyes, but instead, I turn away, my cheeks blazing. Only two weeks have passed since I last saw Weston. Whether our timestogether were an illusion or not, I hardly need to complicate my life with another affair. Instead, I need to focus on finding the deed to this house, or a will, if one exists. Romance isn’t the priority. Caring for my aunt and her householdis. “I should go check on Marguerite.”
I rush from the room, my emotions a torrent. Perhaps I’m only imagining the crackling energy between us. If Ihadfollowed my reckless impulse and kissed Beckett, would he have returned my kiss, or rejected me? A foolhardy impulse at this stage could wreck my chances at a stable future. A stable life. There’s so much at stake, with Marguerite declining more by the day, and my brother and his greedy wife snapping at my heels.
That evening, after a tense dinner spent avoiding Beckett’s gaze, I tuck Marguerite in, then go up to the attic and light a single candle. I need to put one lingering question to bed, once and for all, for the sake of my sanity. Tonight will be the final time I try to enter Weston’s world. If he doesn’t let me in, I’ll know it was all an illusion. I’ll return his portrait to the studio, lock the door, and do my best to move on.
I take out Weston’s portrait and sit before it, fixing my eyes on his. “If you’re real, show me. Show me the truth.” I reach out, touch the painting’s surface. It ripples invitingly, and with a softwhooshand that familiar sensation of falling, I’m back in his world.
Interlude
Weston
Weston stands looking out over the Scottish crag where he and Sadie trysted once before, high above the tumbling sea, his back to her as she approaches. Fog curls around her feet, wreathing the gorse like lace. The wind lashes at her, stealing her voice as she calls out his name. He turns slowly, a fierce glint in his eyes.
“I saw you,” he says, his voice low, menacing. “Withhim.”
“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“After all I’ve given up. All I’ve sacrificed for you!”
