“Me either.”
He leans in for more, but the soft creak of the shed door snaps the moment.
Theo sighs, though he doesn’t let go of me. “Yes, Nan?” He shifts instinctively, sliding an arm around my waist and angling his body.
Nan stands in the doorway with her hands on her hips, her apron still dusted with flour and her eyes dancing with a sharp, grandmotherly intuition. “Young man,” she calls out. “We’ve been patiently waiting for you two. Have you made up already?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Theo answers, his voice sounding grounded for the first time today.
“Good boy.” She rubs her arms, glancing around the drafty space. “It’s freezing in here. I thought you would at least have the sense to install a heater by now.”
Theo’s face twitches. “It’s on my to-do list.”
“Mm-hmm. Just like your grandad.” She lets out a soft snort. “There’s always a project with you lot. At this rate, my great-grandchildren will be the ones who finally install that heater.”
Theo’s neck flushes a deep, spectacular shade of red, but Nan barrels on, blissfully oblivious, or perhaps entirely intentional, about her grandson’s discomfort. “Now come along. The sponge cake is waiting, and it’s not polite to keep guests lingering in the kitchen.”
“We’ll be right there, Nan,” Theo says gently.
She gives a decisive nod and shuffles back toward the house, leaving the faint, comforting scent of vanilla and flour in her wake.
Theo turns back to me with an embarrassedhalf smile, the tension finally leaving his shoulders. “Welcome to Devon. And to Nan’s world.”
“I like it here. And I like her,” I say, looking at the stone walls that have sheltered him for so long. “I can see why this is where you come when you need to disappear. Ready to go back in?”
He tightens his grip on my fingers, his gaze steady on mine. “Only if you walk in with me.”
“Always.” I squeeze his hand back, anchoring us both. We slowly head back toward the house. “I do have one question for you.”
“Only one?” he teases.
“For now,” I giggle.
“Ask away,” he says.
“That tattoo on your arm. . .is it a drafting compass?”
Theo pauses. He slowly rotates his arm, exposing the inner wrist. There, in fine, sharp lines that mimic a vintage sketch, is the instrument.
“It is,” he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper.
“After your grandfather?” I guess.
“Yeah.” He looks down at the ink, then back at me. “I got it after he passed. It’s my way of keeping a piece of him close to me.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you,” he says softly. clearing his throat, he reaches for my hand again. “Come on, let’s go before Nan comes looking for us again.”
Twenty-Four
Nan’s kitchen is small, but it somehow manages to accommodate all of us without feeling crowded. We sit around a rustic wooden table, nursing tea and eating a sponge cake so delicious, it rivals Art’s back in London.
Copper pots and cast-iron pans hang from a rack above an ancient-looking old cream Aga stove. A mug tree shaped like a crooked apple-tree branch holds mismatched cups. A low-beamed ceiling stretches overhead, honey-colored with age. The stone tile floor is warmed by a patchwork of well-worn rugs.
Nan takes her place at the head of the table and sets her teacup down. “Theo, my boy, start talking. I may be old, but I’m not blind. What has your father done this time?”
The kitchen falls silent.
