“Not yet, kiddo. I will though. You know I will.”
Yes, he would. Dogged was one word she’d use if she had to describe him. It made him so very good at his job. The town’s magistrate for years, he paid attention, could find a needle in a haystack, and was always in the loop. And he had been loyal to her family for longer than Rhiannon was alive, being her mother’s closest friend and confidant. She could count on him. His strong hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently despite its massive size, was reassurance itself.
Outside the rain was calming, merely a drizzle now, and Rhiannon wondered how long it would take for her to escape the confines of the Atelier with its well-meaning occupants. Lachlan was bound to join them in the game of “what’s eating Rhiannon Crowhart” any second now.
“Twenty more boxes were delivered earlier this morning. I signed for them, I hope you don’t mind. Oh, and a very large parcel which I assume is the sign? I gather that means you’ve settled on a name, then?” Still not looking at her directly, Christian threw her a lifeline, and Rhiannon was grateful.
“Yes.” She shrugged but it felt important. It took weeks of thinking, or second-guessing herself, and then it all came down to a night sharing the armchair in her study with Boleyn and the perfect purr. She was such a cat lady. And she was very proud of it. Hence the name. “Crow & Cat. Don’t laugh. After all the things this building has seen, I think a crow and black cat are fitting. And it’s just silly enough to make me smile.”
“Silliness is underrated, Rhiannon.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. Rhiannon patted his bearded cheek.
“I will have to find someone to help run this part of the shop. The people-facing part, I was never particularly good at. I was a decent auctioneer, but I loved the books and the art more. Margaux always said I wasn’t any good?—”
She cut herself off, the shock of how easy the name slipped out hitting her like an uppercut to the chest.
“The island is getting to me, Christian.”
He said nothing for the longest time, enough for the tempest outside to stop completely, leaving the cobblestones to shine in the peeking sun. When he did speak it was as if her last remark hadn’t been made.
“The books I signed for aren’t inventory, Rhiannon.”
Ah, well, hadn’t she been expecting the shipment of Margaux’s entire library, including her correspondence and personal papers? Maybe not twenty boxes, but then Margaux was a prolific writer, keeping a journal and a wide network of pen pals even after email became the main communication route for most. Sculptors, poets, friends from Paris, she wrote them all and they wrote back. Funny how when she was younger,Rhiannon wanted desperately to be one of them, and then as years went by, she was deeply grateful they existed and took some of her wife’s attention away from her.
It never ceased to amaze her how truly messed up their marriage had been. How little they actually loved each other.
She glanced up at Christian. His eyes were filled with understanding and he didn’t interrupt her.
“I honestly hadn’t thought she had quite this many. I had been carrying the box with her diaries from one place to another, slowly working through them, but twenty boxes? I wonder what else is in them.”
Christian squeezed her shoulder again and they shared a moment of silence.
“I take it she had time on her hands, then? Her career had not been successful after you two left Crow’s Nest? I’m not surprised, even though I can’t say I know much about art, and nobody asked me…” Christian trailed off and the mischievous crinkle of his eyes was back. Rhiannon gave his bulky shoulder a slight shove. It was like attempting to budge a brick wall. Or one of the cliffs guarding the island.
“People have been awfully nosy lately, trying to get me to talk about her, you know.”
He lifted his arms in the air, as if saying Who, me? before shrugging. “Well, her art, in this case, if anyone can call it that…”
Rhiannon shocked herself the second time today, a peal of laughter escaping just as easily as the name earlier. Her control was slipping, and it was a problem. But maybe, standing like this next to the one man in her life who was both a rock and a shoulder, she could forget for a while about that control and her own exhaustion of trying to maintain it. Outside, tourists and shoppers started to peek out of doors and windows, chasing the sun. Soon they would be eating ice cream cones and buying sandwiches from Greg’s cart down Broad Street.
“She had a talent and vision, Christian. You not getting it is neither here nor there. People like Juliette Lucian-Sorel—only the world’s most talented ballerina—understood it. I think for the longest time she was one of Margaux’s biggest patrons in Paris. Margaux had ambition you can’t imagine. She wanted the fame and the glory so much. But she lacked the drive, I think. And that’s where?—”
“That’s where the two of you were so different. Nobody ever said you didn’t have the drive, kiddo. Maybe at times too much drive.”
“You think I want too much?” She turned to face him fully.
“You always wanted too much. Back twenty-some years ago when you wanted the skill, the nous, and the wife of one old curmudgeon. And now your ‘too much’ is a strange combination of everything and simultaneous fear of it all. It pains me. But I am glad you’re back. You got me playing with antique books again. What you’re building here is special. Breathing life back into this place. I missed it. I missed you.”
Rhiannon laid her head on his shoulder, barely reaching it despite her own height, and sighed. Was he right? Did she want too much?
On their wayto the Viridescent and its soon to be open luxurious resort, to Rhiannon’s shock, Prudence’s verdict was a lot less diplomatic than Christian’s.
“I think you want nothing at all, Rhiannon.”
Well, wasn’t that wonderful to hear.
“Because?”
Prudence gave her a sideways glance before turning back to watch the cliffs sail by them as Rhiannon drove them up the new road.
