“You know you can’t blame yourself, right? His death wasn’t your fault.”
He hung his head. “That’s what people say.”
“So then you came all the way to Windsor? Why here?”
“I remembered him saying something when I was a kid about a second cousin twice removed living here once upon a time. He always said he’d like to come here someday.”
“You came here for him.” She looked over at him. “You’re working on that house as a tribute to him, aren’t you?”
He shrugged lightly. “I guess I am.”
“And now you’re rebuilding your life and a house at the same time.”
His smile returned. “Yeah, and I was doing fine with that until I found that bottle, then you showed up talking about legends and smugglers.”
She laughed. “I messed up your plan, didn’t I?”
“You did,” he said, but he was smiling, showing those deep laugh lines around his mouth.
“Should I be sorry?” she asked.
“I’m not,” he replied, and a warm tickle of nerves fluttered in her chest.
For so long, Cassie had blamed herself for her mother’s death, and with that guilt had come the belief that she’d caused her own loneliness. That she deserved it. But then Matthew had walked through the museum doors, and being around him was changing her. She could feel herself coming more alive every day, just like the old house. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe it wasn’t really her destiny to be alone.
“I’m thinking of stripping some of the wallpaper and painting a couple of highlight walls in the house,” he said, changing the subject. “Kind of updating on a small scale.”
“You think people would prefer updates to the original when you’re selling?”
He looked shocked that she would even ask that. “Who’s selling?”
Relief rushed through her. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“So as I was saying, for wall colours, what do you think of a light green in the living room, to complement your great-grandmother’s awful sage cupboards?”
She laughed. “They’re not that awful.” She pulled into a parking spot near the Dominion House Tavern and turned to him. “Ready to go back in time?”
The pub was one of her favourite places in the city, even when it was crowded with university students. She could hardly blame them. The furniture might be worn down, but the old white house oozed history and smelled like comfort food. Cassie and Matthew grabbed one of the booths, then they both ordered a beer and a burger. He added extra fried onions to his.
Looking around appreciatively, he said, “So this is where Jeremiah and John swigged whisky, eh?”
“Here and a lot of other places. Before the food gets here, I wanted to show you something,” she said, then she reached into her bag and pulled out her precious family scrapbook, along with a clean white cloth. She set the cloth over the table, placed the leather-bound book on it, and slid it across the table to him. “This is the story of the Baileys.”
He looked at her, eyes bright, then carefully opened the book. “This is incredible,” he breathed after a moment, taking in her work. “You did this?”
She beamed, pointing at the first photograph. “Those are my great-great-grandparents, Robert and Elizabeth.”
He leaned in. “That’s my house when it was being built,” he said. His finger traced the familiar door, the windows. “This is amazing.”
She flipped the page. “And this is the infamous Jeremiah with his brother, John, just before they went to World War I.”
“They don’t look so tough.”
“This is Jeremiah afterward. Looking a little tougher now? He got his scars in an accident in the tunnel.”
Matthew studied the cool, serious face of Jeremiah, then he turned back to the earlier photo, before the war. He looked directly at Cassie, fascinated. “Did you know that you look like a female version of Jeremiah? I mean, give or take a hundred years, you could be twins.” He jabbed a finger at Jeremiah’s brow. “That’s the same look you get when you’re focused on something.”
“That’s what my grandmother Alice always used to say.” She drew his attention to a photo of a woman in uniform. “This is Jeremiah’s wife, Adele Savard.”
