Her face, moist with longing, breaks into a smile. “I should like that. An annual holiday, perhaps. If you can spare the time.”
“For my mum, I can spare the time.” I squeeze her hand and offer a smile to seal the promise. I’ve gathered shards of my past self since leaving for Cornwall, piled them alongside everything I built of my current self, and now I see them laid out. There are good and bad parts to each. In both lives I haven’t much control over what becomes of me, where I live, or even what is done with my money. But I have the benefit of deciding moment by moment, stone by stone, who I will be. And I have a lot to say about that.
When I fall asleep tonight on the train, tossing and turning, I see a tranquil face with a neat mustache smiling at me. I see stormy green-gold eyes challenging me. My mind wanders from Newlyn art school to Pittville Park to the dramatic opera and the kiss that definitely should have occurred. Floating in that restless place between wake and sleep, I am overcome by the sensation of being kissed by AJ—really and truly kissed in a way that shuts out the rest of the world and causes everything I’ve ever worried about to blow away like dust.
I want to trust him. My heart is used to it, somehow, but something happened years ago. Something significant and black and heavy between that life and the Newlyn one that my mind cannot—will not—penetrate. What happened in that carriage before it went over? What can’t I remember?
Why did he come for me again in Cheltenham? Why did hetrulycome?
How I wish I could see inside the man’s head right this moment.
Chapter 41
AJ Winthrop, 1913
I’mgrowingold.That’sthe thought on Ansel Winthrop’s mind as he struggles under the weight of the large, bearded man, grunting and groaning as he helps him lean on the rocks. He’s panting. They both are. Waves crash onto nearby cliffs, spraying them with seawater.
“Thank you. Thank—” The man is breathless, his heavy frame draped over the boulder.
“You had quite a tumble. You’re certain you’re all right?”
The man nods, gasping. “All. Right.” Rolling over to sit, he leans forward onto his knees and collects himself. “How may I repay you, kind sir? You’ve saved my life.”
“Think nothing of it.”
“Are you here on holiday? Perhaps I could put you up somewhere on the water.”
“Thank you, but I’ve been staying as close to the water as one can. Dunn Cottage.”
The man’s eyes flash. “Dunn Cottage, you say?”
“There, built right into the cliffside overlooking the Atlantic.” AJ brushes sand off the man’s notebook and hands it back, stealing a glance at the open page. “You’re an artist?”
He shakes his head. “Author. I write novels. A bit of poetry here and there. This…”—he taps the sketch in his book—“Someone inspired me. I’m preparing to put it into verse.”
He should look away, but AJ cannot stop staring at the confident young woman with red hair blowing out behind her who seems to be fighting…herself. Two identical faces with different expressions face each other with swords drawn. “She’s lovely.”
“Thank you. She was.” He clutches the book, eyes closed as the wind musses his hair.
“Do you mind terribly if I ask what is meant by this? One woman is split in two.” So much like Merryn before and Merryn after.
Perhaps he’s a fool. How can one remain married to someone who’s wiped the slate clean and started over? This new Merryn, she’s forgotten him. He promised to love, honor, and cherish…a woman who is no more.
He smiles, eyes closed. “Indeed. I had filled my mind with all the lovely memories—those overlooked in a busy, demanding existence.” He opens his eyes and looks at AJ. “I met a young woman here the other night who made plain to me the error of that belief. Before, I focused on the bad. Then I clung to the good. But the truth lies somewhere in between.”
“She is both versions.” AJ crosses his arms.
“Claiming anything less would be a disservice to her memory.”
AJ had loved Merryn before the accident. Falling in love with her had happened quickly and intensely, with time only deepening it. She’d had this habit of rolling her eyes then sailing away in that imperial manner of hers, but then came the magic—a teasing glance tossed over her shoulder, for no more than a breath. That look had unsettled him in the most pleasant manner.Every time.
But then she’d died, except…Nigel spotted Merryn—his Merryn—parading about as a lost woman. AJ had located and spoken to Lady St. Laurent first to gather the details of the situation, discuss his approach with her. Then he went to Pittville Park with butterflies in his stomach, unsure exactly what he’d do when he saw her again. He meant to let that fleeting first encounter pass with a brief flirtation, then reassess.
But then she rolled her eyes and laughed…then looked back over her shoulder with that smirk no one else on earth could possibly imitate, and he was gone. Totally lost on her, hopelessly back in love with the woman he’d married. All his blinding grief, the intentional numbing, it all unraveled that day at the park.
She wasn’t the same, of course. She pulled back in a moment when she would have once charged ahead. She spoke less often and with more hesitation.
Yet she still followed her whims. She laughed often and did exactly the opposite of what she was told and never tooknofor a final answer. She loved generously and delighted in everyday beauty as if it were magic. He’d no defense against it, especially when she was near.
