He did that. His Helen anchored him, and he knew his place in the world when he was beside her. That wasgood.“Your marriages, you mean. You wanted an anchor.”
“Indeed.” A quiet blush swept up her cheeks. “You’ve read everything then, have you?”
“I couldn’t look away.”
She stares over William’s shoulder. “You’ve lived in Cornwall for some time, yes? Since you’ve…gone missing?”
A nod.
“Can you imagine if Dunn Cottage had been built down on those beaches? The loose pebbles and sand.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Dunn Cottage is a singular and remarkable place with an incredible history. It has withstood hundreds of years and thousands of love stories, and there’s exactly one reason why.” She takes one large hand in both of hers. “Let me tell you, Will. Never build your house on sand when rock is available to you.Never build it on anything that can move. Because eventually, it will—including people. Or…your memories.”
William stares down at their hands, hers on top of his. What is she telling him? Has he been brought to this wretched place in his life because of some failure—some wrongheaded building upon sand? Perhaps it’s true. He has done many foolish things. But what is the sand in his life?
And more importantly…what is the rock?
“I don’t wish to build anything upon my memories,” he says. They are a swamp that will suck down anything standing upon it. He’s already up to his neck most days, working hard just to keep his head out of it. Then he thinks of Helen and feels the muck and mire roll off his soul. “Except…except maybe the good ones.”
She smiles. “Tell me about your Helen.”
The ache deepens…but something loosens around his chest as he speaks of her. He tells the woman from the painting everything that comes to mind about the one who holds his heart, and the words flow faster and faster, the memories tripping over one another. He paints such a picture of her that Merryn will recognize his Helen if she walks through the door.
She smiles through his rambling. “You know, most people write their bad memories in stone and their good ones in the sand. You have done the opposite.”
An unexpected lurch occurs in his stomach. “N-n-not with all of them.” His heart pounds. It feels like a throbbing in his neck. If only she knew what his mind stored, carved in stone. She’s looking at him, waiting for more, so he adds, “Some bad memories refuse to fade away.”
A glimmer of a smile. “A funny thing about memories. The only sure way to hang on to them is to try and be rid of them. Isn’t that right?”
He nods.
“Those bad memories, Will.” She takes his hand, looking up into his face. “They’re worth something, too. More than you think. They complete the picture.” She taps the ornate garden mosaic, a collection of rock fragments and glass shards, beneath their feet. “They are rather lovely to look at. Not alone, perhaps, but…they complete the picture, yes?”
He swallows. The thumping intensifies. Is she going to make him tell it? To speak of what he’s seen? He closes his eyes for the flicker of a moment, and he smells the swamp. The dynamite. Exactlynothingabout that is beautiful.
“I’ll ask you one more time, Will.” Her voice is gentle. “What happened between you and Helen?”
He inflates his chest with air. Thoughts rush through his mind, a million fragments and words shooting around, but when he opens his mouth none of them come out. Pain eclipses logic. Drowns him.
I broke it.
The marriage. Those men on the bridge.
Himself.
He digs in his satchel and draws out an item wrapped up in brown paper. “I keep this wrapped up because…well, broken shards can cut a person.” His chest aches as he hands her the truth of his soul. Will she take his meaning? “It came from Dunn Cottage.”
She pulls the wrapped shards onto her lap. “Do you know what this was?” She gives a faint smile. “I used it as a child to fetch water back to the house.” She touches the fragments, turning them over. “The memories are precious. And the vase was quite useful to me.”
William stares at a tuft of grass growing between the stones of her path. He doesn’t need a lecture. That’s what she’s after, isn’t it? He hasn’t any idea what she’s trying to tell him, and he wishes she’d stop.
She walks across the garden and retrieves a large blue vase, bringing it back to show him. “This is the one I use now. Lovely, isn’t it? A bit larger, but not without its flaws. See, how the ridges are uneven? I made it myself.”
His mind races. What’s she saying? Never before has he felt so dull-witted. His flaws run far deeper than uneven ridges. He’sbroken.
“You’re avoiding her, aren’t you? Keeping yourself away from her.”
