I set the girl on her feet and take her outside by the hand. Together we climb to the rise, where I stop to catch my breath and stare out over the scorched earth. “There’s where the front entrance was, and the drive is still there, with the metal gates. And over there, the chapel.” A few odd headstones stand at angles in the tall grass.
“What happened?” asks Anders, eyes alight at the topic change. “How’d the fire start?”
“Actually, there’s quite a story surrounding it. A love story.”
Anders scrunches his nose. “No one wants to hear aboutromance.”
“Good, because it isn’t one. Love stories are entirely different. It’s about a young woman who finds a man living beneath a bridge and brings him home for Christmas.”
“That’s not an exciting story,” says Anders.
“Wait until you hear about who he really was.” I raise my eyebrows. “Since you’ve no interest, perhaps we should tell it another time, though.”
“No!” wails Marta, clutching my arm. “I want to hear it, even if Anders is an old stick-in-the-mud.”
But I stand and cross to the kitchen, instinct tugging at me to go. There’s a band between AJ and me, and the distance between us can only stretch out for so long before we’re drawn together again.
Inside, I release the girl’s hand but pause to kiss her cheek. “It’s rather a long story, love. One best saved for a rainy day when everyone presentdoeswish to hear it. Dunn Cottage has a fair number of love stories, and I promise to tell them all.” Including ours.Especiallyours. There’s an enchantment to Dunn Cottage I cannot explain.
The door closes behind me. “Why did they build this cottage into the rocks, Gran? Did they mean it to be a cave?”
I laugh. “There are many legends about the old cottage—you’d never believe all the secrets it holds just beyond these old walls.” I place my hand on the stones, wondering how much I should tell them. The stories are nuanced and layered, the grit of real life, and not as neat and tidy as the fables to which they’re accustomed.
“Secrets!”
My gaze darts across the room to AJ, who is staring at the painting of me. It’s now leaning against the sideboard tucked into a little alcove. I hold my breath—do you remember?The accident. The lost years. The traipsing through Cornwall to reclaim my memories…and the great love that was reclaimed.
I clear my throat. “What are you thinking?”
He turns, a half smile lighting his gently aging face. “Only how beautiful you are.” He looks from the painting to me, countenance soft with affection again.
“Comes in handy when I burn your toast.”
“You’d never do such a thing.”
I turn toward the stove and throw a teasing smile over my shoulder. “Wouldn’t I?”
He crosses the room and pulls me close, kisses the back of my neck. I turn, and he smooths my hair off my face, looking down intently with an expression that has withstood the ages. “Marry me, Merryn,” he whispers. “What do you say?”
I kiss him soundly, nuzzle his slightly bristled cheek, and whisper, “That’s not a bad scheme, I suppose.” I inhale deeply and delight in the scent of him. One silver lining to his slipping memory is that he forgets certain bothersome details, like the fact that we’re already married. He remembers only that we adore one another, and that we adventure together and laugh a great deal.
He proposes at least once a month, usually posed as a secretive plan to spirit me away. I have yet to reject him.
“You won’t regret it?”
“Only when you burnmytoast.”
A sparkle in his eyes, then it dims. “I’ve trouble remembering things at times, luv. Suppose I leave the—”
I kiss away the end of his sentence. “Then let us fill those blanks with new memories, shall we? Lots of them.”
His expression softens into a smile. “They’ll be decent memories, won’t they?”
I tear up at the look of a lost boy on his face. “Brilliant ones.” I kiss him, my lips lingering on his eager ones. I shall never tire of the taste of AJ Winthrop. Then I leave the little alcove and return to the children, who are around the hearth.
“Is the cottage much the way you remember it?” the boy asks, for we’ve not been back in some time.
I glance around at the cottage that has sheltered us all. “Like a warm embrace, holding everything together. Still dim andchilly and secluded…” I look at the words of the ancient melody on the far wall. “And threaded with song. There’s always music about Dunn Cottage.”
