“I’m afraid itdoesmatter. Your wife was not merely half a person. It takes every stone in a mosaic to give the whole picture.”
The man nods, pondering my words. “We’re all of us as multifaceted as a gem. Sometimes the sun strikes this part, sometimes the other.”
“And sometimes people cloak some of the facets.” I dig in the sand with a stick. “I know what it is to hold a false gem. It’s so similar to the real thing, yet…worthless.”
“Gems are worth what the owner believes they are. If it’s beautiful”—he shrugs—“wear it. Keep it.” His voice quivers at this last part. “Cherish it.”
He clears his throat. “I beg your pardon, my lady. We’ve not even been properly introduced, and I’m telling you how to conduct your affairs.”
I give a weak smile. “I welcome wisdom from any direction.”
But then he’s studying me again, as he had when he approached, staring at the birthmark below my lip. “Your face is familiar, I dare say. It’s why I came closer. I couldn’t be certain.”
“Oh?” I want to lay hold of my past. I do. But dread lingers at the thought of actually facing what I’ll find there.
“My name is Thomas. You may call me Thom.”
“Thom,” I say. “Merryn Winthrop.”
“Ah! Yes, Merryn. The girl from the sea.”
Goosebumps rise on my arms. “What do you mean?” I was called that before. By someone.
“Why, that’s what your name means. Merryn—from the sea. I’m particular about names, and how they fit the person wearing them. One of the quirks of a writer.” He laughs, then turns somber. “Go home to your husband, my dear Merryn. Try to look upon him as you did when the magic befell you.”
Ansel.The lively disruption I needed…and the anchor my soul had found. “We met in Pittville Park, the most unromantically named place in all of England, and it was I who proposed to him.” I don’t wish Thom to know it happened after only three weeks. “There was no magic.” Only my impetuous nature.
“Of course there was.” He shifts on the rock. “The magic of falling in love.”
A jolt in my heart.
“Youdidhave that, I’m certain. Otherwise you wouldn’t feel it this deeply when he disappointed you.”
AJ danced about my heart, sweeping it up in his spins and twirls. He charmed me quite easily into loving him. And now I’m free-falling, scrambling for something, but there’s nothing solid to hold.
He brightens a bit. “I know where I’ve seen your face, Merryn of the sea. A painting hanging in that gallery at Newlyn. I believe I stopped and stared at it until I lost track of time.”
A portrait—ofme?I duck my head to hide my surprise.
“It is a painting done by one who truly sees…and loves you. Anyone can tell.” He touches my shoulder. “Go home to your husband, dear Merryn. Let memory shape who he is to you—thegoodmemories.”
I shiver, and then a tidal wave of memories sweeps over me. I can’t grasp details, only the sensation of a great, engulfing love that saturates my mind, then pulls it back out to sea. But it isn’t AJ who painted me.
“Go and look at the painting again and see what he sees. How very much he adores you. Think on that and the rest will fall away when you’re not even paying attention.” He rises. “Give it time, luv. Don’t write him off too soon.”
Which one?Which one?
He strides across the sand again, hands in his pockets, this man so full of regret. One day, I fear, I shall become exactly like him. I wonder where his love has gone, but some part of me knows. Thom’s downcast face expresses the story silently and completely. Love stories flash like a brilliant star, intense and explosive. But then there’s only darkness.
AJ is in the cottage, performing the perfectly ordinary task of cooking dinner, and the normalcy is disorienting. He has brought us fish—loads of it—and he’s frying it in an ancient panover the hearth…and humming. He isn’t angry now. To be sure, he doesn’t evenlookthe sort to be angry. But he’s wearing the same cheap trousers held up by suspenders that I saw on the man leaving the telephone booth.
I stare at that face to which I’ve grown so accustomed, which I enjoyed so immensely, as the fire casts a warm glow over his features. The shadows hit him differently, and he suddenly seems a stranger.
I close the door behind me, which draws his attention. I’m vaguely aware that he’s brought order to the cottage—ancient dishes are neatly stacked, the floor is swept, and surfaces are clean.
“There you are, my lady.” He straightens and gives a mock bow. “Dishes are scarce, but I’ve found a few that’ll do.” He sets out mismatched plates heaping with boiled potatoes and fish. They might have once been part of a respectable set. “How’d you fare? Any memories yet?”
I stare at the back of his head as he turns another fish over the flames. “A few. But I find they’re clouding my vision of what’s plainly before me in the present.”
