I’ll be back, Merryn love. Watch for me at the window.
Which window? Where?
I stand on the beach, feet apart as my body sways. I came from…that way.Somewhere over there, and up. And I am now headed…?
Home. Yes, home. I need a lie-down. Which way to my bed? I can picture it, but the world is off-kilter. Something is wrong.
My gaze flits over the rocks and locks onto a steep path—yes. Yes, that’s it. Truth trickles into the cracks of my mind—I came down those steps and walked to the inn. I talked to him—Gould.Yes, Gould. I bring up the memory of his face and the conversation returns, detail by detail.
AJ. Criminal. Hidden money.
I hobble up the footpath, pain with each step. The facts return and douse me, and I cannot breathe. But then the familiar tower of Dunn Cottage comes into view, and deep inside something releases.
I climb the steps and slip inside that sanctuary buried in rock. How dim it is. How oddly quiet. I shift the curtains and let in daylight. It’s jarring, so I shut them partway and feel my way toward my carpet bag to change. My traveling gown is dusty, but dry. I change into it.
Back in the main room, AJ is not in sight, but a paper is anchored to the table with a rock.
Not a rock—a brooch.Mybrooch. The one I lost. Beneath it, a strip of paper with another word:Re-broach. When a gifted brooch is recovered and gifted a second time. Not to be confused with “reproach” for losing said brooch, which this definitely is not.
I finger the brooch, feeling an odd twist between a wry smile and dread. Then, with my head still smarting, I pour into my new memory book everything I’ve learned concerning AJ. Everything may go tumbling out once again, should I strike my head.
Footfall pounds down from somewhere above and my husband is here, his hair ruffled as if from the wind, a boyish smile lighting his face. “Ah, she lives!”
I stare at him, at the hair falling over his face. Did he always squint that way? Had I never noticed it? Lady St. Laurent once told me about the night she’d discovered a vastly different side to her quiet husband. She’d surprised him at his club and witnessed her mild-mannered husband shooting out of his chair during a game and challenging another man. And in thatmoment she saw the dull gent who’d always bent to her will…as her equal.We fool ourselves, Merryn, when we think we know our husbands entirely.And this is the part that echoes as I sit before the fire at Dunn Cottage.This is our one fatal flaw: we mistake harmony for intimacy, and we stop looking, stop digging for more.
Harmony. That’s what we have, isn’t it? Real love is more than harmony. And intimacy only comes with honesty. Is there any truth to what I know of my husband? Do I truly wish to know the rest?
“Are you well?” he asks.
I grimace as my leg tenses, and I turn from him. “Perfectly.” I lift my feet onto the opposite chair and pick at my shredded stockings.
“Well, indeed.” He kneels and brushes my hands away, peeling the stockings off from the knees down, rolling them over my legs and running a calloused finger along the tender flesh of my calf. “What’d you do, luv? Brawl with the beach?”
I tug my legs away, letting my skirt fall over them. “I can look after myself.”
“Clearly,” he says, one eyebrow raised. “Stay here.” He moves away with none of his usual energy—almost a limp—when has AJeverlimped?—and reappears with a cloth and kettle of water. “I meant to make us tea with this.” He wets the washcloth and smooths it gently over my feet, the indent of my ankle, and up the length of my calf.
Ill-gotten gains. Thief.
Pain stabs my tender flesh. “Ouch! What are you doing?” I jerk my feet away but he tugs them back onto his lap. He picks at something and I pull away, kicking at him.
“Hold still, Mer.” His grip is firm but gentle. “They’re embedded.”
“What are?”
“Shells.” He anchors my legs to his knees. “Broken bits.”
I bury my face in my hands as he picks tiny shards from my raw skin. “Are you finished yet?”
He bends close, picking out a shard. “Nearly.” He works on my left calf the most, and when he stops, it’s a blessed relief. He smooths cream on it and wraps it in linen, which cools the sting. Maybe love meanssacrifice.
Thatquality he has in spades.
But can it ever be enough without truth?
He’s frowning. “Might need to see a physician.”
I sigh. “We haven’t the money.”
