Because he loved Cosima. He loved Phoebe.
Duncan’s love was easy to return. Cosima only had to follow the directions.
He’d texted back immediately to communicate his cheer that she was resting, but what he didn’t say was what Cosima heard the loudest. Nothing about the board. The CEO appointment. Their television show. The omissions meant Duncan knew there was something very wrong, and that he’d decided to handle the situation with care.
Cosima didn’t want to feel wrong. She didn’t want to be handled. But the points of the daggers pressed against her ribs anyway.
She had come downstairs into the lounge and watched a movie, dialing up the sound in her earphones until it was loud enough to drown out her guilt and indecision.
“Give me that.” Cosima held out her hand for the shepherdess.
Edie gave it to her. “You want to try with the hairpin?”
“No. You can tuck it in your reticule.”
Edie snorted as Cosima set the first shepherdess back on top of the piano. Then she rose and walked out of the lounge to the clear area of traffic-polished flagstones in front of the reception desk.
When the next rumble of thunder had built to a crescendo, she dropped the secret-keeping shepherdess on the floor.
The fine bone china exploded like a bomb.
“JesusPete, Cosima!” Edie whispered.
Cosima surveyed the destruction. “I may have miscalculated.”
“You fucking think? Morag’s going to kill us. Actually kill us. Put us in a cage, fatten us with candy, and roast us in that monster of an Aga she’s got.” Edie sighed. “I wish she’d let meuse it. I would love to cycle sourdough boules through that mother.”
“I’m not worried aboutMorag, I just forgot I wasn’t wearing shoes or slippers, and now I’m trapped by china shards in bare feet.” She bent over and snatched up the rolled-up piece of stationery the figurine had been hiding. “I got it!”
“Don’t read it yet. Wait there while I find a dustpan and broom.” Edie hustled past her and disappeared into the kitchen. She reappeared with a broom and carefully swept up every speck of china, one fist gripping her pants at her hip, then pulled out a pair of Morag-knitted wool socks from her side pocket and handed them to Cosima. “Do you think you can slide your feet into those? I think I got everything, but in case I didn’t, I’d rather you had socks.” Edie stepped next to her. “You can hold on to my shoulder.”
Cosima placed her hand on Edie’s shoulder, balancing on one foot as she slid a sock onto the other. She didn’t know when she’d last been offered such a simple act of caretaking. Edie’s skin was warm through her T-shirt, round and firm with muscle. Cosima had to surrender to the other woman so that she wouldn’t be hurt, and the simple trust plus Edie’s body under her hand, kneeling at her feet, made her ache unbearably.
She didn’t want the ache to stop. Far from it. She wanted to sink into this trust and unobligated caretaking like a hot bath. It hurtgood.
Cosima switched hands on Edie’s shoulder and tugged on the second sock, her cheeks hot.
Edie set the dustpan and broom against the wall. “Now we can read it.”
By silent mutual agreement, they took the paper to the dining table and sat back down with the guest book. Cosima unrolledthe stationery—the paper stiff and dry with age, but verifiably from her mother’s stationer.
“It says, ‘Look, Listen, and Love.’” Cosima let the paper go on the table, where it rolled back up. “So helpful. Thanks, Mother.”
“Wait, though.” Edie put her hand on Cosima’s forearm. “My brain is doing something.”
“What is it doing? Don’t break it.”
“Shh.” Edie closed her eyes.
“Should I get another cup of tea? Will this take a while?”
Edie opened her eyes. “Now is not the time for our charming banter. I actually have to focus when an unformed thought wiggles its way in. Be quiet before it wiggles back out and I start thinking about frosting recipes.”
As Cosima waited, she looked for more constellations on Edie’s face, visually tracing a path from a tiny moon-shaped scar above the corner of her left eye to a trio of freckles on her cheekbone, then discovering a pale freckle that surrounded another darker freckle like a miniature Saturn. Then Edie opened her eyes.
“I got it! Come on.” She jumped out of the dining room chair and ran back toward the lounge, Cosima following in the slippery wool socks. Instead of going all the way into the lounge, Edie took the hallway next to the stairs, behind the reception desk, and led Cosima into what Morag called “the library.” It was a medium-sized room that opened to the garden. Its walls were lined with unremarkable bookshelves housing hundreds of paperbacks. Edie stood on a stool to skim her finger down a row of titles. She tipped a book off the shelf. Cosima caught a glimpse of a couple, the woman wearing a voluminous pink gown. “Look, Listen, and Love! It’s the title of a Barbara Cartland novel!”
“I’m not reading that,” Cosima said. “It’s already almost four in the morning.”
