The Secrets of Paper and Ink

by Lindsay Harrel

  There came a low, soft whisper that tickled her ears. “You’re a mystery to me, Sophia Barrett. One I want very much to solve.”

  A tingle ran up her spine. She steepled all her fingers together and placed them over her mouth. What should she say back to him?

  Inside, a voice taunted her. She’d never been good at flirting. How she’d ever attracted David was a mystery. Then again, maybe he could see what a weak person she was, how much she depended on others in her life to lift her up.

  “Lie.”

  Joy’s voice resounded in her head. So what was the truth?

  “You there?” William’s whisper, a gentle prodding, took precedence.

  “I hear you.”

  “That’s a relief. I thought I might just be talking to a wall.”

  “At least you wouldn’t be the only one to do so in this place.”

  “True, true. So want to tell me your deepest, darkest secret?”

  If only she could.

  And for the first time, she almost wanted to. Not simply because he was so easy to talk to. But because the idea of opening up to him felt . . . freeing.

  And William was sweet and he was steady and . . .

  David had been all of those things once upon a time. But looking back, there had been signs of his true character. Mom had always warned her about men like him—like her father—but she’d chosen to ignore her. And she refused to let it happen again.

  Best to stick with lighthearted whispers than ones that could shatter her soul.

  “I hate English tea. Give it to me iced, not hot. And just the tea. No milk or sugar.”

  “That is a dark secret indeed. I don’t think you should share that with anyone here. You might be banned from England forever.”

  A giggle escaped. “That would be sad now, wouldn’t it?”

  “I think so.” And suddenly, his voice no longer held a tease.

  She swallowed. How had this man gotten under her skin in such a short amount of time? Emotions filled her, taking up room in her toes, her fingertips, her chest, her brain. As a therapist, she knew what she should do—allow herself to feel them. But they were too overwhelming. Perhaps she could merely examine them one at a time.

  Right now, she’d leave the feelings of guilt and shame inside. Instead, she’d choose to let herself feel the joy of new beginnings. “I think so too, William.”

  It took a while for another whisper to come round the gallery. “You didn’t ask about my secret.”

  She lifted her eyes to the domed ceiling, saw the scenes from the life of St. Paul depicted in the paintings high above her. “What’s your secret?”

  “I’m falling for you, Sophia.”

  Something about talking to William this way, where he seemed far away but could still hear her heart, gave her courage. “I think I’m falling for you too.”

  21

  GINNY

  This was where Garrett preferred to spend his time?

  Ginny continued her walk from the Underground stop toward the address William had given her. Even in the broad daylight, she hugged her purse close. Her jeans and shirt clung to her body, a byproduct of the humidity harassing the city. The buildings she passed were in various states of disarray and abandonment. Groups of men leered at her as she hurried toward Garrett’s flat.

  Maybe she should have taken William up on his offer to come with her after all.

  But she’d wanted the time alone, didn’t want to stir up any extra drama between the brothers. They had their own issues to work out. Today was about convincing Garrett to come home and figure out what to do about the bookstore. She needed her teammate.

  Finally, she reached his building, an old Victorian that had clearly seen some decay over the last hundred-plus years. The brick crumbled, the slate roof clearly needed patching, and the sash windows were caked with dirt. His flat was on the ground floor, so at least it was easy to find.

  Ginny stood in front of the red door with peeling paint and lifted her hand to knock, then lowered it. Pulling a compact mirror from her purse, she stared back at her reflection—smudged mascara surrounded her brown eyes, wisps of untamable hair framed her face, and an indent in her pale pink bottom lip showed where she’d been biting it all day.

  Good thing their relationship was built on more than looks.

  Before she could stop herself again, she knocked. A fluorescent light buzzed and flickered down the hallway.

  The door opened. “Did you forget your—” Garrett stopped and blinked. “Ginny?”

  She’d expected to find him unshaven, wearing nothing but basketball shorts and a stained T-shirt, with bloodshot eyes and maybe a beer in his hand—the result of not working and trying to figure out what was wrong with his life. Instead, he was dressed in pressed slacks and a collared shirt, his cheeks and chin smooth and his features well rested. He’d cut his hair short, cropped close to his head. It looked good.

  “Hi.” She ran her fingers over the rope-like strap of her purse.

  He peeked out into the hallway. “What are you doing here?”

  The sharpness in his tone made her wince. “I couldn’t . . . I didn’t know what else to do. Things have been so horribly wrong, and I just wanted to see you and I knew that if I did, it could all be okay.” Her chin trembled. “Garrett, I . . .”

  His features fell. “I’m sorry, Gin.” Then he stepped forward and enveloped her in his arms, where she’d always fit, where she was meant to be. A new scent—spicy, like cinnamon—surrounded her. He must have stopped using the cologne she’d bought him for his birthday.

  She held on tight, all reason leaving her. If only he’d tip her chin up, kiss her . . .

  Wait. The word breathed a warning to her heart. This was not why she’d come. Yes, she wanted to reconcile. But she also wanted an explanation.

  Ginny pried herself from her husband’s arms. “Garrett, what’s going on?” Surprised by the strength in her voice, she straightened.

  He looked at the ground, a grungy carpet that had maybe once been a brilliant blue but now appeared dull and worn out. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  “I didn’t have a choice. The bookstore . . . Well, I needed to talk to you. Plus, you hardly gave me anything to go on. We’ve been married for five years. I deserve to know why you’re filing for divorce.”

  He wore his decision-making face: pursed lips swung to one side, brow furrowed in concentration. Then he nodded. “Come in.”

  Was it her imagination or did he take another look down the hallway as he was ushering her inside and closing the door? Why would he be embarrassed to be seen with her?

  The flat must have come furnished because he couldn’t have bought all of this since he’d left. She’d assumed it would be a sty—this man never even managed to get his underwear in the hamper—but other than a bit of clutter, it was neat and tidy. As they passed the kitchen, she noticed a pile of dishes in the sink, including skillets and pans. Since when did Garrett cook? Perhaps it was part of “finding” himself.

  He led her to a small living room and waited for her to sit on the sofa. Then he lowered himself into a recliner. His hands gripped his kneecaps as he leaned forward, rocking his feet ever so slightly. Clearly, he was just as nervous as she was.

  She longed to put him at ease, but she had to remember why she’d come. “I’m sorry to show up unannounced, but you weren’t really returning my phone calls.”

  “I know, but you just kept asking the same thing over and over again. I couldn’t handle it.” He glanced at the clock, squeezing his hands open, shut, open.

  “It’s just . . .” Her eyes burned. “Why?” There was no possible way the wrenching word could sound more pathetic.

  He did not answer right away. “I’ve already told you—”

  “Yes, you said you weren’t sure you loved me anymore.”

  “It’s not just that.” He made a fist with his right hand and punched his left hand, frowned. “I’m not sure I ever really loved you.”
<
br />   Her jaw fell open. “Wha—”

  “Let me finish. It’s taken me a while to process this, but I know this is the first time you’re hearing it. So I apologize if I sound . . . unemotional about it. The fact is, my father died, you were there to help me through, and I thought it meant you were the one for me. You really were amazing to me, but that doesn’t mean we were meant to be together.”

  “But we are together. Does it matter if it’s ‘meant to be’ or not?” How could she articulate how she felt when she was with him? “You are everything to me, Garrett.”

  “And do you know how much pressure that puts on a man? I’m not perfect, Ginny. In fact, I’m a pretty royal screw-up if you haven’t figured it out by now.” He’d said he wouldn’t be emotional, but she glimpsed an undercurrent of grief and anger in him.

  “I never meant to put pressure on you. I’m not perfect either.”

  “Aren’t you, though? You are truly what every man could want: intelligent, beautiful, kind.”

  “If you feel that way, then why are you divorcing me?”

  And there were the tears, unshed but glimmering in his eyes. “Because it’s not enough.” He punched his hands together once more. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

  “But what about the book—”

  “Honey?” The front door creaked open and slammed, and a disembodied voice floated through the room. A female voice. “Can you come help me with the groceries?”

  It took Ginny several moments to process what she was hearing and seeing.

  Garrett’s face draining of color.

  The rustle of paper bags.

  A petite blonde walking into the room clutching said paper bags, a look of surprise on her face.

  A low moan slicing through her whole being.

  She was the worst kind of fool.

  “Ginny . . .” Garrett slid off the recliner and crouched in front of her.

  “What is going on? Who”—Ginny pointed to the woman, whose eyes had flown to the ground—“is that? And why is she calling you honey?”

  Her husband reached out as if to grab her hand, but stopped himself. “I’m so sorry.” His words sounded anguished, genuine even, but the apology could not compute with the lie in the form of the blonde standing ten feet away.

  “You lied to me.”

  “No. Yes.” Garrett sighed. “I truly did come here to find myself. There wasn’t anyone else. But in the midst of my sorrow, the first week here, I met Samantha and we formed a friendship. And it turned into more.” He paused. “You have every right to hate me.”

  Samantha approached them, set the bags down on the coffee table, and placed her hand on Garrett’s shoulder—whether to claim him or comfort him, who could tell.

  Ginny didn’t look up at her to find out. “So why didn’t you come home, ask me for forgiveness? I would have forgiven you.”

  And she would have. The thought surprised her. Would she have taken him back without question? Yes, there would have been hurt, but was she so desperate that she’d trust him right away after such a huge grievance against her?

  “I know, and I considered it. But then . . .” He cleared his throat. “Samantha and I fell in love. I didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did. And it felt different from what I’ve ever felt for you. It’s not your fault, Gin. You’ve been a good wife. But . . .”

  And then she understood fully.

  It didn’t matter that she loved Garrett with every breath of her being, that she’d given up her own dreams of culinary school to pursue what everyone else wanted of her, that she’d worked her rear off trying to save Garrett’s dream.

  She was no better off now than five years ago because she still didn’t know where she belonged.

  22

  SOPHIA

  When William had described an “old-school” contact in London who was difficult to reach, Sophia had pictured an elderly woman with an eyeglass chain and a poor sense of style—not the long-legged beauty wearing a flowy top and Gucci jeans standing before her.

  Professor Abigail Wentworth opened the front door to her flat a little wider. “William. Come in.” She stepped forward and wrapped him in an enthusiastic hug. Her blond hair fell in waves to her waist and she smelled of eucalyptus. A tiny surge of green besieged Sophia at the sight of William hugging her back.

  William pulled away from his friend’s embrace, smiling. “So good to see you again, Abigail. It’s been too long.” He turned to Sophia. “This is Sophia Barrett.”

  Abigail seemed to consider her, and her gaze penetrated Sophia’s armor. After a moment’s glance, her features softened, as if she’d discerned something about Sophia just then. “Welcome to my home, Sophia. It’s a pleasure.”

  Though the tinge of jealousy from earlier still remained, Sophia couldn’t justify it. There was a softness, a friendliness to Abigail that was unusual upon first meeting someone. “Likewise.”

  Abigail turned on her heel and headed down her hallway. “Come,” her voice called back to them.

  They stepped across the threshold, and William shut the door behind them. He cocked an eyebrow at Sophia. “Well? I told you she was unique.”

  “She is. But you didn’t mention she was so . . .”

  “Rich?” The flat was a well-positioned home in Chelsea.

  “No. Beautiful.”

  William looked amused. “Is she?”

  “Never mind.” She flicked him on the arm and strode past him, following Abigail’s path. She heard William chuckle as he hurried to catch up.

  Large oil paintings lined the hallway walls, everything from Monet to Picasso to some modern art pieces by artists Sophia was not familiar with. The hallway split. To the right, Sophia spied an elaborate dining room, or what was supposed to be one. Instead of a formal table and chairs, however, the room held display cases featuring a variety of artifacts. She wasn’t close enough to make them all out and would have gone inside if Abigail hadn’t called to them from the left side of the hallway.

  She turned from the display case room and followed William into a library with at least twenty tall bookcases stuffed to the brim. In the corner of the room, next to the expansive window with floor-length curtains, sat a ten-foot white statue of Buddha, his eyes closed in meditation. Crucifixes peppered the walls that weren’t covered with bookcases. Incense burned on a coffee table in the middle of the room, where Abigail sat on a regal-looking sofa.

  William lowered himself into an overstuffed leather chair. “I could spend weeks in this room. It’s quite something. You’ve added even more books.”

  On her way to join them, Sophia passed a display case, catching sight of a very old edition of the Quran. “Are you a professor of religion, Abigail?” She joined her on the sofa, leaving ample cushion space between herself and William’s friend.

  “Oh no. Geography.” Abigail’s light laugh floated on the air. “I’m merely interested in the spiritual. William, do you remember that retreat we took in uni? Ah, it was so refreshing. I now try to get away like that at least once a year if I can.”

  “I do remember. If I recall, that’s when you first convinced me to try yoga. It was not pretty.”

  “Oh, I’d forgotten! It was quite amusing, I’ll admit. But you didn’t come here to discuss that.” Abigail swung her smile toward Sophia. “William sent me a copy of the written material in question and I think I might be able to help.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Hope zinged through Sophia’s heart.

  “Before I do, though, let me serve the tea.” Abigail stood and left the room for a moment, then returned carrying a tray sporting a teapot, three cups and saucers, milk, sugar, scones, cream, jam, and small finger sandwiches.

  Placing everything on the coffee table, Abigail sat once more. She bent forward and poured milk into each of the cups, then added tea from the teapot. The way her lithe fingers moved nearly hypnotized Sophia. There was an aura of calm surrounding Abigail. “Let’s get to know each other a bit before diving
in, shall we? Sophia, I sense that your profession has something to do with helping people.”

  She sensed it? “Y-yes, I’m a women’s therapist.”

  Abigail slid Sophia a cup of tea, holding out a sugar bowl with a small set of tongs. “Hmm.” Abigail tilted her head and studied Sophia as she dropped two cubes of sugar into her tea. Maybe it would mask some of the tea’s flavor. “What drew you to that profession in the first place?”

  “I guess I just wanted to help people.” Sophia raised the cup to her lips. It would be rude not to try it. She caught William watching her and remembered he knew her “secret” about hating English tea. She lifted the cup slightly as if to say, “Here goes nothing.”

  His lips curled into a grin.

  As the tea flowed into her mouth, she held back a grimace.

  “Yes, that makes sense.” Abigail’s voice brought her back to the present. “As soon as I saw you, I could tell you felt sympathy for others. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? You feel empathy, because you’ve also been a victim. But you don’t want to be one. Still, your body language and everything else tells me this desire in you is making you closed off.”

  “How . . .?” Sophia couldn’t get the question out. Without thinking, she sucked down a full mouthful of the tea. The hot liquid burned the roof of her mouth and throat. She coughed.

  “Are you all right?” William reached into his bag and pulled out a water bottle. “Here.”

  Sophia waved him off. “I’m okay. Thanks.” She turned once more to Abigail, who lifted her own cup to her lips and sipped, her back poised and straight, the perfect picture of harmony. “How did you know all of that?” From across the table, she could feel William’s questioning gaze burrowing into her.

  “Oh, I’m just good at reading people.” Abigail set her tea down, then brushed her hair behind her shoulders. “Your mother plays into it, doesn’t she? Your decision to be a therapist, I mean.” Her ability to read people bordered on the bizarre, but maybe she was one of those Sherlock Holmes types who could simply pick up on context clues.

  Still, Sophia considered the question. “In many ways, yes, I suppose so. She has always been a huge influence in my life. She remained strong in the face of her trials, and she’s always put others first.”