by Ava Miles
For the first time in her marriage, she felt an uncertain gulf between them. Part of her wanted to qualify her answer or say something like what do you think? But if she’d learned anything in the past months—and God, wasn’t she turning eighty in two days on the twenty-eighth?—it was that she had to be honest and speak from the heart. “Yes, especially after Quinn said he’d welcome my help. But I know you have your own family to think about.”
“You’re my family too, Clara, gosh darn it,” he grumbled, rubbing the arm she had on his chest.
“Arthur, if there was ever a time for brutal honesty, it’s now.” She rose on an elbow, wishing she could see his face. “You’ve had them for a lot longer than you’ve had me. We’ve never thought in terms of ‘step’ this or step that. You know I love them as if they were blood relatives.”
“And I love your Merriams,” he admitted. “Dammit, woman, you know that.”
“Yet the world is falling apart quickly, and we have to decide where to circle the wagons, as you say. Arthur, do you see us being apart for this? You in Dare Valley and me in Ireland?”
His harrumph was both heartwarming and heart-wrenching. “No, dammit. I don’t want to be without you. You’re my wife, my life, my heart.”
She pressed herself to his side, tears filling her eyes.
“But so is my family in Dare Valley…and the same is true of your Merriams. Oh, Clara. We should feel blessed to have so many people we care about and the means to even talk like this.”
Nodding into his chest, she took a breath. “I know. We are lucky. For so long, I only had Hargreaves.” She thought of her dearest friend, who’d changed so much over the last month. He would go wherever she went, but still, she would free him to make his own decision.
“You have a whole bunch of people on your side, so don’t let those past maudlin thoughts sneak in. You hear me?”
His bluster couldn’t have blown a piece of paper down, but it was still comforting.
“I know Meredith and Tanner will be okay,” Arthur said. “Tanner worked in warzones, and Meredith showed her true grit when she came back to Dare Valley and rebuilt her life. It’s Jill who worries me. After my talk with Amelia, I realized I wasn’t asking some important questions about health and wellness. Clara, I can’t find jack shit about the virus’ effect on pregnant women and their babies.”
“Lucy is pregnant too,” Clara added, her heart sinking.
“At least Andy’s a doctor,” he said. His great-nephew might be a generalist, but he was a good one. “God, he lost his first wife so young. It just can’t happen again.”
“Arthur Hale, you stop those thoughts right now,” she said, putting steel into her voice. “You’re thinking worst case when nothing has happened yet.”
“But it’s coming, Clara,” he said, finally sitting up and turning on the bedside light. “You were right about that.”
In the soft glow, his wrinkles seemed to define his face, almost like a map of the life he’d lived. One of her old friends in the Maasai village had taught her about the meaning of wrinkles. The longer, deeper ones marked the good times and good choices, especially those around the eyes and mouth, while the shorter, broken ones showed choices one regretted.
Clara had watched her wrinkles change since being reunited with Arthur and her family. The smaller, broken ones had healed through her smile and newfound joy while the others were softening into signs of wisdom. She didn’t want this new threat to stamp its presence on her face. She wouldn’t tolerate it.
“You can feel it every day,” Arthur said, his blue eyes troubled. “Before I met you, I had a feeling of peace about death. About moving on. But you changed things for me. Dammit, I want to reach one hundred and then some with you, and I want the rest of our family to do the same.”
She bit her lip. “So do I. We have the healing flower from Kenya that saved Michaela’s life. I just wish we had enough for the entire world.”
“Yeah, I’ve thought about that. It’s hard for me to reconcile—as both a human being and a journalist. Healing shouldn’t be anyone’s exclusive domain. But there’s the red tape to think about. Even with fast-tracked testing, it’s still too slow. And even if everything goes well, the flowers will still need to be grown. Bah! What’s the use of having a healing flower that’s not ready to help the world?”
“You’re right about it taking too damn long,” Clara said, cursing uncharacteristically.
“The hands of time are clicking loudly right now,” Arthur said. “I hate dancing to the tune.”
She hugged him. “Don’t fret too much. It’s probably not good for your blood pressure or your heart.”
“Bah! I’m as fit as a fiddle and plan to keep it that way. In fact, I wanted to tell you… Tomorrow, if you and Hargreaves are doing one of your exercise things, I hope you don’t mind me joining you.”
“We’d love that!” she cried out. “Oh, Arthur Hale, you dear, dear man.”
She wouldn’t focus on how scared he must be to suggest such a thing. This was a victory.
“Only I want to be clear about a few things,” he said, a twinkle coming back into his eyes. “I’m not sure I can or want to get into that downward dog thing.”
Suddenly the urge to laugh was upon her. “You do the poses you want to. Yoga is about freedom.”
“I also won’t stand for Hargreaves adjusting my poses like he does with yours.”
As if Hargreaves would ever presume, but she nodded again, laughter close to the surface. “I’ll put my hands on you if needed. How about that?”
“I’m always up for that,” he said, extending his cheek. “How about you give me a kiss?”
Her hand cupped his face and she planted one sweetly on his mouth.
“You missed, but I like your target. Got any other targets in mind?”
His cheeky request suggested their underlying tension was gone. “Before I do, have we decided anything? Or do we need more time?”
“I go with you, my dear, and you need to go to Ireland. For your family and for the business. I don’t see it going any other way.”
She squeezed her eyes shut as conflicting emotions surfaced. “Are you sure you can live with that?” Her mind tossed up a horrible image of something happening to one of his relatives in Dare Valley. How would he feel if he wasn’t there? Jill was having her baby in mid-May. Surely they would be home by then.
“I live with my choices, and this one I make freely,” he said gruffly.
“I love that about you,” she said, kissing him slowly on the mouth. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. We go together. Always. I’ll be able to touch base with the Hales on that dratted FaceTime you use so much. You’ll have to help me with it—and the texting. Jill loved to text me before I put her on a monthly plan.”
He’d insisted his granddaughter could only text him three times a month—a rule he’d instituted after an onslaught of memes. But Jill had only gotten more inventive. She texted Clara endless pictures of the twins for her to share with Arthur. He might bark, but he looked at every single one.
“And the newspaper?” she asked.
“Meredith and Tanner will see it through these times and report the hell out of everything. If they need me, they know how to reach me. I imagine I’ll have an Op Ed or two to contribute. And Amelia and I are working on an article together, remember?”
She did, and she kissed him again for being so dear with his little assistant. Annie and Flynn had agreed with his approach, knowing they couldn’t stop Amelia from pursuing her story. Also, they didn’t want to. She might be young, but she was also smart. They wanted her to live without fear, and if this helped, so be it.
“Well, back to Ireland,” Arthur said, fitting his arm around her. “We experienced plenty of magic and miracles there on our first two visits. Do you think it has more to share with us on that score?”
God, she hoped so. Becca had made the Wild Irish Rose Inn a haven for herself since the wor
ld had been so scary for her. She’d suffered from agoraphobia for years, and only in recent months had she managed to leave the grounds of the inn. How ironic that she’d conquered her fear at a time when the world was growing scarier by the day. “If I have to scour the countryside for every rainbow and fairy to find that magic, I will.”
“So will I, my dear.”
As she slowly drifted off to sleep, her worries keeping her awake, she found herself imagining the inn. Situated on the sea, it seemed far away from world events, a place out of time, some would say.
Now it would be a haven for the Merriam family while they tried to save the company and keep the family safe from the virus.
Chapter 22
Quinn had never thought of himself as a sentimental man.
At least not in the years he and Francesca were apart. She’d brought out that piece of him, alongside a surprising tenderness. Seeing her surrounded by the family who had come to Ireland in the Wild Irish Rose’s dining room evoked heart pangs. She was sitting next to Trevor, twirling a lock of her black hair like she used to in graduate school when studying a particularly complicated problem, as Buttercup—his brother’s lovesick alpaca—bobbed her head outside the window. The animal’s forlorn cry had everyone laughing, including his father, who sat beside his mother at the next table.
“Quinn!” Alice called, appearing beside him, presumably coming from the kitchen where she and Hargreaves were cooking with Becca’s French chef for Aunt Clara’s birthday dinner. “Have you tried Aileen’s scones? They’re ridiculous!”
Aileen O’Shea often made the scones when Becca had other duties, and he had to concur with Alice’s assessment. “I hope you saved me some.”
“She made like ten batches with our entourage showing up. She told me your brother’s record is ten in one sitting. Maybe we should have a scone-off to relieve all the tension. I’m so glad we’re here. I was just telling my friend Sarah how awesome it is here. I mean, if the sixty rabbits weren’t cute enough, there’s Buttercup. I think I’m in love.”
Alice seemed to be a ray of sunlight regardless of circumstances. Francesca had commented on her friend’s unbelievably positive nature, something she’d honed after her parents’ deaths. Quinn could respect that kind of grit. “Don’t tell Trevor. He and Buttercup have a thing going.”
“Don’t they just?” Aileen said, coming out of the kitchen and wiping her floured hands on her apron. “Have you had your scones yet, Quinn? I’ve just taken a fresh batch out of the oven.”
He inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of butter and rich baked goods in the air. “I haven’t had breakfast yet. I had a few calls to make with our European partners.”
Aileen gave him a gentle shove toward the tables. “Well, go on with you now. I’ll make you a fresh plate. Come on, Alice. Let’s get back to the kitchen. It’s not every day a woman turns eighty.”
Alice winked at him, and then Aileen was putting her arm around the woman and ushering her away. As the door swung open, Quinn could hear the excited French coming from Chef Padraig Buckley, followed by Hargreaves’ reply. Alice joined in, and the trio laughed. Since Chef Padraig—trained at the Cordon Bleu and an award-winning restaurant in Paris—was known for his seriousness in the kitchen, Quinn had to scratch his head. There was something about Alice and Hargreaves these days. They’d become a force of nature, capable of getting a laugh or a smile out of nearly anyone.
Laughter was a commodity right now, and he wished he could store it up like scones. When they talked business, there wasn’t any such sound, only the gnashing of teeth and the popping of jaws.
“How did your calls go?” Francesca asked, having left the table to cross to him.
“About how you’d expect. Investor confidence is the lowest I remember seeing it. But people are more worried about themselves than they are about us. They didn’t ask how we were faring. They assumed it was bad news.”
She laid her hand on his shoulder in a show of comfort. “Come and eat,” she said, leading him to the table. “You’ll feel better afterward.”
He greeted everyone and sat down, and to his surprise, he ate heartily. Buttercup’s grunts and cries through the window were the background music, adding a bit of much-needed cheerfulness.
“This isn’t the kind of birthday celebration anyone imagined for Aunt Clara,” J.T. said to his right, tearing apart another scone. “We were all supposed to fly into Dare Valley and give her the time of her life.”
“At least we’re together,” Caroline said, her face taut with tension. “Alice and Hargreaves are baking her an incredible chocolate cake named after a queen.”
“A reine de saba,” Francesca supplied.
“I haven’t wished her happy birthday yet,” Quinn said, noting his aunt and uncle’s absence. “Where is she?”
“Uncle Arthur took her on a walk to see the rabbits after they ate breakfast,” Caroline said. “She was wringing her hands terribly this morning after reading the news.”
“Her face looked drawn,” J.T. said, cursing under his breath. “She’s scared.”
“We all are,” Caroline said. “I talked to a couple of my sisters last night, and everyone in the States is holding their breath.”
Quinn stood, tired of the doom and gloom. “I’m going to wish her a happy birthday. Then let’s get back to work.”
Francesca stood with him. “I’ll come with you.”
Pride swelled in his chest—it still came as a shock, a delight, that he had her support and love. He took her hand, and they walked to the coat closet together. “I was going to ask you.”
“You were in your take-no-prisoners mode,” she said, tugging on her coat. “I also know you’re struggling with all of this dire talk.”
“Do I need to be more patient?” he asked, shoving his hands through the sleeves of his jacket. “Understanding? There’s nothing to be done about any of it except what we’re already doing.”
She framed his face, her hands cold. “Agreed. But yes, you might want to be a bit more understanding. Everyone’s emotions are stretched to the limit right now.”
He studied her, noting the worry lines around her expressive violet eyes. “Yours too.” He reached up to touch her brow. “The worry never goes away anymore, even when we make love.” He’d looked into her eyes in the aftermath last night, but there’d been no sign of her usual peace and lassitude. He felt powerless to help her. Powerless to improve the situation or allay anyone’s fears.
“It keeps it away long enough,” she said, “and that’s something to be grateful for.”
“I want to slay every damn worry for you,” he said, pulling her toward his chest.
“I feel the same,” she said, tightening her arms around him for a moment. “Come on. You might want to try holding a rabbit this time. They’re wonderful for stress reduction.”
Like hell, he thought. “If I end up holding a rabbit for comfort, commit me. I won’t be fit to do anything.”
She led him out of the inn. “Oh, you tough guys.”
The wind was bracing when they cleared the house. In the distance, the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs signaled a potent fight between the land and the sea. He wondered if either side ever won or if the fight continued daily without a clear victor. Oddly, that battle was something he understood. He could batter himself against the market daily and still not feel like he’d won anything.
“You’re thinking,” Francesca said, tugging on his hand. “Set your worries aside for a moment and take in the view. Aren’t we fortunate to be here? The sea is so powerful today; the inn is breathtaking, and the company is magnifique.”
Her use of the French wasn’t lost on him. “Next you’ll be in the kitchen, talking in French and cooking with the others.”
She smiled. “Maybe I will. I haven’t made you Lebanese coffee yet.”
A punch of memory hit him: Francesca sitting on his lap in nothing but his shirt as they drank coffee after dinner. “Maybe a
private drink in our room is in order.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Maybe.”
Hours later, she made Lebanese coffee for his entire family after Aunt Clara’s special birthday dinner. He helped arrange the cups so she could pour. They weren’t the traditional small cups, but Francesca had declared them a perfect substitute. “You didn’t have to do this.”
She slowly filled the cups, one after another, careful not to pour out the grounds in the bottom of the saucepan. The brew was a redolent mixture of milk, coffee, sugar, and a touch of cardamom.
“I was happy to,” she said. “She deserves all the good cheer we can give her. Your gift was lovely.”
He set the filled cups on the silver tray Aileen had provided for them. “I shopped at Becca’s yarn shop. It was a piece of cake.”
More than that—it had been enjoyable, something he wasn’t ready to admit out loud. The first time he’d met Becca was an unmitigated disaster. He and Connor had come to the inn in a chopper, not knowing she had severe agoraphobia triggered by the sound of helicopters. She and Connor had established a sort of camaraderie on the family’s last visit, but Quinn had never really had a moment alone with her. He appreciated the trouble she’d gone to in the shop—she’d brought out a bright red yarn she’d only just finished, something that wasn’t available for sale yet—and they’d ended up talking for half an hour. She’d attempted to give him the yarn for free, knowing it was for Clara, but he’d insisted on paying, something she’d declared she would only agree to in exchange for a hug. So he’d hugged her, and when he pulled away, he could tell both of them were feeling the emotion of it.
“Speaking of cake,” Francesca said. “I might need some more of the reine de saba. Hargreaves and Alice outdid themselves.”
“I heard Hargreaves say it was one of the cakes they learned how to make at that chocolate cooking class back in San Francisco.”
“I hadn’t heard,” Francesca said. “How nice! I knew Alice would love the class. Chocolate makes everything better, she always says. Come on, let’s take these trays out to everyone.”