by Ella Carey
He was close, but Tess couldn’t move. Didn’t want to move . . .
“Tell me,” he murmured. “When was the last time you read a book like Edward’s?”
“What a strange thing to ask in the middle of a deadly serious conversation.” But her voice was low now and a delicious sense of the allurement that she’d felt around James since their arrival in Rome seemed to enfold her like the softest cashmere glove.
James took her hand.
“I used to love books with more depth,” she said. He was still close. “When I was a teenager, I devoured Tolstoy, Austen, the Brontës . . . but once I started working, then I guess I started reading thrillers, books that were faster paced. My own choices seemed sort of odd in a world where bestsellers reigned supreme, I suppose . . .”
“You don’t need to impress everyone else. Because that isn’t what matters.” His lips were touching the top of her head.
She closed her eyes; she hardly knew or cared who else was around.
He leaned closer.
“What’s wrong with us? It must be Rome,” she whispered. There was no point denying what was going on.
“You know, back in New York, your family would be . . . completely unacceptable to mine, Tess.” His lips were so close to hers that she almost felt them.
She let out a giggle.
“My mother planned a wife for me,” he murmured.
She pulled back and held his face in her hands.
“I, in my early twenties, was so eager not to upset the boat, you see—”
“Oh, really?”
“I went out with the girl from a suitable family. We even got to the point where we discussed marriage.”
“Oh.” But she could not laugh at that.
James rested his forehead on hers. “But I wanted something different.”
“What’s that?” Tess barely whispered the words.
“Someone real.” His eyes darkened.
And he leaned closer, brushing his lips onto hers.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Victor Harbor, 1946
Edward appeared at the French doors that led to Rebecca’s bedroom. She turned from where she lay on her bed, tidying up the work she had done out on the island today. Her plan was to have at least twenty pieces ready to send off to Sunday well in time for the CAS exhibition. Rebecca was loving the diligence of working toward an exhibition. Not to mention the fact that it gave her something on which to focus other than her worries about fitting in with the Russell family. Work seemed to be her best distraction, a salvation, in fact. Thank goodness she had it. Imagine having nothing for herself at all. Edward opened the screen door, stepping into the coolness of her room.
Rebecca laughed, shrieking as he approached her, holding up a fish, teasing her with the glass-eyed dead thing. She giggled and sprang off the bed.
“A plump mullet, the best catch of the day, apart from you,” Edward said, catching her around the waist with his free hand and showering kisses onto her cheek, her neck, everywhere.
She leaned into him, loving the warmth of his old fishing sweater and the feel of the rough hairs on his legs entwined with her own smooth, bare calves underneath her dress.
“I thought we’d row out to West Island and make a fire,” he said, his voice lingering, muffled in her hair. “I want to cook this fish for you on the beach, then watch the sun go down with a good bottle of wine.”
“Sounds like heaven.” Rebecca smiled. “Promise you won’t tip up the boat.”
He tickled her ribs and she nudged him.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he said. “But once I’m done, let’s go.”
Rebecca ran her hand down his arm.
Once they were in the boat, with the sea lapping against its wooden sides and gulls swooping in the endless blue sky, Rebecca felt as if nature were embracing them. It was part of them, and they it. After Edward pulled up on the second little island out in the bay, a steeper, wilder affair than Rebecca’s Granite Island, they scurried about together in the short, knotted bushes that lay above the rocks, reaching with their bare hands to collect sticks and larger pieces of wood to make a fire. Rebecca rolled up the sleeves of the sweater that she had borrowed from Edward, reveling in his smell and in the thought that while his clothes were close to her body she felt part of him, and he of her.
He cooked the fish, crisping it on the flames and serving it on old tin plates with potato chips that he had cooked to perfection in an old saucepan on the fire. Then they sat, wrapped in a blanket together, watching the flames flicker—peaking and dying down in a timeless dance. Every now and then, Edward would lean across to the pile of firewood they had amassed and throw another log onto the blaze.
Rebecca sipped at the wine in her tin cup. Edward’s billycan hung on a tripod above the flames, and once they had finished the last of their wine, he poured billy tea for them, strong and smoky out of the tin bucket that his family had used for generations here on the beach. And he brought out seed cake, cutting them each a good wedge and putting these on one plate to share. He reached forward idly, placing soft, melting morsels of cake in Rebecca’s mouth, sometimes in his own. Rebecca sipped at the strong, hot tea and leaned her head back against his shoulder.
“I want to ask you something,” he said, murmuring into her hair and then moving down, his lips caressing the side of her neck. “Tell me this. Have you ever been in love before? We’ve never talked about that.”
Rebecca sighed. Had she been in love? She reached up, entwining her arm around his neck, her eyes still fixed on the flames, each dancing to its own tune . . . just as she wanted to do, just as Edward wanted to do.
“I’ve never had feelings for anyone in the way that I do for you.” She smiled as he dropped a soft kiss on the top of her head. And leaned in closer to the contours of his body that were becoming as familiar and as dear to her as her own life itself.
“What I want to do,” Edward said, his words soft and almost unbearably close, “is to be with you and to write. If only it could be so simple.” His voice held an urgency.
Rebecca stroked the back of his hand with her fingers, and he caught them up, pulling her hand up to his lips.
Lightness seemed to envelope her body. It was perfect. Surely nothing could stand in their way now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Rome, 1987
Tess lay awake for hours. While it did not seem a good idea to be developing feelings for James, one relentless question beat the same tune in her head, a question that she would never have contemplated having to consider a few days ago. What was going to happen once she and James were back in New York?
Had their interlude in Rome been just a couple of whispered conversations, a kiss in one of the world’s most romantic cities? James had walked her back to the hotel, his hand brushing hers as they went to their hotel rooms.
Tess sat up in the moonlight that filtered through the gauzy curtains onto her bed. Perhaps it had just been an entr’acte. She groaned and lay back down on her pillows with a thump.
When morning came she showered and dressed, half-joyful with anticipation about the day ahead but half in a panic that perhaps last night was only a dalliance for James, nothing more. He might never see her fitting into his world. And yet, Tess couldn’t believe she was thinking like that. She stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes glowed as she thought about him. He was handsome and intelligent, he made her laugh, he was well read, he liked to travel, and he’d gone out of his way to be kind to her. And yet, she had serious reservations.
She made her way down to the lobby, but when she went to open the hotel door, it was pushed toward her instead.
She stepped back. Edward almost fell into her.
The buttons on his pale blue shirt were not done up evenly, and he held a straw hat close to his chest. Droplets of perspiration rested on his forehead.
Tess opened her mouth to speak, only to find James right behind her, holding the door open above Tess’s head. She on
ly just managed to stop herself from closing her eyes and inhaling the deliciousness of his aftershave.
Edward. She must focus on him.
Edward fanned his face with his hat. “Forgive me for arriving unannounced. But you see, I have hardly slept.”
That makes two of us, Tess thought wryly.
Edward’s glance bounced from Tess back to James. “I’ve been thinking. I was remiss last night. I . . . you caught me by surprise. Writing is such a strange thing. I guess I just never thought that you’d be so quick to find out about . . . Rebecca. I don’t know what I thought when I started writing about my own past. Perhaps that I’d get away with it, because it was so distant. Another time and place, to me only existing in my memories now.” He stopped, let out a sigh. “Tess, James. Is there any chance we could go and have a coffee somewhere nearby? I’d like to talk with you.”
“Of course we can, Edward,” Tess said.
But it was all she could do to focus on the older man as the three of them strolled down the street. Her eyes wanted to dart toward James the whole time as he walked along beside them. She made a point of striking up a conversation with Edward about the literature festival instead. Distraction seemed to be the only solution right now. So Tess chattered the whole time, knowing her voice sounded as tinny as a plastic whistle. At least Edward seemed as keen as she was to talk about anything and nothing as well. Deliberately, she walked next to Edward, keeping her distance from James in case she gave something away—a smile, a look.
Edward wasn’t stupid. James stayed quiet.
Edward stopped outside a café on the corner of the Piazza Barberini. Its windows overlooked the square and tables were set for breakfast.
“Is this all right?” he asked.
All Tess could do was nod her head. If someone had told her even a few weeks ago she’d be kissing James Cooper in Rome and then having breakfast with an Australian poet whose sales, well, could have done with a bit of a boost, and whom she was fast coming to adore as well, she would have told them they were mad. And yet, here she was. James held the café door open, and Tess motioned for Edward to go in first. Once Edward was inside, James caught her arm.
“Tess . . .”
But she scuttled past him, shaking her head, only to be horridly aware of him walking behind her.
Edward organized a table for them, speaking in fluent Italian to the waitress. Tess collected her thoughts. But as Edward lifted the leather bag he’d carried over his shoulder onto the table, his gnarled fingers taking great care unbuckling the straps, Tess felt her stomach take another dive. Slowly, with reverence, Edward laid three sketches on the table in front of them.
The moment Tess’s eyes alighted on the first sketch, a wave of flutters passed through her belly. No one had to tell her what it was. She leaned forward, her eyes darting from one sketch to the next. The urge to pick the pictures up was so strong that she had to place her hands on her seat.
Edward and James continued chatting but she couldn’t concentrate on the words that they said. The sketches made no sense. While she knew what they were, knew exactly when Rebecca had done them, and was strikingly touched by the fact Edward had brought them today, she was having the most distinct trouble reconciling them with something else—something that bothered her and did not seem right. It couldn’t be. And yet, it was as if she’d seen a face in a crowd and recognized the person’s features while being unable to assign the face a name.
Edward chuckled at something James said. Then they both went quiet.
“Tess?” James asked. “Aren’t they terrific? She manages to capture a person in a few brushstrokes, doesn’t she? The essence of a person,” he added, his voice dropping down.
But Tess’s thoughts darted in circles, only to keep returning to the same spot.
“They are lovely,” she managed. And reached out for her glass of water, gulping from it.
She sensed James’s eyebrow go up next to her, but stayed rigid in her seat.
“Well,” Edward said, sounding expansive, generous. “I’m glad you like them, Tess.”
Both men were clearly waiting for her to expand. James had hit the nail on the head as far as Rebecca’s work went—her ability to capture the essence of a person. Tess, horridly aware of the silence as the two men sat there, conducted an internal debate about what on earth to do. Should she tell them she had seen pieces in New York very much like the ones she was now looking at? She’d sound mad. Insane. She stared at the sketches hard.
After more silence and polite waiting on Edward and James’s part, Edward picked up the thread of conversation. “This one is of Joy Hester. She was an artist too. But she died in 1960, of Hodgkin’s disease.”
Tess could not tear her eyes away from the strong, beautiful face that stared back at them. But it wasn’t the face that had thrown her.
It was the essence of it.
“Max Harris,” Edward went on. “Such a lively chap—a poet and editor of the Angry Penguins magazine. Great fun at parties.” Tess had seen a photo of Max Harris in one of the books she’d read in the Rose Reading Room and even though her thoughts were awhirl, she still marveled at the way Rebecca had picked up the sparkle in the young poet’s eye. His wiry black hair, oval face, and soft, deep eyes were the image of the romantic poet. He held a cigar, and a scarf was slung over his neck.
“What happened to him?” Tess asked.
“Max is a bookseller.” Edward smiled. “He also founded the Australian Book Review. The Ern Malley hoax, in which he was set up by two young poets, marked him deeply. The worst of it was that he was successfully prosecuted in a trial for publishing indecent material, content in those fake Ern Malley poems. Max was fined five pounds. In many ways, he kept his distance from the world after that. He continued to write but also admitted that in his poetry he was vulnerable, and he wanted to keep those who didn’t wish him well at bay. So he went into the commercial side of the book industry and became a respected critic.”
“I’ve heard of the Ern Malley literary hoax,” James said. “It was an international affair for a brief period.”
Tess fought a blinding urge to run out of the café, find a phone, and make a call. Get on a plane back to New York? She’d have to book a flight soon, or she’d drive herself mad.
“It was internationally reported,” Edward said.
“Yes,” James murmured. “Such a shame.”
“It goes to show what mass media can do to an artist.” Edward caught Tess’s eye.
She picked up her coffee cup, only to have it almost slip between her thumb and forefinger. Tess managed to catch it right before it crashed to the table.
James reached across, took it from her hand, and placed it back down.
“Max was on the cusp of a promising career as a young poet when the scandal started,” Edward went on, his eyes travelling from Tess to James and back.
Oh, he was a pro at awkward situations, Tess thought. And sent up thanks for the older man’s presence at the table and perhaps, ironically, to Celia for raising him with such perfect manners.
She pushed her soft roll around on her plate. There was no way she could stomach anything now. Several possibilities rose into her head. She wasn’t back in New York until tomorrow.
“Tess,” James said, “are you sure you’re okay?”
Edward paused for a moment, lifting his head up from the third sketch.
“Oh, Edward,” Tess managed to say, when she finally gave her full attention to the portrait of Edward in front of her. But the words were a whisper.
“Yes . . .” Edward said.
Tess stared at the sketch. Edward’s handsome young features were a little clouded. Again, just those few brushstrokes and she’d captured him. Tess bit hard on her bottom lip.
“She’d only met you once,” Tess said, in spite of the turmoil in her mind. “But it seems that one meeting was enough to really see a person. And one meeting was enough to fall in love.”
She sensed James
starting at her words.
“Those were days that will always remain with me, and those people, well, they touched my heart,” Edward said.
“I know they did,” Tess said, her voice soft. She had been trying to convince Edward to exploit his love affair with Rebecca. Now, looking at Rebecca’s work, she was repulsed at her own behavior.
“Edward,” she said. She took in a breath. “Would you mind if I took a couple of photos of Rebecca’s work? The . . . editorial team would be fascinated to see Rebecca’s sketches.”
“I don’t mind,” Edward said. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you,” Tess said, avoiding James’s eye, which was trained on her like a loaded gun. As soon as they were out of here he’d be peppering her with questions. But as she snapped a few photographs and looked even more closely at the sketches, she became convinced that the strong instinct she had was spot-on and her panic turned to thoughtfulness—how could it be? How could that have worked? But slowly, she started to add things up.
“I’m sure the girl in question wouldn’t have minded you taking photographs,” Edward said. “As long as you aren’t going to reproduce anything for commercial purposes . . .”
“We would never, ever do that, Edward,” James said.
“Well.” Edward shifted himself in his chair a little. “I just wanted to show you these. And Tess?”
Tess nodded dumbly at him.
“I’m sorry that I can’t be of more help with your publicity. I’m afraid it’s not a thing I deal with very well.”
No, but publicity, Edward, could be about to find you . . .
“You’ll be wanting to get to the festival.” Edward eased himself out of his chair. “And I’m aware that I need to get my work back to you, pronto.”
Tess looked up at him, catching the way his green eyes twinkled. And thought that the last thing she wanted to do was see his heart broken a second time.
But what choice did she have, in the end?