Raquel Byrnes

  “Yes,” I said. “But why would he want to hide it from his father?”

  “Davenport does not have Simon’s regard for us.” Anger flitted across his features as he said it. He hurled another rock at the ground.

  “Oh.” Up ahead I spied an aloe plant. “Lavender, lets collect some of this for your grandfather.”

  “Will he eat it?” She wrinkled her nose but came over to watch me snap a frond off.

  “No, but we can make an emulsion for him.”

  “A mushen?” Lavender tried.

  “Emulsion. Like a cream for his dry skin,” I said and ruffled her curls. “I’ll show you how to make it when we get back. Want to hold the pieces?”

  She nodded, took the pieces, and dropped them in the pocket of her dress.

  Josif and I walked without talking, the ground crunching under our feet and Lavender’s constant babble to her imaginary friend the only sound other than the rustling of the trees.

  Far enough from the forest to relax, I studied Josif. Dark hair, wavy and thick over a clearly eastern European face, he seemed both foreign and from another era. His clothes looked hand stitched; the brown vest he wore was threaded with red swirling designs. Little silver beads dangled from a braid of yarn peeking out of his pocket. They were the same beads I’d seen on Nalla’s shawl, and I wondered if he knew her.

  “Should we be walking out in the open like this?” I asked and looked over my shoulder.

  “The forest hides the danger.” He shook his head. “We are fine.”

  “Then what—”

  He pointed. “There. Do you smell it?”

  “Sea air.” I tilted my head. “And waves.”

  The thunder of swells against jagged rocks sounded loud.

  “Yes, we are at the cliffs,” Josif explained. “Do you know this place?”

  “No.” I vaguely remembered Davenport saying something about cliffs but couldn’t quite recall what.

  The tall grasses thinned to a mat of ground cover ivy, and I looked across the ocean from the edge of a cliff more than fifty feet up. Warm, salty air ruffled my skirt and hair, the feel of it so like the beaches back home that I felt a pang of longing.

  Lavender sat in a cluster of daisies, her hair full of the yellow blooms as she picked and shoved them in her curls.

  “This…this is beautiful,” I whispered and stepped to the edge, peering down.

  Waves pummeled the craggy rocks below, their white foam spraying up in bursts. Sunlight arced through the droplets flashing rainbows across the white sands. Had I dreamt of a place to capture my heart, this would be it.

  Josif moved next to me, his hand going out. “This is good view, but tread with care.” He eased me back a step.

  “It’s fine,” I started, but his gaze went to Lavender, and it was then that Davenport’s words came to me. Lavender’s mother had died from a fall. “What is this place’s name?”

  “Echo Cliffs,” he whispered.

  Lavender sat talking happily to the thin air. Looking up, she smiled. “Lucien says he wants to go down to the sand.”

  It struck me odd that she expressed no fear or sadness at being here. Maybe she didn’t know where her mother died. Why would she? Unless she was there when it happened, why burden her with it? I thought about the house. No photographs anywhere of her mother. No, they would not have told her.

  “Maybe tomorrow,” I promised. “We’ll bring things to dig with and maybe have a picnic?”

  Lavender squealed and clapped. She ran to me, wrapping my waist in a hug. I put my hand on her head. It was warm from the sun.

  “Take that way home,” Josif urged and pointed to our left. A dirt path wound down to the beach. “The village is around the curve of the cliff below. You can take my cart. Your feet must pain you. I will come to get it later.”

  I nodded, my gaze locking with his. “We’ll be safe?”

  “The deep forest is not,” he said, with a thoughtful expression. “But the sea is always a safe place for the gypsy.”

  “But I’m not a gypsy,” I said.

  Nodding at Lavender, he turned to leave. “She is.”

  15

  Simon

  Heaving his sack over the side of the boat, Simon leapt onto the dock. Workers nailing new boards onto the listing structure looked up at him. A few nodded. Most didn’t.

  “Fratele,” Josif called out to him and pulled a golf cart to a stop on the road.

  Raising a hand to his friend, Simon swung the sack over his shoulder and walked up, settling in the seat next to Josif.

  “They’ve made a lot of progress.” Simon nodded to the workers. “Any problems?”

  “Not with the repairs.” Josif pulled away and back onto the road. “But there is something else.”

  “We can talk soon,” Simon said and rubbed his face, tired. “Lala?”

  “She’s fine. Playing on the beach with your Rosetta.”

  Simon glanced sideways at Josif but didn’t comment on his choice of words. “The beach, really?”

  “For two days now, they go and eat and build with the sand. Your father even joins them.” Josif shook his head and chuckled. “She tried to stab me.”

  “What?” Simon said, alarmed. “Rosetta did?”

  “In the greenhouse,” Josif said and described the encounter. “She tore up her feet chasing after Lavender when she thought there was danger. That’s something—”

  “They’re fond of each other.” Simon flashed on Lala and Rosetta as he’d seen them earlier at tea while his father slept nearby. She made his daughter smile. She made her laugh again. The feel of Rosetta in his arms, so close and yet not within his reach, came back to him. He had no right to seek after her and yet he found no way to stop his reaction. Not even the solitude of the sea could keep his thoughts from her.

  “She is good, for both of you,” Josif said

  “Was she right? Was there danger?” Simon asked, avoiding the comment.

  “That is why we need to speak,” Josif said. “Not really, but…”

  “Then, later,” Simon said and yawned. “Take me to the house.”

  “We must talk soon, Fratele,” Josif said, but complied. They puttered up the main road and the roof of Shadow Bay Hall came into view above the trees. “Simon—”

  “Josif, please,” Simon interjected. “You and I will speak at the cottage later. I have news.”

  Josif nodded once, the frustration on his face evident.

  Simon knew he should make time now, but the fatigue of the last few days weighed heavily, and he got off the cart when they stopped.

  “Tonight, then, Simon?” Josif asked.

  “Tonight,” Simon said wearily and waved him off.

  Trudging up the walkway to the house, he heard Lala’s voice near the garden. He found them sitting in the gazebo. Rosetta was a vision in a pale yellow dress. It set off her golden hair. Lala sat perched on Rosetta’s lap, both of them wearing large flowered hats and drinking tea with their pinkies up.

  “Daddy,” Lala squealed and leapt into his arms, and he lifted her, chuckling as she tried to set the hat on his head.

  “I don’t think it fits me, love,” he said, his gaze sliding to Rosetta.

  Her cheeks flushed pink as she stood to greet him, and it quickened his pulse.

  “You’re back,” she said with a nervous smile.

  “Did you miss me?” He knew he was teasing her, but the rise of heat to her face was too much to resist. Perhaps she had.

  “I—I,” she stammered. Recovering she pulled a chain from beneath her dress and held up the magnifying lens. “I wanted to thank you for this. It’s beautiful.”

  Lala squirmed in his arms, and he let her down. She dashed off; digging in his sack for the prize he always brought.

  “Is it what I thought? Do you use it for your studies?” Simon asked Rosetta.

  “Yes,” She pulled it over her head and offered it to him. “The glass is remarkably preserved.”

  He
took it, the warmth of her still on it as he held it in his hand. Aware of her gaze, he looked through it. Her scent, sweet flowers, floated up, and he breathed it in.

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I do, but it’s too much, Simon. I can’t…” Her face changed, fell with uncertainty.

  Simon took her hand, placed the lens in her palm, and wrapped her fingers around the gift. He brushed his lips across her knuckles, her skin soft and warm. Something tumbled in his chest as she held his gaze.

  “You keep it,” he rasped, unable to hide her effect on him. “I won’t take it back.”

  Slipping her hand from his, Rosetta bit her lip but nodded. “Then, thank you, Simon.”

  He studied her face, and a desperate hope rose. At once fragile and incredibly strong, the tangle of contradictions in her glance snared him, and he found it hard not to tell her everything and hope that she would stay. He knew what she’d endured for truth. What she was willing to risk. Maybe…

  “Rosetta,” he began. The headache slammed into him without warning. A thunderclap of pain hit him, blurring his vision. Holding a hand to his head, he squinted. The sunlight overwhelmed. “I—I have to go,” he muttered.

  He turned and strode for the house before she could answer. Pushing through the door, he closed himself in the library. Frustration boiled. More and more frequently, headaches kept him up at night and threw him to the floor with bouts of nausea. He yanked the heavy curtains across the windows, shrouding the room in darkness.

  Staggering to the chair, he steadied himself with a hand on the fireplace mantel, panting against the pain.

  Outside, he heard Lala’s delighted laugh. She’d found the snow globe he’d brought her.

  Sinking into the chair, he held his head in his hands. “Not now, please, not now.”

  Rosetta’s voice floated from outside, and he squeezed his eyes shut, pushing the pain back. He gripped the chair, afraid that when he looked, he would be in a strange place hours from now.

  An out of place sound pricked at his ears.

  Simon opened his eyes.

  16

  Davenport’s dinner balanced on a tray in one hand, I pushed through his bedroom door and frowned at the dark room. I set down the tray and strode to the windows, yanking back the curtains.

  “Stop doing that,” Davenport complained, his hand shielding his eyes. “I want them closed.”

  “It’s stuffy in here,” I said and unlatched the window. “You need some fresh air.”

  “I need some more sleep,” he grumbled and slapped at the comforter tangled around his middle.

  “How about we get Dr. Fliven out here.”

  “He would have to take the ferry, and the dock is still closed for repairs. Only small craft are able to enter at the moment.”

  “Well, he could fly in, couldn’t he?”

  “Unlikely. Dr. Fliven is afraid of planes. He’ll only chance a fiery death if there’s an emergency. Which there isn’t,” Davenport said. “And that is beside the point. I don’t want that quack poking and prodding me again. I just need some peace and quiet.”

  “How about some dinner?”

  He eyed the tray and then glanced at me.

  “Will it encourage you to be on your way?”

  “It might.” I smiled and dangled the linen napkin in front of me. “Mrs. Tuttle was extremely irritated that I asked for steak instead of your usual chicken breast. She rolled her eyes at the very idea.”

  Davenport harrumphed and held out his hands. I set him up with his dinner and sat on the chair next to his bed. He looked haggard and weak, and it worried me. Flipping to the bookmark, I read a little of the book we’d started before.

  “Mr. Hale, did you hear any noises the other night? Like someone walking around, maybe groaning?”

  “Groaning? No.” He raised a brow. “Tuttle tells me you’re fond of roaming the halls, though.”

  “Well, that is just it. I was trying to locate the sounds.” I remembered Simon’s explanation. “Do you think it was O’Shay?”

  “Goodness, no,” Davenport chuckled. “He sleeps in his cabin near the pond. Hasn’t stayed here in years. Refuses to, in fact.”

  “Oh.” Why would Simon say that, then? Was he mistaken or was Davenport?

  “This house has a lot of places for trouble to slip in, Ms. Ryan,” Davenport said.

  “I’m sorry?” I asked, suddenly wary. “What do you mean?”

  “My own windows wake me with the wind howling through or the shutters coming loose and banging.” He nodded to the window. “Generations old, this old house could use some care.”

  “That’s probably what it was, then,” I said and tried to believe my own words.

  “Take care not to wander into trouble, Ms. Ryan.” He caught my gaze with his, and I wondered if he meant more than an accidental trip down the stairs.

  “I will be careful.”

  “Ms. Ryan, I need you to get a book for me in the village. It’s coming in the mail, and I believe the mail plane is due soon.”

  The thought of going back to the village set my stomach tumbling. Memories of Nalla’s words made me frown.

  “Can’t we ask O’Shay—”

  “No, I don’t want to bother him,” Davenport interrupted, his face angry. “He’s got enough to do with the storm damage.”

  “Yes, OK,” I said and forced a smile. “I’ll do it. I have to go into the village for some things, anyway. Would you like to come? The walk might—”

  “No, no, the weather makes my old bones ache.” He pushed his dinner plate away and threw back his covers. “I’m going to the library for a bit of tea.”

  “That’s great, Mr. Hale.” I reached to help him, but he brushed my hand away.

  “No, Ms. Ryan,” Davenport said and grabbed his cane. He wobbled in his robe and slippers. “I mean to go under my own steam and sit in my own chair.”

  The set of his jaw told me there was to be no further discussion.

  In the library, we sat in the wingback chairs facing a fire I’d built. Happy with my own ability to start a good blaze, I watched the dancing flames flicker shadows on the walls and books.

  Davenport sipped his tea, and I joined him despite my distaste for it. The same one that Simon drank, it swirled in my cup, letting the loose leaves form Rorschach shapes on the surface. Davenport remained silent, lost in thought.

  As he started to nod off, I made sure he was asleep before taking his cup and sitting back down. I decided to let him sleep. There was something calming about the crackle of the wood in the fire and the wind outside.

  Pulling the chain around my neck, I dangled the botany lens in front of my eyes looking at the prism of colors the firelight made on the rug. Seeing Simon today, the sight of him walking up the path out of the blue, threw me, and I was sure he’d seen it on my face. The image of him with the sun behind him and the feel of his gaze holding me as he neared unnerved me; I couldn’t catch my breath. I’d made such a mess of things.

  Remembering my impulse to touch his face the other night, I’d drawn him close only to let fear push him away. What was wrong with me? How could he have such a hold over me already? Was what I felt real, or was my response to Simon a knee-jerk reaction to my jilting? Or being abandoned by all whom I loved?

  I paced in front of the fireplace twirling the lens on its chain as I tried to push the memories of that terrible day out of my head. To be led out of the rear of the church in shame was one thing, but to have my heartbreak spoken of and written about hurt even more.

  My father’s incarceration and my hand in it still a raging scandal, I shouldn’t have trusted what I saw in Michael’s face when he said he’d stand by me. His words were hollow, and I’d known it. I knew in my heart he wouldn’t show up, and I went ahead with it, anyway. Desperate to keep something, anything, of the life that had crashed down around my feet; I ignored what I knew in my soul the Lord was telling me. I did not have peace over my marriage to Michael.

>   Even though my spirit was unsettled, out of pride I didn’t want to follow the Lord’s leading, and I paid for it dearly.

  Would I make the same mistake twice? My heart barely healing, I didn’t think it could take being ripped open again.

  But it seemed like I couldn’t prevent it. My reaction to Simon had been so incredibly magnetic, he sent my pulse racing with just a look. But seeing him with Lavender, seeing the father that he was—loving, protective—I knew I was drawn to him for deeper reasons.

  Especially when Josif told me Simon meant to fund the island’s repairs despite what the villagers thought and said about him. And when he’d kissed my hand, I felt my resolve to leave Shadow Bay Hall weaken.

  Yet I hadn’t been mistaken in worrying. Despite his flirting words, he was bothered, his gorgeous face lined with fatigue. Something was wrong. He seemed ready to tell me…at least I thought he was before he left so suddenly.

  The chain slipped from my fingers and sent the lens rolling across the rug. It slipped under the skirt of a corner table. When I reached in to retrieve it, I spied a photo album. My gaze went to Davenport. He hadn’t stirred.

  Gold embossed dates on the spine of the album were for the last seven years. I ran my hand along the worn leather binding, remembering there were no pictures of Lavender’s mother anywhere in the house. Surely a peek would only help me understand Simon and his family better, right?

  My skirt pooled around me, and I pulled the album into my lap. The cracked cover smelled like the horse tackle I’d used back home. Oiled with use. I turned the page and regretted it immediately.

  Simon stood smiling, his arm around the waist of a gorgeous woman. Raven-haired with deep dark eyes, I thought for a moment it was Nalla from the apothecary. But it was Amanna. The handwriting under the photos said it was. The other day, at Echo Cliffs, Josif said Lavender was a gypsy, and I understood why now. Her riotous dark waves and high cheekbones matched her mother’s. Yet I saw Simon in her, too—the light eyes and full lips.

  I paled in comparison to Simon’s first love. In coloring and, I imagined, vivaciousness. Every photo in the album had Amanna laughing, hugging, the center of his world. And then the last page tore my heart. Simon and Amanna on a picnic blanket, the camera angled from above as if held aloft. Their foreheads together and eyes closed in an intimate pose of shared love. Simon’s hand rested on her swollen belly, his wedding ring glinting in the sunlight.