“Aw, how can I say no to that?” Michael wiped excess paint from his brush. “Send them a quote based on three people, and find out more about the dog. If they want to go ahead, set up a meeting for next week. I’d like to have the open house behind us first.”
“Sure.” Amy glanced around the room at the other canvases in various stages of completion. “Whatever happened to the portrait you were doing of me for Gilles?”
“His dad offered to pay me even without finishing it, but I couldn’t take his money.” Michael glanced her way. “Don’t worry, you won’t show up in an art gallery or online auction.”
“Now that would be creepy. I—” Amy’s phone buzzed. The phantom texter? “Excuse me.” She slid the phone from her pocket and opened the message.
I knew Gilles well. He would want you to stay out of this. Please. You mustn’t be seen asking questions or you’ll be a target.
She snapped her phone shut and stood. “I’ll put on fresh coffee. Are you ready for a break soon?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just one of those no-name messages.”
“Amy, tell me you’re not still chasing sabotage theories. Next time I see Troy…”
“Troy won’t even talk to me now. He’s been warned off. Doesn’t that tell you something? And what could I find out on my own?” Amy’s hands clenched. “Gilles was your best friend. If someone killed him, shouldn’t you care enough to make it right?”
She fled the room, ignoring Michael’s call to wait.
Chapter 11
Amy skidded into the kitchen. The television was on in the living room, and hopefully Aunt Bay would stay occupied for a while. Turning to face the doorway, she cued a reply to the anonymous text.
No. She wanted to talk to this person.
She opened the back door and walked onto the deck. It was chilly despite the sun. Amy wrapped her free hand around her other arm and jabbed the call button.
The phone rang three times, then cut off. No voice mail, nothing. As if the other party had disconnected her. She tried again. Same result.
“All right, be that way.” She fired back a text instead. Someone murdered my fiancé and I want justice. Help me.
The reply was almost instant. I’m trying. If you involve yourself, you’ll make it harder. No more contact.
“Thank you.” Amy whispered the words and held the phone to her lips.
Sudden fear stabbed her. This “helper” could be anyone — even the killer. What better way to silence her questions than by pretending to investigate?
Troy’s instinct said the warnings were friendly, but instincts could be wrong. Had he tried contacting this person? Amy pulled up his number from her contacts list, but her call went to voice mail. She hung up, her thoughts too jumbled to form a coherent message.
When she stepped back into the kitchen, Michael stood at the sink, filling the coffee carafe. The warm room, plus the guilty heat of her parting shot at him, hit Amy like a sauna. Fanning her face, she pocketed her phone. “I’m sorry. I was coming to start that.”
Michael poured the water into the coffee maker and slid the carafe under the filter. He closed the distance between them. “I would have sacrificed anything for Gilles. If I thought there was any chance this wasn’t an accident, I’d do all I could to make it right. But I just don’t see any evidence — or any reason for it.”
Amy looked away. “I know you care. I’m just so frustrated that no one seems to believe anything’s wrong, when something is.”
Michael’s hands settled on her shoulders. “Why are you so sure?” Warmth laced his tone, without accusation.
“I can’t tell you.” One glimpse of those texts, and his protective nature would go into hyper-drive. Not happening.
He slid his hands down Amy’s arms and stepped back a pace. “I think you’re right about needing closure. Visiting the crash site was a good start. Are you ready to try flying again?”
Amy gaped at him. “I—”
“Think about it, and see. We could find a local pilot to take us up.” Michael spread his hands. “Like getting back in the saddle after being thrown by a horse. Not that either of us has likely been on a horse, but you know what I mean.”
“We?”
“You want to heal. I want to help you. That makes we. Aunt Bay can come, too, if she’ll get in a plane that small.”
Amy threw her arms around Michael and squeezed. “Thank you.” She darted back before he felt obligated to return the hug. “Did you put fresh coffee in the filter, before I push start?”
“I did.”
She pressed the button. “While we’re waiting, do you want to decide what goes to the shop in Mahone Bay?”
“Sure. Vannette said prints, right, not originals?”
“Yes. Ten to twelve.” Amy followed Michael through the house to the office. A filing cabinet along one wall held prints of his paintings, page-sized and smaller, each one backed with cardboard and sheathed in a plastic sleeve.
He rooted through the drawers and stacked a selection on the desk. “We’ll frame a few of these. Would you grab some of the notepads and cards? She might be interested in those too.”
Amy had her hands full of cards when the phone rang. She cradled everything in one arm and picked up the handset. “Hello? Stratton Gallery.”
“Amy?”
Luc’s voice. With a definite hostile tone. Amy took a slow breath and carefully transferred the cards to the desk. “Luc, how are you?”
“Perhaps it’s best to revert to Monsieur Renaud.”
“All right, Monsieur Renaud, how can I help you?”
Michael turned from the filing cabinet, eyebrows raised.
Amy grimaced at him.
Luc’s voice raised. “My Halifax dealership called. That reporter has been harassing my employees.”
“Troy? He won’t speak to me about his investigation, but I promise you, when we did the interview, I asked him to keep your family out of this.” Amy stacked the packets of cards on the desk, and added a few notepads.
“This talk of sabotage has to stop. It was an accident. Leave it at that.”
Amy’s jaw tightened. “I have no influence over what Troy does or does not do. You may have noticed I’ve said nothing else publicly about the crash.”
“But you used my daughter to pump me for information. Information you planned to pass on to your tabloid friend.”
If looks could kill, Amy’s glare would burn through the wall and straight to Luc’s head office. And char him. “That is not true. I asked Emilie to ask you something—”
“Which was none of your business!”
“To ask you something which I hoped would help me find closure for my loss. At no time did I have any intention to reveal Gilles’ personal information to anyone. Press or no press.”
Michael had crossed the room to her side. Amy stared at the ridges in his sweater, desperate to stop the trembling before she broke into tears. Michael laid a gentle hand on her arm.
“You can direct any further communication through my lawyer. I want no more—”
“Luc, you listen to me!” Pain sliced Amy’s chest with each breath. “Your wife shut me out of Gilles’ funeral. She stuffed my belongings in garbage bags — garbage bags — and dumped them in my hospital room. The only memento I have of Gilles is my engagement ring, and that’s only because your conscience finally kicked in. And you wonder why I still need closure?”
A sob tore from her lips and she thumbed the button to end the call.
Michael slid the phone from her grip and set it on the desk. He folded her into his arms.
Amy pressed her face into his sweater and let her agony flow. How could Luc be so cruel? He’d been the supportive one… at least when he could do it behind his wife’s back.
The warmth of Michael’s embrace, his solid strength supporting her, slowly worked into Amy’s consciousness. The steady beat of his heart brought her back to herself. No matter what happen
ed, this man was her one safe place.
Except he wasn’t. Not the way she wanted. Not with the love her heart craved. Fresh tears slid down her cheeks. She opened her senses to store everything in this moment to remember in the lonely nights ahead.
Michael spoke into her hair. “I’ll talk to him later and work this out.”
Amy stayed in the circle of his arms, face buried, memorizing his heartbeat and the feel of his nearness. The faint scent of paint and cleaning fluid. The rhythm of his breathing.
The phone rang again. Michael jumped away from Amy and cleared his throat. “Stratton Gallery.” He frowned. “Thanks, we’ve just heard from him. Troy, you’re upsetting a lot of people for no reason. You need to lay off.” Michael shook his head. “That’s not enough, and you know it. It could be anyone — Gilles’ family, someone from the flight club — anyone who’s sick of this conspiracy hype.”
He finished the call and put the handset down, flashing Amy a sheepish smile. “He was calling to warn us. You okay now?”
Amy rubbed her arms, missing his warmth. She must be blushing like crazy, but he’d assume she was embarrassed about crying on him. “They’ve hurt me in the past, but it’s always been Honore.”
Michael’s mouth twisted down. “Luc’s grieving too. But he doesn’t need to overreact.”
“Emilie did say he and Gilles were pretty heated about whatever sent Gilles away. I guess I shouldn’t have asked about it.”
“Funny Gilles didn’t tell you. It must have been a family thing.” Michael picked up some prints from the desk. “You can frame these, and we’ll box everything up. But first, the coffee.”
“We should have grabbed a box from the workshop.”
Michael smacked his palm into his forehead and let out an exaggerated sigh. “Now she tells me. Come on. We’ll leave the rest of it here for now.” He carried his handful of prints out of the room.
They found Aunt Bay in the kitchen, pouring coffee. Michael dropped the prints on the table. “Hey, save some for me. You didn’t have to use a bowl.”
His aunt lifted an eyebrow and added milk to her ordinary-sized china mug.
When she set the milk down, Michael asked, “So when did Gilles tell you about the fireworks?”
She sniffed. “I knew the night it happened. If I acknowledged knowing, I’d have had to tell your parents.”
“Aunt Bay, you are a treasure.” He hugged her.
When he let go and reached for a mug, his aunt winked at Amy. “Don’t you forget it. Why is your sweater wet?”
Amy’s cheeks warmed again. Michael banged his mug onto the counter. “Luc phoned and upset Amy.” He pulled out a second mug for her, and picked up the coffee pot. “Troy’s causing trouble with his sabotage questions.”
Aunt Bay carried her coffee to the table. “I’m not surprised.”
“It doesn’t mean he’s wrong.” Amy took the drink Michael handed her and settled beside his aunt. “The idea does keep coming up. Aunt Bay said that could mean something.”
Michael leaned against the counter, holding her gaze. “Other than Troy’s wacky theories, it’s only coming up for you, and I think it’s because you’re still hurting. Like it’s some kind of cry to finish healing. I’m not going to lie. I believe the investigators. But if you need to look into it more, we’ll do that — in a way that doesn’t send Luc into orbit. That’s why I suggested the plane ride.”
Amy stared into her coffee. Michael always had her back, but it would mean so much if he believed her. Should she show him the warning texts? Except then he’d bail on the flight and she’d lose her chance to talk to some of the regulars who might have been there the day Gilles did his final safety check. At least this way Michael would help, even if not for the right reasons.
Michael grinned at Aunt Bay. “Would you like to join us?”
“If I wouldn’t fly with Gilles, I’d hardly risk it with a stranger.”
“Some people might suggest you wouldn’t fly with Gilles because he wasn’t a stranger. You knew his crazy streak.”
“Aunt Bay?” Amy tapped her fingernails against the side of her mug. “Do you know why Gilles took his impromptu walkabout? Or anything about a conflict with his father?”
The older woman’s eyes narrowed. “He came to see me before he left for Montreal that weekend, troubled enough to ask me to pray for him. He wouldn’t say what about, and insisted I not say a word to Michael.”
Michael shook his head. “He seemed fine to me. Until he phoned to say he’d be gone for a while.”
Aunt Bay shrugged. “Whatever was bothering him, when he came back he said it was handled.”
“But he didn’t tell you what it was.” Amy rested an elbow on the table. “I wish I knew what caused the fight with his father. And what he meant about running away from God.”
Michael stared at the tabletop, lips tight. A deep breath lifted his chest. “I wish I could know he turned around before the end.”
Amy nodded.
Aunt Bay went still, eyes fixed on Amy.
The sudden scrutiny made Amy squirm. “What?”
“You have no problem with the idea of Gilles’ repentance being acceptable to God, even with the life he led, yet you’re convinced your own baggage is insurmountable.” The older woman’s face softened. “Nothing is too hard for Him, Amy, and He could bring so much joy — and healing — to your heart.”
Michael’s face reflected a longing almost as deep as the one in his aunt’s voice. Or the one in Amy’s soul. “She’s right. And she won’t let go. Talk to either one of us — please. More than that, talk to God.” He set his empty mug on the counter. “I’ll go back upstairs in case you want to say anything private to Aunt Bay. If she can keep the fireworks incident to herself, no secret of yours will pass her lips.”
His aunt swatted his arm as he passed. “You have a good heart. Even if your mouth needs work.” She focused on Amy, but didn’t speak until Michael’s footsteps reached the top of the stairs. “Someone does need to help you give whatever you’re carrying to God. I’ll tell you this — your past might shock me, even disappoint me, but you cannot change my regard for who you are today. I won’t reject you. Neither will God.”
Amy’s eyes welled. “It sounds so silly, and Gilles said it was nothing, but—”
The lines deepened around Aunt Bay’s eyes. “What did that boy do? He didn’t pressure you into an abortion, did he?”
The weight grew in Amy’s chest. “You, too?”
“I’m not judging, child. I’m sympathizing.”
“You’re assuming. Just like everyone else.” Amy thrust the hair back from her face. “First his mother accused me of trapping him into marriage by getting pregnant — because of our short engagement. After Gilles died, she demanded I let her and Luc adopt their grandchild and give up all right of contact. When time proved I wasn’t pregnant, she accused me of aborting the baby out of spite.”
Breathing hard, Amy stared at her clenched hands on the table. If she could hold onto the anger, she’d drown out the soul-hollowing sense of loss. “Hateful woman.”
Amy dropped her face to her forearms, tightening her fists until her fingers ached. If she’d carried Gilles’ child, would the baby have survived the crash? Would she now have an impish toddler to heal her heart, or would the Renauds’ lawyers have snatched even that connection?
Aunt Bay’s chair legs scraped nearer, and her arm slid across Amy’s shoulders. “Honore is grieving too. It’s a pity she can’t do it without poisoning everyone in sight.”
“That family has hurt me beyond belief.” Could Aunt Bay even make out Amy’s muffled words? “It’s almost enough to make me wish I’d never met Gilles.” Almost. A smile twitched Amy’s lips. Gilles had loved her. Truly loved her. And his parents could never take that away.
Amy rested in the shelter of Aunt Bay’s hold another minute, then looked up at the older woman. “So, no. Gilles knew what God has against me, but it’s not that. Would you hone
stly still accept me if I’d ended an innocent life?”
Aunt Bay sat back but kept her hand on Amy’s shoulder. Her gaze pinned Amy’s. “Yes, I would. You are more than what you’ve done — good, bad, or ugly. You’re God’s precious creation, and He loves you. I’d be hurt, and God would have been hurt at the time, but rejecting you wouldn’t make it better.”
She squeezed Amy’s shoulder and let go. “Forgiveness is what makes it better, and for that, you and God need to do business about whatever’s keeping the two of you apart.”
There had to be more to what Aunt Bay was saying, but Amy’s head hurt too much to puzzle it out. This was bigger than someone like Gilles quitting the party scene and deciding to follow the rules. Forgiveness, of something as irreversible as an abortion?
Amy’s breath stopped. If God would do this, then forgiving her unacceptable birth couldn’t be impossible. She clutched Aunt Bay’s hand. “Can you prove to me that God forgives even things that huge?”
The gallery door chime cut off Aunt Bay’s reply. She huffed and pushed back from the table, disengaging her hand. “I’ll go. Michael won’t hear that, and you’d frighten the person away. We’ll talk later.” She bustled from the room.
Hope tingled in Amy’s nerve endings. Aunt Bay sounded so sure. She’d been in church long enough to learn these things.
Casual fling. Mistake. Conceived in sin. Whispered judgements from her childhood shrank Amy in her seat, covered in prickly shame. Those had been the church people. The ones who knew God’s requirements.
Amy moaned. How dare she think one old lady’s interpretation of the Bible could negate the others?
She fled for her room before Beatrice could return.
Chapter 12
Amy pleaded a headache at lunchtime. She lay in her darkened room, under the plush throw blanket Michael had given her on her first Christmas here. If only she hadn’t asked Aunt Bay for proof — proof she didn’t dare believe. This was what came of longing for the impossible.
She stared at the faint square of light glowing through the curtains and listened to footsteps on the stairs. Michael, going back to his painting?
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