This felt almost worse somehow. Like he’d reached his filthy hands inside her mind, inside her very being, and rummaged around to take whatever he wanted. He knew everything, all her hopes and fears, her most intimate desires, her darkest secrets. Some people kept a diary, but she’d used art as her therapy, always had.
A warm hand settled on the bare skin of her nape, a familiar touch she should have welcomed, but she flinched beneath it. In letting her sketches fall into Devin’s clutches, she’d betrayed Luke all over again. Everything she’d felt about him, from those first heady days to the heart-wrenching despair of having thrown away their marriage for a chance at fame, was laid out in charcoal sketches and pencil drawings. Bile rose again, hot and bitter, and she swallowed hard against the urge to vomit. He maintained that gentle connection throughout, anchoring her.
‘Stand up a minute,’ Luke urged, and she forced herself to straighten. Unwilling to meet his eyes, she studied the rest of him, and the corner of her lips tweaked in a wry smile at the sight of his thick navy bomber jacket. At least one of them had had the sense to dress properly. The rain might have stopped, but the chill of Aaron’s prophesied Arctic blast rode the wind buffeting off the sea. A shiver rippled through her, and he shrugged out of his coat to wrap it around her shoulders.
She tried to twist away from the glorious warmth of the coat, from the never-ending kindness and consideration this man kept giving to her when she deserved so little of it. ‘Don’t. Don’t be nice to me.’
He gripped the edges of the collar closed around her neck, refusing to let her wriggle out of it. ‘Shut up, and put it on. I never heard such bloody nonsense.’
His gentle, steadfast gaze was too much to bear, and she closed her eyes, but didn’t resist as he guided first one, then the other of her arms into the too-long sleeves and zipped up the jacket to the tip of her chin. Lifting a hand above her head, he flicked one of the springy Santas attached to that stupid bloody headband she’d put on this morning. She’d seen them in an accessories shop on the high street a couple of weeks previously and hadn’t been able to resist the ridiculousness of them. She’d had hope then, a belief she was ready to take the next step and move on with her life, that she could put the past away and forget about it. The acid gnawing inside her said she’d been a naïve fool at best for believing so. Worse still, she’d let him believe she was ready. ‘You don’t understand, Luke.’
‘Ah, if only that were true, my darling, I could just keep on pretending.’ Her eyes flew open at his cryptic comment, but he pressed a finger to her mouth before she could speak. ‘Stop it. Stop jumping to conclusions, Nee. God, you’re like an open book, did you know that? Just as well you never decided to be a professional poker player because you just let it all hang out there, don’t you? Every thought, every emotion, you just put it out there for the world to see. It’s magnetic… and terrifying.’
The admiration in his voice twisted like a knife in her guts. She’d prided herself on her openness once, had thought that’s what she needed to be a great artist – to bare her soul. But then she’d met him, and understood some things were too precious to share, so she’d hoarded it, like a dragon curled protectively around her treasure.
And now it had all been stolen.
‘You weren’t for sharing.’ The words caught in her throat, so she tried again. ‘You were meant to be just for me, but he’s spoilt that now. Ruined everything.’ God, she sounded like a petulant child.
Luke’s hand cupped her cheek. ‘Only if you let him.’ She shook her head in denial, and he lifted his other hand to her face, holding her firm, making her meet his gaze. ‘Think about it, Nee. What’s he taken from us that can’t be replaced? He’s like a leech, a vampire, draining the vitality of others to replace what’s missing from his own heart. What must it be like to stare in the mirror every day and see a fraud? See a sham, a hollow façade with all the wealth and trappings, and none of the talent?’
‘If he’s a vampire, then he won’t see anything in the mirror.’ How the hell she could laugh at a time like this, she had no clue. ‘And it’s not that simple. He has talent, has the vision; he just uses others in the execution of those ideas.’
He scoffed at her words. ‘Really? I don’t see it. It’s the Emperor’s New Clothes. He’s strutting around with his arse on show and everyone’s too afraid to call him out on it.’ His hands shifted from her face to cup her shoulders, giving her a little shake. ‘He stole from you, Nee. He took something of yours and tried to pass it off as his own. That’s not vision, that’s not talent, that’s plagiarism.’
She knew he was right, but still. ‘He’ll get away with it, though. No one will know.’
‘Bollocks! You’ll know, and I’ll know. And everyone else in your life who’s worth anything will know.’
A bitter laugh escaped her. He made it all sound so bloody easy, like she should just be able to shrug it off and walk away. ‘He took everything from me!’
Luke’s arms dropped to his sides and she missed the warmth of him instantly. ‘What did he take, Nee? Nothing that can harm us, nothing that can change us. Not unless you let him. Those pictures weren’t your feelings, they were representations of them, that’s all. Your heart’s still beating, everything that makes you the person I love, is still right here in front of me.’
He was right. Her heart was still there. She could tell because it hurt so bloody much she wanted to rip it out of her chest and throw it on the ground. Why hadn’t she stayed away? Why had she let her loneliness overcome her good sense and jumped on the train to attend Mia’s wedding? If she’d never come here, she’d never have seen Luke again. Could have stayed in the safety of the numb cocoon of self-pity she’d wrapped herself in since leaving New York.
But she had, and here he was. So full of life and love, blazing like an inferno. At first it had been a relief to warm herself again, to melt a little of the ice, just enough for the good things to slip through. Only the fire kept on burning, and now there was nothing between her and all the ugliness – and it hurt. It hurt. It hurt so fucking much, she wanted to shred the skin from her bones to let it all out.
‘Too much,’ she gasped. ‘Too much.’
‘I know, my love. I know.’ He pulled her into his arms and she clung like a limpet as all the ghosts of the past whipped and screamed at her, trying to pull her away, to drag her back under their control. He tightened his embrace for a few more precious moments before releasing her and taking a step back. ‘When I said to you before that I understood, it had nothing to do with Devin. It didn’t really have anything to do with you either. It’s me.’
He shoved at the wind-tossed curls straggling over his forehead. ‘This is going to seem like the worst, shittiest timing, Nee, but I’m going to let you go.’
Oh, she’d been wrong when she’d thought it had hurt before, because that pain, that pain, was as insignificant as a mosquito bite compared to the wrenching torment of this new assault. She couldn’t survive it, couldn’t see how her body could remain corporeal as his words detonated inside her. His lips were still moving, but she was deaf to anything but the screaming voice inside her. The world swam, and she staggered sideways before he caught her.
‘Nee? Nee, look at me! You didn’t listen to the rest of what I was saying, did you?’ She shrugged, dully, because what was the point. He shook her again, a little harder this time, and she raised her hands to push him away.
Releasing her shoulders, he snatched for her fingers, chaffing the cold from them between his warm palms. ‘I love you. I love you so much it’s hard to see beyond it, but I did this all wrong. I tried to force you to do what I want, to be who I want you to be, and you’re not ready. Worse still, I did it in front of everyone else just to make it that much harder for you to say no.’ His face was wet, and that wasn’t from the rain either.
She tried to free her fingers to catch the tears, but he kept them trapped between his own. ‘Luke…’
‘I won’t go far, a
nd I won’t go for ever, I promise. I’ll stay at Aaron’s, give you some space to breathe, to work things out without me putting pressure on you.’
What was he saying? That he was leaving her, but he wasn’t? ‘I don’t understand. You’re the one good thing I have going for me, Luke. Don’t take that away from me too.’ If he did that, she’d be nothing.
Why was he shaking his head? Why was he letting her hands go and walking away from her? He couldn’t leave her alone like this, with all these emotions she didn’t know what to do with. Goddamn him! He’d forced her to feel when she hadn’t wanted to and now he was just walking away? How dare he?
Bending her knees, she scooped up a handful of wet sand and threw it at his departing back. ‘You bastard!’ The clod struck him squarely between his shoulder blades, staining the bright wool of his sweater. He didn’t pause, and his hunched posture as he walked away was so like the worst of her fears she had to close her eyes as she sank to her knees.
Wet soaked through her jeans in seconds, reminding her of the last time she’d been on this beach. The day she’d decided to leave Butterfly Cove; the day her dad had called to say Vivian was dying. If he hadn’t phoned, if that call had come just a day later, she wouldn’t be in this mess. Her hands clenched in the cold sand. No. No more lying to herself, no more running away from the pain.
In three short months, she’d come full circle and was back in exactly the same spot. Letting Devin hurt her; letting Luke walk away from her. Her life slipping through her fingers like the grains of sand she clawed at. Only this time, there was something different.
This time, she was mad as hell about it.
By the time she returned to the house, her sister’s car was missing from the driveway, and realisation slapped her full in the face once again. A tiny part of her had decided Luke only meant to shock her, that he would be here waiting for her with an apology on his lips and the reassurance that he would stand beside her. But the moment she stepped into the quiet kitchen and found Mia waiting for her, face creased in concern, she knew. He’d really gone through with it and moved out of Butterfly House. Grasping the surge of bitter understanding, she shoved it into the growing pit of anger in her belly, feeding it, stoking it higher.
‘Are you all right?’ Mia shook her head at herself as soon as she’d spoken. ‘Of course you’re not bloody all right. How could you be?’ She circled the table, intent on grabbing Nee into a hug, and for a second she wanted to let her. To let her big sister take over, fill the gap her husband had left and take care of everything. So tempting. So easy. So cowardly.
‘Don’t, Mimi.’ She couldn’t keep the bite from her words and snapped her mouth shut quick, afraid the anger would boil out.
Appearing nonplussed for a moment, Mia stopped in her tracks, then gave herself a shake. ‘Okay. No fussing.’ Her fists clenched. ‘Damn it, Nee. You can’t expect me to stand aside and do nothing. Give me something to do to help you.’
The anguish in her voice helped Nee rein in her temper. Poor Mia. None of this was her fault, and making her go against her natural instincts to take care of her would just be punishing the wrong person. ‘Make us a cup of tea? It’s bloody freezing out there.’ Nee sank down into one of the wooden chairs, grimacing at the way the wet denim of her jeans clung to her legs. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘The grey army are in the lounge, filled with a burning need to watch The Sound of Music, apparently.’ The way Mia rolled her eyes told her what she thought of that excuse. ‘And Daniel’s out behind the barn destroying the wood pile.’ A plate loaded with sandwiches and a slab of cake landed on the table in front of her, together with a steaming mug of builder’s-strength tea. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
The anger roiled inside Nee, a living beast ready to escape, but this wasn’t the time or the place to unleash it.
Just a few minutes more.
She shook her head. ‘I need to do this on my own.’ Luke had been right about that much at least. Picking up the cup and plate, she rose. ‘Thanks for this.’
Mia walked with her out into the hallway, but stopped at the door leading towards the stairs. ‘Looks like I have a date with Captain Von Trapp then. You know where I am if you need me.’
‘Thanks, Mimi.’ Nee began to climb the stairs, a very out-of-tune version of ‘Doe, a Deer’ echoing behind her. The forced cheeriness in her sister’s tone was unmistakable, but Nee forced herself to ignore it. If her resolve broke now, she might never do what needed to be done. Every step was an agony of indecision, but she forced herself to keep moving.
A brass lamp by the bed sent a soft glow over one corner of the room, a drawer hung half-open, empty now of its contents. All little signs, little reminders that Luke had been and gone. Abandoning the plate and cup on the dressing table, she ghost-walked into the bathroom, seeing only the empty spaces where his toothbrush and deodorant had sat next to hers. A pale, pale girl stared back at her from the mirror, a mocking caricature of seasonal joy with her festive jumper and those bloody Santas bobbling around on her head.
Ripping off the headband she tossed it in the empty bathtub, the jumper and her soggy jeans following soon after. Clad in nothing but a thin vest and shorts, there was nothing to hide behind now, and she stared at her reflection. A sham… a fraud… none of the talent… Luke’s words rolled through her mind as she forced herself to look deeper, beyond the image, past the anger, and into the heart of the young woman staring back at her.
‘Who are you?’ she whispered, and the answers echoed back.
She was Eirênê Thorpe. Neglected daughter, always hungry for acknowledgement and affirmation.
She was Nee Thorpe. Failed artist, allowing the opinions of others to build her up and break her down to nothing.
She was Nee Spenser. Runaway bride, letting happiness slip through her fingers.
‘No.’ She’d been all those girls at some point, but now it was past time to grow up and take control of her life. To be the person she wanted to be, a person she would happily face in the mirror every day.
And she didn’t have to do it alone.
For wasn’t her father downstairs right now, trying his best to make up for his failures? Hadn’t her sisters given her all the love she’d ever needed without limitations? She’d only failed as an artist because a man who should have been a mentor and protector had betrayed her in the cruellest of ways. And hadn’t Luke told her he loved her, even after everything she’d done? Wasn’t his only sin trying too hard to make things right between them?
If she wanted to be worthy of those efforts, she had to purge the ghosts holding her back. Acknowledge the failures, mourn the losses and the hurts, then put them aside to heal. With a deep breath, she left the bathroom. A scrap of pale grey caught her eye and she crouched down to retrieve a rumpled T-shirt from under the bed. It was the one Luke had used as a pyjama top, and she pulled it on, catching the faded hints of his crisp aftershave and the indefinable essence of him. ‘He hasn’t gone far, and not for ever.’ She whispered the reassurance to herself.
The cup and plate sat on the dresser, and she gulped down the lukewarm tea and ate the sandwich with precise, careful bites. She’d neglected herself for too long, and that would end too.
Straightening her spine, she strode towards the closed door of the sitting room and pushed it open without hesitation. The art supplies were exactly where he’d placed them – the easel angled beside the window to catch the fading afternoon light, a stack of sketchpads and pens on the table beside the decadent elegance of the red-velvet chaise-longue. Closing the door behind her, she chose the chaise. Feet curled under her, the cloud-soft throw from the back of the seat tucked over her legs, she reached for a sketchpad and flipped it open.
The next time she left these rooms she would be Nee Thorpe-Spenser. And that woman could be anything she damn well chose to be, because she would reclaim the power she’d put in other people’s hands and shape her own future. Head down, absorbed in the
images spilling from the end of her pen across the paper, she was oblivious to the gradual darkening of the sky and the silent fall of the first flakes of snow drifting gently past her window.
Chapter Seventeen
Luke perched on the windowsill in his brother’s spare bedroom watching the fat flakes of white dance and whirl in the glow of the front porchlight someone had left on when they’d come to bed. There was something about snowfall that made the world seem quieter, like it muffled everything in its soft blanket. Even the litany of doubts racing around his head eased as he watched the silent, hypnotic curtain fall. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there, but the roof and bonnet of Kiki’s little blue car had already disappeared under several inches, and there was no sign of it abating. They’d had the devil’s own job getting the children to bed, but they’d eventually settled with the promise of a snowman-building competition in the morning.
Charlie had commandeered him on the landing, all sleepy-eyed and smelling sweetly of the lavender bubble bath she’d been coaxed into by her despairing mother. The hot water and calming fragrance appeared to have done the trick as she’d smothered an enormous yawn whilst offering him the raggedy brown toy he now clutched in one hand. ‘Mr Bunny is very good at taking the sad things away,’ she’d assured him. It had been all he could do not to bawl like a baby as he’d bent down to give her a kiss goodnight.
It was the right thing to do. How many times had he told himself that in the past few hours? A shiver warned him he’d been sitting beside the glass for too long. Even the radiator beneath him had lost the last of its warmth. He glanced across at the bed, dressed in a thick quilt with a fleece blanket folded neatly over the bottom half, and cursed himself for a fool. He could be curled up with his beautiful wife watching the snow from the cosy haven of their canopied bed. But no. His conscience had landed him in self-imposed exile. It was ridiculous to feel so sorry for himself because of something he’d put into motion.
Christmas at Butterfly Cove Page 17