by Connie Berry
“Nonsense,” Vivian said, but I could see she was pleased.
“And the interns?”
“Those here now who wish to stay are welcome, but they shall be the last. If Alex decides to remain, I can just about afford to keep her on. All good things come to an end.”
Jayne brought our food, and we spent the next few minutes savoring our first mouth-watering bites.
“What about the Hoard?” I asked.
“I believe I shall give the Hoard to the Museum of Suffolk History—in honor of Catherine Kerr and Tabitha King.”
“Would you like to see it again? We could walk over to the archives building.”
“No, dear. The Hoard has brought nothing but death. I’m through with all that, and good riddance.”
“Well said.” Vivian brought her fist down on the table, nearly toppling her water glass. “No point living in the past. Move forward is my motto.”
Move forward. I’d told Tom I wasn’t ready. What I hadn’t told him was why.
You can’t move forward when there’s no place to step.
I smiled at these two old friends. They were pointing the way.
Because quietly, without fuss or fanfare, a door had appeared.
Chapter Forty
Thursday, December 24th Christmas Eve
Tom and I were curled up on the sofa in his cottage outside the village of Saxby St. Clare. Lights twinkled on the Christmas tree. Candles glowed in the windows. I stretched my toes toward the fire. “I have a confession.”
“Another one?” He gave me that half smile that always makes me melt. “You already told me you insulted my mother, not that I blame you. She deserved it.”
I winced. “Are you sure I’m not the reason she’s spending Christmas in Devon?”
“She spends every Christmas in Devon with Uncle Nigel.”
“In the castle.”
“In the large house I thought of as a castle when I was a child.”
“I’m really not the reason she left Suffolk?”
“Really. But you are the reason I didn’t. If you don’t believe me, come here, and I’ll convince you.”
A few long minutes later he touched my cheek. “Back to the confession—the latest one.”
“Here goes. When you took Christine into custody, I was angry. I know, I know. You were doing your job. But all I could think about was my daughter spending the night in a jail cell and possibly accused of assault. I blamed you, Tom, and that wasn’t fair. I know the decision wasn’t yours. I know Christine brought it on herself by refusing to speak. The point is, I didn’t trust you. And I should have.”
“But you—”
“No, just listen.” I touched his mouth. “With the exception of my son, every man I’ve ever loved in my whole life has left me without warning. Not that they wanted to. My brother didn’t want to die when I was five. My father didn’t want to die in a car accident when I was seventeen. Bill didn’t want to have a massive heart attack three years ago. The logical part of my brain accepts that. The other part, the irrational part, tells me I’ve been betrayed and abandoned.”
“Oh, Kate.” He slid his hand down the back of my hair.
“When you arrested my daughter, it felt like one more betrayal, one more loss. All I wanted to do was run. But I can’t run from life. I know that. Life is a risk. Loving someone is a risk.”
“Not with me.”
I laid my head on his chest and listened to the strong, even rhythm of his heart. “Yes, it is, even with you, because you can’t promise not to die. And there’s no reason on God’s earth why I should ask it of you. I doubted you in Scotland, and I doubted you here, and the reason was fear. The fear of trusting someone with no reservations. The fear of giving my heart, only to find it broken. What I want to say is this: I don’t know what our future looks like, but I do know this—I will never doubt your character, your integrity, your intentions—or your love.”
I took a shaky breath.
“Come here.” He pulled me into his arms. “And this is what I want you to know, Kate. Whatever happens between you and my mother—or between you and Olivia, if she ever comes home from Africa—you are and will always be my first priority.”
We sat, not speaking, listening to the flames hiss and pop. What we’d just said to each other had consequences. I’d come to England one person. Soon I’d leave, another person entirely.
In an effort to move in a less fraught direction, I said, “Any leads on the gang of thieves?”
He laughed. “Enough of the commitment stuff? All right. We’ve tracked down the so-called Danish couple. They are married—just about the only truthful thing about them. They’re from Manchester. She did have a Danish grandmother who lived with them for a while. They met on the stage and turned their acting skills to felony. In aid of theft, they’ve impersonated everything from a Pearly King and Queen in London to a pair of Russian refugees. They’ll be spending time in prison, less if they’re willing to give up the leaders of the gang.”
“I feel sorry for her. She was kind to Danny. And she had great taste in clothes.”
He laughed. “That coat came in handy. When she went to the car to get the medical bag, she left the ring there. That’s why our search turned up nothing.”
“What about the collector in Bury St. Edmunds? I liked him, Tom.”
“Honest as the day is long, as it turns out—a victim of fraud. He’s cooperating fully with the police. If we ever recover the ring stolen from the exhibit, we’ll reunite it with the blood-red ruby and the other Hoard items he purchased unwittingly.”
“Oh, look, Tom.” Outside the windows, fat flakes of snow drifted down. “Come on, get your coat. Let’s watch.”
We stood under the latticed wood canopy that sheltered his front door. He wrapped his arms around me from behind. I laid my head back against his shoulder and took it all in. A childhood dream come true.
Lights from nearby cottages twinkled like a thousand candles. In the distance we heard church bells, calling the villagers of Saxby St. Clare to Christmas Evensong.
“I’m having my English Christmas,” I said, turning to look at him. “The only thing missing is wassail.”
“I’d make you some if I knew how.” Then he grew serious. “What’s next for us?”
“Drinks with Ivor Tweedy, remember? Then dinner at the Trout.”
He turned me around to face him. “Take pity on me, Kate. I’m a lost man.”
I grinned. “I’m sorry. You’re just so easy to wind up. When will you have time off?”
“Spring. Shall I go to you, or will you come to me?”
That was one question, as it happened, I could answer.
I took his hand. “Come back inside, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Also available by Connie Berry
A Dream of Death
Author Biography
Connie Berry was born in Racine, Wisconsin, to second-generation immigrants from Scandinavia and the British Isles. Like her main character, Connie was raised by charmingly eccentric antique collectors who opened a shop, not because they wanted to sell antiques but because they needed an excuse to keep buying them. Connie adores cute animals, foreign travel, and all things British. She lives in Ohio with her husband and adorable dog Millie.
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Connie Campbell Berry
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-64385-154-9
ISBN (ePub): 978-1-64385-155-6
Cover design by Lori Palmer
Book design by Jennifer Canzone
Printed in the United States.
www.crookedlanebooks.com
Crooked Lane Books
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First Edition: October 2019
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