Set Me Free

by London Setterby

  The woman at the next table glanced at us again, and so did her friend. I marshaled my courage. I was not alone. I was strong. I could do this.

  James’ mouth was a hard, flat line, his expression bored and annoyed. He sipped his Manhattan again, but for the first time, his hand trembled.

  “You tried—tried to convince her to stay, I think,” I said. “You took her out on your yacht again, where she painted this sunset. And to New York, to show her around your auction house. But it wasn’t enough. How could it be?”

  James’ gaze flicked up towards me suddenly. Just for a second, I caught a glimpse of sorrow, deep in the darkness of his eyes.

  “Tell me what happened to Suze.” I meant to command it, but instead, it was a plea.

  People glanced at us curiously, shifting in their seats. Someone whispered, “Did she say Suze?”

  He got to his feet—assertive, in control, every bit the authoritative businessman, except for the twitching pulse in his throat and the anguish in his eyes. I stepped back, clutching Kaye’s camera to my chest like a shield.

  The whispered questions fell silent. Everyone in the pub stared at us: Muscles and Rusty, both sitting at the bar; Andy and Bill at the beer taps; Margot and Kaye by the kitchen. Even Emily, in the very front by the hostess stand, had her mouth hanging open.

  “Did you love her?” I asked him, my voice hoarse.

  Seconds ticked by. James cast a quick look around the pub. He tucked his hands into his arms and shook his head.

  “James,” I whispered.

  He swallowed. A tear welled in the corner of one eye, and he dashed it away on the cuff of his sleeve. It caught on his cufflink and glimmered there, just for a moment, before it vanished.

  “You don’t understand,” he said softly.

  “Try me.”

  “I could’ve had anyone,” he said. “But I only wanted her, and she wouldn’t have me. Not—not—”

  “Not just you.”

  “Not just me.” He bowed his head. “And then—not me at all. She left me. Rejected me, the same way you did. You…remind me of her, you know,” he added suddenly, his eyes searching my face. “In a strange way, I think you are almost like her echo.”

  “I’m much more than that.”

  He nodded distractedly. “I could’ve taken such good care of her, if she’d let me. She could’ve been famous across the world. Had her work displayed in the best museums. I could’ve given her everything she wanted.”

  “But she didn’t want you.” She’d wanted her freedom and independence more than she’d wanted any man, even Owen. Perhaps she’d wanted freedom even more than success—she had never asked to be Beloved By All.

  “You’re right,” James said. “She did not want me.”

  “Tell me,” I said urgently. “If you cared about her at all. If you care about her spirit. Tell me what happened.”

  “She was going to leave me,” he said, as if even now, he could hardly believe it. “We were out on the yacht late one night, and she said…she said it was over for good. I was so angry, I wasn’t thinking—I slapped her. It was raining, and the dock was wet. She slipped…she fell over the side.”

  I’d expected to hear something like this—but it still hurt, deep and visceral. I could almost see Suze, standing on the bow of the yacht, surrounded by the stormy sea. James, his hand raised in the darkness. I could feel her determination to leave him, followed so quickly by shock, and terror. And I couldn’t help thinking about Rhys, pinning me to the floor, snarling: God damn it, Miranda, I will teach you how to behave if it’s the last thing I do.

  “I went in after her,” James said. “I looked for her for hours, but…” His voice cracked. Despite his expensive clothes, his perfect gym body, he looked very old and tired. Another tear rolled down his jawline. “There was nothing I could do. She was gone.”

  “But you could’ve told someone. Even if you couldn’t have found her yourself, you could have called for help—”

  “I was afraid,” James murmured, more to himself. “I was still young. I had so much to live for.”

  “You were young? What about Suze and Owen?”

  James laughed bitterly. “Larsen could’ve died in jail for all I cared. She was leaving me for him.”

  “The trial, the threats, the pipe bomb—”

  “It wasn’t my fault he was indicted.” His face flushed. “I didn’t frame him; it just happened. Why should I have interfered with it?”

  I stared at him, my skin crawling.

  “Look—I hired him after he was acquitted, didn’t I? It was as much as he deserved.”

  “You hired him to work on your house. And you think that makes you, what—even?”

  “I told you I don’t care!” James snapped. “I only cared about Suze! She was the only one—the only one—”

  His hands wrapped around the edge of the high top, and he hurled it downwards. I jumped backwards instinctively, and the table crashed to the floor at my feet, slicing a line into the hardwood. Everyone in the pub gasped. My heart slammed against my ribs, but I glared up at James, refusing to let him scare me.

  Before I could say anything, a huge figure loomed behind him.

  Owen.

  His face was stark, his mouth grim. I hadn’t seen him come into the pub. I had no idea when he’d gotten here, or how much he’d heard, but from his expression, it must have been enough.

  I had never meant for him to find out like this, in front of everyone.

  Owen shot me a quick glance, then clamped his hand down on James’ shoulder. James’ eyes widened as he glanced behind him. “Larsen, wait—”

  Owen punched him in the face. James staggered and fell, taking a chair down with him and landing in the crook of the table he’d knocked over. He stared up at Owen with fear in his eyes and blood trickling from his nose.

  A muscle in Owen’s jaw twitched. “You are lucky,” he said quietly, “that you didn’t clip her with that table. Or I would’ve killed you for it. And wouldn’t that have been fucking ironic?”

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” James gasped.

  Owen crossed his big arms over his chest, scowling. But I could see the ache in the corners of his eyes, the line of his mouth.

  Chair legs scraped against the floor, deafening in the silent pub. At the bar, Lacroix stood up, and from where he’d been hidden behind Muscles’ considerable bulk, so did the Chief of Police. Lacroix and the Chief, both in Tshirts and jeans, walked up to Owen where he towered over James. The Chief didn’t quite meet Owen’s eyes, but, clearing his throat, he clapped Owen on the back. “Nice hit, son.”

  Owen’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, and so did mine.

  The Chief and James looked at each other.

  Wearily, James got to his feet, touching his swollen, bloody nose and wincing. “Michael,” he said to the Chief.

  “James,” the Chief said coldly.

  “Guess I’ll be going with you.”

  “Guess so.”

  While the Chief radioed for a police car to be sent over, Owen slipped past them and came to my side. He reached for me at first, then dropped his hands. “You all right?” he asked me roughly.

  “I’m fine.”

  He gave a curt nod.

  People in the pub began to whisper to each other. Let it finally be over, I prayed.

  “I don’t understand,” someone said from behind us, and I winced. Miserable Margot stood in the center of the pub, her hands on her hips. “I told you I’d seen Mr. Emory at Suze’s art shows. Why didn’t you investigate him then?”

  My mouth fell open.

  The Chief frowned. “There were a lot of leads.”

  “You were so sure it was Owen,” Margot said. “You all were. The whole Department. And we just believed you.”

  “The evidence—” the Chief began.

  “What evidence?” said the woman with the big, blonde blowout, who was friends with Mrs. Gautier. “You had nothing, and you all knew it. But you made him
go through two trials, anyway—two!”

  “Now, look, the Department had nothing to do with that,” the Chief said. “That was Don’s decision.”

  “Well, it was a stupid decision,” she retorted. Some people in the pub nodded when she said this, but others shook their heads. The words “James Emory” fluttered across the pub.

  The front door opened, and two uniformed cops stepped inside. The Chief, with a last frown at Margot, put his hand on James’ arm and led him out the door.

  I turned away before I could see if James would look back.

  “I heard the poor boy got death threats for years,” someone in the pub was saying. “And the police didn’t do anything about it until that Scott Parker tried to blow him up.”

  I glanced at Lacroix, who was picking up the table James had knocked over, and mouthed an apology. I knew how badly Lacroix felt about the death threats, and how hard he’d worked on Scott’s case since the bombing. He shook his head, his face shadowed with regret. The table set to rights, he turned to leave, but I caught his sleeve and pulled him into a quick hug.

  “Thank you, Nick,” I told him. “It was brilliant of you to bring the Chief.”

  “The man likes a good craft brew,” Lacroix said.

  “Thank God for that.” I smiled wryly.

  “Just wish I could’ve done more.”

  I thanked him again and let him leave, then went back to Owen where he was standing with Kaye and Andy. All three were quiet and somber, while the pub buzzed with gossip all around them. Andy had his hand on Owen’s shoulder.

  “M.,” Kaye said, when I joined them, “next time you ask to borrow my camera, I’m going to alert the press.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you guys what was going on.”

  “I was wondering why Lacroix was hanging around so much,” Andy said. “I thought he had the hots for Kaye.”

  Kaye rolled her eyes, but even this gentle lightheartedness felt raw and strained. She took a deep breath and cast Owen an anxious glance. “Owen, I’m sorry. I should have… I had no idea Suze knew that guy. James. I know nothing I can say will make it better, but I really am sorry.”

  Owen looked down, his brow furrowing, but when he looked back up, his expression was kind. “It’s all right. Thanks.”

  She gave him a wobbly, relieved smile, a little teary-eyed. Andy slung his arm across her shoulders and led her back towards the bar.

  “Miranda,” Owen said, his voice pitched low, “can we talk? Outside?”

  I glanced up at him and nodded, taking in the fatigue and tension etched across his face. I couldn’t see it in his expression, but I was sure he was angry with me.

  Outside, in the dim light of the lantern over the door, Owen fell back against the pub’s wooden siding and dug his hands into his hair. “James Emory! You know he was the first person to hire me when I started my business? He recommended me to all his rich friends. Without him, the business would’ve failed. I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

  “I’m sure you would’ve thought of something.” I refused to believe that James had done Owen any favors.

  Owen shook his head. “I can’t see it.”

  “You are smart and talented,” I insisted. “You would’ve made something of yourself without his help.”

  Owen cast me a sad smile. “You believe in me more than anyone. More than I ever have.”

  “That’s right.” I smiled back, even as my eyes filled with tears.

  “How did you know about the paintings?” The words were strained and intense. Our argument in the attic felt all too recent.

  I chewed on my lip, trying to think of the words for how I’d felt about Suze’s work. “The first time I saw her paintings, I thought there was something strange about them. They weren’t just beautiful—they were sort of descriptive. As if they were records of her life. Especially that portrait of you. It was her way of telling you how much she loved you. And its mate, the one in your house, was her way of apologizing for being the way she was. She knew how flawed she was, but in her own way, she did love you. She loved you as much as you loved her.”

  Owen looked back down at the black asphalt, his expression sobering.

  “And there was more,” I said. “She documented her love for the island, Scott’s obsession with her, her friendship with Kaye and Violet. She even recorded whatever’s been going on between Kaye and Andy all these years.” I sighed. “That’s why I knew, in my heart, that there would be something. If there was someone else that she cared about, or that she feared, or both, she would’ve painted him.” I trailed off, thinking of the painting of James on the bow of the yacht. “And she did.”

  “I should never have doubted you,” Owen said, his voice husky. “Forgive me, Miranda.” He took me by the hand.

  “Forgive me first,” I shot back, even as my fingers involuntarily tightened around his.

  “Already done,” he said. “I could never stay mad at you. Not for anything. And especially not for this. You cleared my name. It’s more than I ever could have imagined.”

  “But I made you relive what happened with Suze.” I was testing him, I knew I was, but I couldn’t stop myself. I felt prickly all over.

  “M.” His dark gaze, lit with reflected stars, searched my face. “My life is yours. My past, my future. It’s yours to do what you want with.”

  “No.” I shook my head, tears stinging my eyes. “It’s not, and that’s—”

  He caught my face in his strong, gentle hands. “Listen to me. I got so used to being closed off to everyone and everything, I didn’t know how to be open to you. But that was wrong. I should’ve trusted you with everything, the way you trusted me.”

  “It’s okay, Owen,” I insisted, pulling free of him and starting towards the door. I’d cleared his name, but I didn’t have his heart. We still couldn’t be together. I would have to make my peace with that, somehow.

  Straightening up from the siding, he called after me: “I donated Suze’s self-portrait to the Graveside Gallery. That’s why I came here tonight, originally. I wanted to tell you that.”

  The words went through me like lightning, shocking me from my head to my toes. I turned around to stare up at him. “You donated it? Why?”

  “Because you were right. Again. About me. I’ve been obsessed with Suze this whole time. But I wasn’t… It wasn’t because I was in love with her. Not after the first couple years. It was more like I had to keep punishing myself for what I’d done, and keeping her there… Keeping her portrait there, I mean, in my old music room, was to remind myself how badly I’d screwed up.”

  I couldn’t absorb what he was saying. “Then…you’re not in love with Suze.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  My pulse raced. I didn’t dare to hope.

  “It’s you, Miranda,” Owen said. “I only love you.”

  My breath hitched. “You don’t mean that.”

  “I’ve never meant anything more.” He came towards me slowly. “I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you, standing in my mom’s shop, looking like you’d just fought a war. The fiercest, most gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen. I’ve never met anyone like you—you’re all courage.” I started to deny it, but he just laughed. “It didn’t even occur to you to stay away from the bomb.”

  “I would’ve broken your door down if you hadn’t answered,” I admitted.

  “Exactly. My brave, beautiful Miranda.” He lifted my hand to his mouth and kissed my palm, the inside of my wrist. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” My heart felt like a flower unfurling in a time-lapsed video, blossoming, growing huge and radiant all at once. Another tear fell, but I didn’t try to stop it. He loved me.

  “I wanted to tell you ages ago,” I said. “When I saw your workshop, or maybe even earlier, I knew you were what I wanted, and needed, even if it was crazy—too fast, and the timing all wrong.” I laughed, and so did he, as he pulled me in towards him and kissed me on the mouth. I could f
eel him smiling at first, until we both forgot where we were and deepened the kiss. I had to stop myself from reaching for his belt. “God, I’m still at work, aren’t I?”

  “Mmm…” He nuzzled my neck. “Come over tonight, and I’ll show you how much I love you, one kiss at a time.”

  Epilogue

  Two Months Later

  This week, we’d brought more than just a bouquet of flowers to Suze’s angel monument. I’d brought a print of my finished portrait of her, too, framed as durably as I knew how. The real thing was hanging a block away at the Graveside, in the entranceway to Mrs. Gautier’s Suzanna White exhibition. Mrs. Gautier had loved it. She had practically smiled at the sight of it. Even I had to admit it made the perfect entrance to the exhibit, hanging beside Suze’s own self-portrait.

  I placed our bouquet next to the print and spared only the quickest glance for the decaying white lilies, tied with a single red ribbon. They always used to be fresh and glowing, but I had a feeling I knew why that had changed. They were from James. Now he was in jail, waiting for his trial. His last bouquet had died, and there would be no new ones to take its place.

  I looked up at Suze’s serene, marble face. I didn’t know why Suze had made Owen wait as long as she did—why she’d made both of us wait. Maybe it was in her nature to allow a certain amount of suffering. Or maybe some things had always been outside her control. It didn’t matter anymore; I could only be grateful to her for bringing us together, after all this time.

  Owen’s hand found mine, and I squeezed his fingers possessively.

  Ferdy bounded up to Owen and me and nosed at my pockets. Smiling, I slipped him another biscuit.

  “That dog is becoming your shadow,” Owen remarked.

  “My huge, fluffy, drooling shadow.”

  We walked out from underneath the pine boughs onto the sunny sidewalks of Church Street. The rest of the day spread out before us like a fresh canvas. We had many days like this now. Sometimes we went to the beach or hung out at the pub with Kaye and Andy, and maybe Rusty or Muscles. Even Miserable Margot joined us every once in a while, though she wasn’t quite so miserable anymore.