Authors: Jen Printy
She purses her lips and glances away.
“Do you want me to continue?”
“Yes.”
“You see, I knew I was durable, but before then, I didn’t know I couldn’t die like anyone else. After several attempts, I tried new vices—drowning my misery in whiskey, opiates, and even a fight house. They didn’t work, either, not for the long term, so I attempted to content myself with my predicament. Numbness became my best friend. I’ve bummed all over the world from one odd job to the next. Sailor, dockhand, auto mechanic—I’ve done just about everything, never settling in one place for too long in case someone realized I’m not getting any older.
“I showed up in Portland because of a flick of a dart, and then you stumbled into my life, washing over me like a tidal wave. At some points, it felt like you were going to haul me into the murky, grim depths, but you didn’t.” I reach for her hand and stroke it. “You saved me, you know?”
Leah’s grown quiet, and I look at her from under my hooded brow. She’s biting her lower lip, while a small smile dances along her lips. This isn’t exactly the reaction I expected.
“You find this funny?”
“No, of course not. But I believe it was you who stumbled into me.”
“True, very true.” I laugh softly at the memory.
“Well, none of that’s going to happen next time.”
The stifling tension returns, clinging to the air around us. All the practice I’ve had hiding my true feelings pays off, and I manage to keep my tone light. “That’s nothing we have to concern ourselves with tonight.”
She ignores my dismissal. “I know you don’t like talking about it, but this needs to be said. The next time we find each other, I don’t want to find out you dove off the Empire State Building or any of that stupidity. We need a meeting place. Like the elms—”
If I believed she’d be there someday, I’d live under those damned elms.
Feeling my temper rise, I grit my teeth. Emotionally drained and irritated by her optimism, I’m in no shape to rehash our old argument again tonight.
Studying her table setting, she continues, “I’m sorry. I know you don’t believe even though I do.”
Leah pauses. I’m aware she’s editing, holding something back. “New topic. I was thinking where we might go next. If we can’t go back to Portland or stay in York, we might as well enjoy the ride. Besides England, I’ve always wanted to see France. With the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, Arch of Triumph, Paris alone is an artist’s dream. I could sketch along the Seine in the very spot Monet was inspired.” Her eyes shine with forced excitement. “What places are on your bucket list? Not many, I’m guessing.”
“Rio de Janeiro, for one. The warmth would be nice for a change.” I smile, but my voice is still chilly from the previous subject. “And actually, I’ve never been to Paris.” I slip my hand into hers.
The end of the conversation leaves us to our own thoughts. I wish I could believe as she does. I wish I had that much confidence.
Faith brings strength
. The French boy’s adage rings true. Leah is the strongest woman I’ve ever had the privilege to know.
When the waiter returns with our meals, he asks, “So are you enjoying our little town?”
“Yes, it’s such a beautiful spot,” Leah says.
“Did you get a tour of Wind Rush House?” the waiter asks.
“Yes.” Leah says, enthusiasm leaking into her voice.
“It’s a grand old house, isn’t it, miss? I’d dare say it boasts the most beautiful gardens in the county. There’s a tragic love story that connects that manor with this humble home. They say Lydia Ashford still roams the manor’s halls, looking for her Jack.” The man recites the story of Lydia Ashford and her one true love perfectly, until… “Late one night, a week before their wedding, Lydia heard the rumor that her beloved Jack was unfaithful.”
Leah’s brows raise a fraction of an inch. I curse the man silently behind taut lips.
He leans forward, no doubt misinterpreting our tension as eagerness for his juicy tale. “They say she ran out into a storm, desperate to find him to prove the rumors false, but she never did. Instead, Lydia collapsed a mere quarter-mile from this house and died a week later, never knowing the truth.”
“What do they say happened to Jack?” Leah asks. Her eyes flick to me for an instant and then to our waiter—the bloody fabulist.
“No one really knows. The story diverges there. One account says he died alone with a broken heart, while the other has him running off with Ashford’s housekeeper, who was supposedly quite a beauty.”
I almost spew my cola all over the white tablecloth.
Mrs. Mills? Seriously?
She had to be close to seventy at that time, and a beauty she was not. Leah gives me a severe stare.
“Excuse me, lady and gent. It looks like table three needs their check.” The waiter wanders away, probably to screw with someone else’s evening.
I look Leah straight in the eyes. “Listen. That’s not what happened. There was never anyone else. Mrs. Mills was a very nice lady, but she and I never…”
Her smile returns. “I know, Jack. I remember.” She laughs. “Gotcha.”
I gape at her in surprise, a grin yanking up one corner of my mouth.
“See? I made you smile.”
After dinner, I walk her to our room. “So, this was your bedroom?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have many girls up here besides Mrs. Mills?” she teases.
“Tons, too many to name.” I roll my eyes. “Of course not.”
She scowls playfully. “Because that would have been improper,” she says, imitating me.
I nod.
She glides her arms around my neck and rolls to her tiptoes then brushes her lips against mine. “How about that? What would that have been?”
“Scandalous.” I chuckle, rough and deep. The backs of my fingers stroke her cheek. I savor the softness of her skin and lean in for another kiss.
A different kind of energy arises in this kiss, something more alive than before. My tongue skims the curve of her lower lip. Her breath comes in jagged gasps. She yanks my T-shirt over my head and tosses it to the floor. Her fingertips dance along my stomach. Electric currents run straight through me. A deep growl breaks from my throat. Her tongue pushes my lips apart, exploring the confines of my mouth. I twist my fingers into her hair to hold her close. We stumble backward. Something solid bumps against the back of my legs. We fall onto the bed. I break away, gasping for breath. Her lips burn a path along my collarbone to my jaw.
“See? I can break rules, too,” she says, her hot breath against my neck.
My mind is invaded by images of us… together. With trembling hands, I grip Leah’s shoulders and slip out of her grasp. “I think that’s all a gentleman can take for one evening, love.” I lift away from her and sit on the edge of the bed.
She sits up. “You know, sometimes you make me feel like a villain in some fairy tale, trying to lure the innocent maiden out of her cottage with a shiny red apple.”
“Me being the innocent maiden?”
Leah grins.
“Thanks,” I huff.
“So what’s this all about?”
I shrug.
“No, no. Don’t close down on me now. I know you love me, and it’s pretty obvious you want me as much as I want you. So what’s the problem?”
“Of course I want you. And someday—” My face grows hot. Running my hand along the sweaty scruff of my neck, I glance away. “Look. I was raised with certain convictions that there are some things kept for marriage. I know the idea is old-fashioned, but although times have changed, I’m not sure I have.”
“Marriage?” Her voice brightens. I look to find a Cheshire cat grin plastered across Leah’s lips. “You want to marry me?” Her words tumble out. “I mean, I figured you did, but hearing the words out loud—
you
want to marry
me
.”
“Yes.” I smile. “More than I’ve wanted anything in this world, but I can’t ask you properly until I buy a ring.”
She laughs, her arms encircling my neck, and falls backward onto the bed. I tumble on top of her then kiss her softly. She catches my lower lip between her teeth. Again, my control wavers. A need to have our bodies fused together aches deep within me. I pull her closer. Our lips move together between gasps. My skin burns under every touch, stirring up levels of longing I’ve never allowed myself to feel.
“So.” I clear my throat, trying to catch my breath. “Do you think I’m worth waiting for?” I ask, wagging my eyebrows.
Leah looks up and taps her fingers on her lips as if she’s mulling over the question then grins with a spirited gleam. “Yes. But—”
“There’s a
but
?”
She nods. “When you place an engagement ring on this finger”—she wiggles her left ring finger in the air—“we’re renegotiating the no sex rule.”
“Thanks for the warning. I’ll make sure I have a chaperone with us at all times until the wedding to protect my virtue,” I tease. “I’m sure Grady would be more than willing.”
She furrows her brows and shoots me a wanton stare. “Don’t you dare.”
I chuckle. Sliding off the bed, I stand. Leah reaches for me and takes my hand. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I believe it’s best if tonight I sleep on the floor.”
Coward.
Her face tightens. “You’re kidding?”
I snatch the quilt from the foot of the bed.
“Jack, you’re being silly. It’s not the nineteenth century anymore.”
“Agreed.” I avoid her penetrating stare and unroll the bedding on the floor by the door. “If it was, a true gentleman would never set foot in a lady’s bedchamber.”
She heaves a heavy sigh. “If you feel that’s necessary.”
My eyes trace the open buttons of her blouse to the white lace of her bra playing peek-a-boo behind the lilac cotton. “I do.” I swallow hard against the bone-deep need fighting to cloud my honorable intentions. “Sweet dreams,” I say as I grab a pillow.
A glimpse of something like sadness flashes across her face. If I returned to comfort her, there would be no leaving her bed after that. I tug off my shirt and toss it to the floor. After lying down, I fold my arms behind my head, scrutinizing the tiny imperfections in the ceiling and attempting not to think about how warm Leah would feel in my arms. Soon the sound of her gentle, steady breathing fills the room. I close my eyes to find sleep, but my mind conjures behaviors well beyond the bounds of the propriety my mother would approve of. I thrust my thoughts in a different direction, giving in to my haunting fears again.
Vita’s no longer a concern
. The words spin in lopsided orbits in my head.
That woman in Lidcombe wasn’t Vita. But that doesn’t conclusively mean that Artagan is right about her. What if he was wrong, and I endangered Leah by taking her on the grand tour of my early days?
In all the what-ifs, one fact is clear—Vita needs to die. And I’m going to need Artagan’s help to kill her. My biggest obstacle will be convincing Leah, but first, I need to talk to Artagan. I roll from bed and grab my phone then slip in to the hallway. Scrolling through the short list of incoming calls serves as a distraction. No new calls, as I expected, so I dial Artagan’s number. His phone rings and rings, but no one answers, and then voice mail answers. Unsurprisingly, no message greets me, only a low, squawking beep.
“Artagan, it’s Jack. Call me. There are some things we need to discuss.”
I slide the phone into my pocket and step to the door. A noise like the sound of something falling and shattering in the background interrupts me. A shiver of alarm swamps my shoulders, tensing them. My hand frozen on the doorknob, I scan the hall. After another thud, I slowly and quietly steal down the dimly lit corridor. Murmurs of laughter and music float up from downstairs. The door at the end of the hall stands ajar. My mother’s room. I nudge the door open with my foot. An overfed mouse scurries between my legs, followed by a gray-striped tabby. I twist to the side, stumbling against the doorframe.
Inside the room, a small circular table is lying on its side, a white porcelain vase smashed to pieces around it.
Damn cat.
I chuckle. My gaze falls on a hairline crack in the molding along the base of the wall near the shattered remains of the vase, and I recall a distant memory. My mother kept her valuables in a secret compartment behind the wall. I bend down, and with the help of my pocketknife, I pry the short board loose. Lying in the narrow cubbyhole is a small collection of items—a pocket watch, a dark-patina wooden box, and a yellowed envelope.
I lift the antique pocket watch by its chain. The decorative gold disk swings and sways, playing with the lamplight while it dangles. Inside, I find the engraved message I remembered.
To my husband and our father,
John
With love,
Helen, Henry, Ruth, and Jack
3rd March 1847
It was our gift to my father on his last birthday. My mother saved every penny she could, and Henry worked odd jobs around the village so we could afford it. I set the watch aside and reach for the small box. The hinged lid squeaks open after years of neglect, revealing a gold band decorated with five rectangular-cut emeralds framed with pearls. The ring seems made for Leah; the gems are the exact color of her eyes.
With a deep breath, I reach for the letter. My mother had the knack of exhuming all my buried emotions with a few simple words. The old paper crinkles. I carefully unfold the delicate yellowing page. Scrolled in an elegant hand is written—
My Dearest Jack,
I am writing you this letter in hopes that someday you will find it, and these two items I long to give to you will be yours.
The pocket watch is for you, my son. It is the only thing I have left of your father’s, and I want you to have it.
The ring was my mother’s engagement ring. However, this is not for you, but for you to give to someone you love. Do not be vexed with me. My greatest wish is that you will allow yourself happiness and that someday you will realize Lydia’s death was not of your doing. Dear child, seize that belief and hold it. May the Lord direct you.