Louise saved Culloden Battlefield for a sunny, mild day. The site of a battle that had cost a nation its hopes of holding the British throne, and much, much more, was sobering even in spring sunshine. Liam was quiet as they walked the paths over the moor.
“This place is lovely,” Louise said, “and that feels… both wrong and right.”
“Wrong that they should have died amid such beauty, right that they should rest here,” Liam said. “Shall we sit?”
Any Scot would be sobered by a visit to Culloden, where Scot had fought against Scot by the thousands, and post-battle retaliation by the Crown had been so harsh as to become a foundational component of the national psyche.
“Is there a silver lining?” Louise asked, taking Liam’s hand. “The land is still a boggy moor, but did any good come of this?”
Had the American Civil War produced any silver linings? Did any war?
“The clans haven’t massacred each other since,” Liam said. “But then, after Culloden, the clans were all but obliterated in a political sense. May I change the subject?”
An older couple strolled by, hand in hand, accompanied by a terrier in a Royal Stewart plaid jacket who sniffed the grass beside the path, then trotted ahead.
“Of course you can change the subject,” Louise said, because her time in Scotland had dwindled to days, and they’d yet to talk about what came next.
If anything. Twice Louise had been ready to have that conversation, and twice Liam’s phone had rung at the exact wrong moment. He’d taken the calls, business of some sort, and Louise had wandered off to nibble tablet or admire the infinite shades of green that were Scotland in spring.
Liam kissed her knuckles, one of the countless small gestures of affection with which he was so generous.
“What I’d like to ask you is this: You told me last week that Karen could have fought for me rather than with me,” he said. “Is there somebody who should have fought for you?”
A man who saw aesthetic parallels between stone fertility figures and Georgian portraiture would make that leap, and abruptly, the bleak battlefield was the perfect location for what needed to be said.
“Yes, Liam. Somebody should have fought for me, and instead threw down their weapons without firing a shot. When I was finishing up at art school, the champion who failed to join battle was me. I knuckled under, to Aunt Ev, to pecan pie, to common sense.”
Fighting had never occurred to Louise, not against her family, not against Hellenbore, not against her own broken heart.
“I’m sorry,” Liam said. “When we’re young, we’re reckless about wading into a fight, but often for the wrong causes. Is there a way to make it right?”
Interesting question. The terrier went yapping off into the treacherous, swampy ground that had been the end of so many hopes nearly three hundred years ago. When the old man whistled, the dog came loping back to him.
“How do you make something like that right?” Louise murmured, letting her head rest on Liam’s shoulder. “I was lied to, my work misrepresented, and my future knocked on its ass. I knew I had talent, and yet all I did was go home to my parents, and apply to law school.”
“You’re making it right every time you sit at your wheel,” Liam said. “Atonement can take time.”
He spoke from experience, and his tale wanted telling, so Louise held back the details of her own regrets.
“Before Karen died—I can say those words now, and they only ache, they don’t decimate—before Karen died, when I was racketing about, holding forth on three continents about some damned sculpture or kylix, I was befriended by several of the New York critics.”
That bunch. Most critics lacked the gift of creation, so many of them turned to destruction instead. Boggy ground, indeed.
“This doesn’t end well,” Louise said. If she and Liam had been in bed—Liam slept at the cottage now—she would have climbed on top of him and held on tight.
“It ends,” he said, his arm coming around Louise’s shoulders. “Sometimes, that’s the best we can do. One older fellow chatted me up at every opportunity, always bringing up the latest collections, the latest first shows, the latest articles. I never suspected he was using my half-pickled insights, my off-the-cuff opinions, to recycle into his blog posts. He was clever with words, but his grasp of art sadly wanting, and he was unkind.”
Someone had figuratively stolen Liam’s glazes. Amazing, how angry Louise was on his behalf, while for herself she’d been simply hurt and ashamed.
Amazing too, the comfort she took from Liam’s hand in hers, and his arm around her shoulders.
“You put the bullets into the gun he fired at others’ hopes and creativity, Liam, but he fired the gun, not you.”
“If I’d had any aspirations toward art criticism, that experience put me off them permanently. Some of the damage he did others haunted me for years, though I took what steps I could to make things right. The advantage he took of my carelessness helped me put aside the hard liquor.”
The old couple had walked around nearly the entire battlefield now, their pace measured, though they moved as one unit.
“I want to capture this,” Louise said. “I want that couple, their enduring connection, and the way it blesses even this place. I want a wheel where I can throw the love and the sorrow, both, and finish it with a hundred colors nobody has seen before. I’m not going back into that law office, Liam. I know that now.”
He kissed her cheek, on that bleak, sunny bench, and Liam Cromarty could say volumes with his kisses. I’m proud of you. I’m glad for you. You’ll do it. Your dreams are worthy. You deserve to be happy.
But was he saying I love you?
Louise loved Liam. Loved how with him she could talk about anything or simply be silent with him.
“You never finished your own story, Louise,” he said, tugging her to her feet. “The one about art school, and not standing up for yourself. If you thought law school was a place to lick your wounds, then you were at a sorry pass.”
They wandered along in the same direction as the older couple, who’d apparently made their circuit and gone back into the battlefield museum.
“I didn’t need to feel in law school, Liam. I only needed to think, get enough sleep, and get the assignments done. With my senior art school project, I fell afoul of one or those critics. My adviser claimed any critical notice was good for aspiring artists, so when the great and powerful Stephen Saxe brought his minions on a tour of the campus gallery, the entire senior class was nearly drunk with anxiety.”
In the middle of the battlefield, Liam stopped and put his arms around Louise. He said nothing, so she fortified herself with his affection.
“Saxe went after my showing,” she said, “tore it to shreds, said it was well executed but at best a slavish tribute to the new glazing technique my adviser had debuted the previous weekend at his show downtown. If after four years of study at the knee of a master, all I could do was derivative work, then maybe my degree should be in Teacher’s Pet, not art.”
Louise waited for Liam to say something, to console, to philosophize, to heap scorn on the head of the critic who’d be so cruel to a mere student, or the professor who’d steal credit for her creative accomplishment.
“I knew Saxe,” Liam said, eventually. “I learned to avoid him. I’m so very sorry, Louise.” For a progression of moments, bathed in sunshine and spring breezes, he simply held her while she gathered her courage.
“Hellenbore stole my process,” she said, the first time she’d spoken those words out loud to somebody who might grasp their full import. “He set up his own show, and I’m nearly certain he arranged for Saxe to make that royal progress to a mere student exhibition for the express purpose of wrecking my career before I had a career. I never saw it coming, but that experience taught me to anticipate the ambushes even in the courtroom, and never threaten with a figuratively empty gun.”
Liam knew the art world, was part of it, and should have been one person to whom Louise could confide this story and earn some commiseration.
He dropped his arms, took her hand, and resumed walking. “Guns are dangerous to all in their ambit, Louise. I can see why you’d not enjoy the legal profession.”
The comment was… off. Not the Liam she knew and wanted desperately to love. Scotland’s outlook on guns wasn’t the same as what Louise had grown up with, but Liam wasn’t talking about firearms.
“I never figured out how to bring suit against Hellenbore,” Louise said, “or how to get even with Saxe, but I became good at being a lawyer, up to a point. The law is the law and the rules are the rules, but the rules can go only so far toward solving the problems we create with each other. That drove me crazy.”
“Maybe it drove you un-crazy,” Liam said, passing her a piece of tablet. “You’ve found your art again, or you soon will.”
Louise took a bite and gave Liam back the rest. Next would come the shared bottle of water, or perhaps they’d stop in the museum’s snack shop for soup, bread, and butter.
A few days in a borrowed studio wasn’t finding her art again, though those days had been lovely.
“Did you stop eating meat when Karen died?”
“Aye.”
“Because she was a good cook, and the kitchen smells reminded you of her?”
“You’re very astute. I didn’t figure it out so quickly, but by then I was out of the carnivore habit. Shall I take a picture of you?”
This place had put Liam’s mood off. He was present and he was dodging into shadows, much like the man who’d met her at the airport.
“I want a picture of us, Liam.”
“I’m not very photogenic, how about if I—” He got his phone out of his sporran. “I’ll take you and you take me?”
He was the most photogenic man Louise had ever met, and this prevarication wasn’t like him.
“Not good enough, Cromarty. I know Culloden is a sad place, but I’m happy to be here with you.” Louise flagged down a couple chattering in German and gestured and smiled them into taking a photo of her and Liam against the stone cairn at the center of the battle field.
The image was well composed and well exposed, though Liam’s smile was pained, his eyes bleak.
“Shall I send you a copy?” Louise asked.
Liam peered at the screen of her phone, coming close enough to put a hint of woodland and heather on the morning breeze.
“We’ll do better elsewhere, I think. Are you thirsty?”
“Sure.” Louise swilled from the bottle of Highland Spring, then passed it to Liam when she wanted to throw her arms around him.
Even to tell him she loved him, though this sad morning on a battlefield wasn’t the time or place.
“C’mon,” she said, taking his hand. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand and head down to Cairngorms National Park. They have reindeer there, don’t they? We don’t have reindeer in Georgia, and if we did, we’d probably hunt them to extinction.”
* * *
Liam had bought a damned ring yesterday, while Louise had been engrossed in her wheel. An emerald stone, more valuable than diamonds and appropriate for Louise’s fire and sense of purpose. The setting was Celtic gold, and the sentiments…
Louise had put the heart back in him, and Liam didn’t want her to leave, ever.
Though now, the sooner he put her on that plane, the better for them both.
As Louise boiled up a batch of gnocchi, Liam opened the wine and prepared to lie his way through the rest of Louise’s visit.
“Will you throw tonight?” he asked. Louise could work at her wheel for hours, and he had the sense she was only warming up. Five years’ penance for another’s crimes rode her hard, and she’d throw her way free of it.
“Nah. No throwing tonight. Tromping around all day wore me out. If you’ll slice the bread, I’ll set the table.”
At every meal Liam ate with his family, every single meal, somebody had to make a joke about his decision to stop eating meat. Louise hadn’t remarked on it once. When they planned meals, her suggestions were meatless, and she was the next thing to a cheese connoisseur.
They’d toured a distillery in Inverness, and she’d made the most awful face at one of the world’s best-loved Highland single malts.
Of course , Liam had bought her a ring, and fool that he was, returning it would about kill him. He’d been about killed before and didn’t care to repeat the experience.
“Shall I dress the salad?” Louise asked.
“Please, and I’ll pour.”
Louise chose the wines, because Louise chose the cheeses. Main dishes were Liam’s province, and salads and dessert were negotiated.
Though what in God’s name would they talk about now?
Say, Louise, did you know that Saxe’s insults to your work weren’t even original? I sneered and snickered my way past all those lovely vases, those intriguing drinking cups, and the teapot that shed rainbows in all directions, though even I admitted a student’s derivative work was superior to what Hellenbore had displayed a week earlier.
Saxe had left that part out, of course. Liam took a sip of wine, but just a sip. He’d earned this misery, and by God, he’d endure it.
Though not alone. Before conversation could turn awkward or intimate, Uncle Donald came clomping onto the porch.
“I smell dinner,” he said, setting his tackle down outside the front door. “Don’t suppose there’s room for a lonely old man at the table?”
“A shameless man in his prime,” Louise said, joining Liam at the door. “The boots can stay out here, though, and you will wash your hands.”
“I like her,” Donald said, toeing off a pair of green Wellies. “Has a confident air and a nice behind.”
“No dessert for you, auld man,” Louise said over her shoulder. “We’re politically correct at Dunroamin Cottage, if we know what’s good for us.”
For once, Liam was affirmatively glad to see his uncle, who could tell story after story, about everything from the Battle of the Shirts to Mary Queen of Scots, to epic rounds of golf at St. Andrews.
When the meal had been consumed, the coffee and tablet had made the rounds, and Donald had told stories on half the Cromarty clan, he kissed Louise’s cheek and rose.
“I’ll be off then. Shall I feed your puppy, Liam?”
“You have a puppy?” Louise asked.
“He has an old blind dog,” Donald said. “Or half-blind. She’s good company fishing, is Helen.”
“Helen’s getting on,” Liam said, taking his dishes to the sink. “She’s not blind in the least, but she is good company if you’re inclined to stay in one spot for hours.”
“If you like spending time with bears,” Donald said, snitching another piece of tablet. “Louise strikes me as the better bargain.”
Louise rose and shoved the mostly empty wine bottle at him. “Time to go, you. Comparing ladies to dogs is no way to win friends and influence women. Don’t forget your fishing pole.”
Liam loved hearing Louise talk. Bits of Georgia crept in—fishin’ pole, instead of fishing rod, or rod and reel—and her tone was always warm.
“I’ll do the dishes if you want to take your shower,” he said when Donald had gone stomping on his way, singing about the rashes-o, and drinking from the bottle.
I don’t want to be like that . Liam didn’t want to be old and alone, smelling of river mud, swilling leftover wine, and deriving a sense of usefulness by feeding a dog who barely woke up between meals anymore.
“I’m dead on my feet,” Louise said, putting plastic wrap over the salad. “If you’re sure you don’t mind cleaning up, I’ll see you upstairs.”
Reprieve. Another forty-five minutes when Liam wouldn’t have to make conversation, wrestle guilt, and count the minutes until Louise’s departure. He kissed her cheek and patted her bottom.
“Away with you, then, madam. Dougie and I will manage. Don’t wait up for us.”
She hugged him—Louise was unstinting with her affection, something Liam would not have guessed about her when he’d fetched her from the airport.
And then she was gone, leaving Liam with a messy kitchen, and more heartache than one tired, lonely Scot should have to bear.
* * *
By Louise’s last day at the cottage, an invisible elephant in pink Scottish plaid had joined her vacation entourage. The elephant carried around a load of questions nobody was asking anybody.
So, what happens after the plane takes off?
Will you call me?
Will I see you again?
Liam made endlessly tender, quiet love to her, then came at her with ferocious passion. Then it was Louise’s turn to be tender, to memorize the turn of his shoulders, the line of his flanks, the texture of his skin at the small of his back.
She spent hours at the wheel and more hours online doing research—about glazes, collections, art schools, and the past. Hellenbore had retired amid some scandal involving an undergraduate “prone to depression.”
“She should be furious, not depressed,” Louise informed the drinking cup on the wheel. “But if she forced him into retirement, maybe she should be proud.”
The cup spun on the wheel, perfectly symmetric, but plain. No colors, no variations in texture or form to give it life.
“You need to eat,” Liam said from the doorway. He watched her from time to time, but he neither answered questions nor asked them lately. The studio hardly had room for Louise’s heartache, Liam’s quiet presence, and that damned pink elephant.
“I need to finish up,” Louise said, dragging the cutoff wire under her clay. “I’ll be an hour at least cleaning the knives, scrapers, and other tools. You don’t have to help.”
Liam’s brows twitched. As an older man, he’d have bushy brows. That single twitch confirmed that Louise’s elephant was getting restless, putting a sharpness on her words she hadn’t intended.
By this time tomorrow, Louise would have left Scotland, possibly forever.
“I can make dinner,” Liam said. “I notice you haven’t started to pack.”
Whatever the hell that meant.
Louise mashed the clay back into a hard, compact ball. “I’m quick when it comes to throwing my things into a suitcase. If we’re making pizza, we’ll need ingredients. I’ll clean up, you make a grocery run, and we’ll meet in the kitchen.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Liam sauntered over to her, kissed the top of her head, and would have left, except Louise caught his clean hand in her muddy one.
“I’ll miss you, Liam. I’ll miss you terribly.”
Another kiss. “Likewise, Louise Mavis Cameron.”
Then he was gone.
Louise dealt with the tools of her trade—her art—and tidied up the studio until it was as clean and welcoming as she’d found it. She grabbed a shower for good measure and was toweling off when another question joined her already overflowing supply.
How had Liam known her middle name? She’d never told him, not specifically, which middle name went with which Cameron sister, and yet he’d known her middle name was Mavis.
Interesting.
* * *
Words stuck in Liam’s throat all the way to the airport, while beside him, Louise held her peace. A woman who’d been cheated out of her future as an artist by a lot of stupid, arrogant men probably learned to keep her own counsel very well.
“Are you nervous?” Liam asked as they tooled over the Forth Road Bridge.
“I have it on good authority that flying to the States is easier than flying to Europe. What will you do with yourself today, Liam?”
He’d get the cottage ready for Jeannie’s next rental, respond to the emails he’d neglected for the past two weeks, and get on with the business of hating himself for the rest of his life—again.
“I’ll catch up on the housework, mostly.”
They reached the southern bank of the firth, that much closer to the airport.
“Liam, you have a beautiful house. I didn’t poke around inside, though when I took Helen back yesterday, I couldn’t help but admire it. Somebody went to a lot of trouble with that house, a lot of expensive trouble.”
This was a question he could answer. “How do I afford that place on a college professor’s salary?”
“You have art everywhere. Nice art.”
“That’s not only art, that’s inventory, Louise. For years, when I saw something I liked, I bought it. Small things at first, then larger pieces. You’d be surprised what major corporations and even law firms are willing to pay for a bit of the pretty for their offices.”
Louise left off pretending to be fascinated with the traffic around them. “You’re a dealer? That’s why you get phone calls from all over the world and jabber away in French and German?”
“Not quite a dealer,” Liam said. “I don’t sell the pieces I own, I rent them out. When a client wants a different look, I find them something else, from what’s on hand, in storage, or in various galleries that know what I like. It’s rather profitable.”
The smile Louise aimed at him was both admiring and knowing. “That’s why you don’t bring it up with your family? You’re embarrassed to make money at something you enjoy?”
Liam would miss Louise for the rest of his life, miss her quickness, her understanding, her passion for cheese, and the way she held entire conversations with a lump of wet clay.
“I simply don’t know how to tell them,” Liam said. “I make money, the world has a little more good art to enjoy, the businesses are happy, the artists have a paying client and the occasional commission. It doesn’t seem fair that I’d also enjoy the work.”
The airport was only a few minutes ahead, and yet, what more could Liam say?
I ruined your career years ago, but don’t mind that, because sometime in the past two weeks, I fell in love with you.
“You’ll let Jeannie know when you’re home?” he asked.
“Sure. Or I can text you.”
“Please do. I’ll worry.” And probably kick hard objects, yell at the cat, and ignore messages from family. Familiar territory.
After more pained silence, Liam drew up to the departures curb. “I can park if you like.”
“No need,” Louise said, opening her door. “I’ve got this, Cromarty, and I want you to know something.”
Liam wrestled Louise’s colorful suitcase onto the curb and prepared to die right there in the Scottish spring sunshine that had so captivated her two weeks ago.
“I’ll miss you, Louise Cameron. I’ll miss you sorely.”
“I’ll miss you, too. Terribly, horribly, awfully, very badly, but here’s something to think about, Professor. I spent some time online last night. If I wanted to earn a master of fine arts, some of the best programs in the world are in your backyard. Some of the most interesting and respected programs, right down the lane in Glasgow.”
What is she saying?
Louise wrapped Liam in a fierce embrace.
“You’d come back here, to Scotland, Louise?”
“I can throw pots wherever there’s a wheel and mud. I can hand-build. I can sketch. I can teach. I can wait tables, muck stalls, or impersonate a lawyer. What I cannot do anymore, ever again, is let my life go by while I wait for happiness to find me. You’re right: I need to do what makes me happy, even if I have to fight for it.”
Louise kissed his cheek, then stepped back and grabbed the handle of her suitcase. “Thank you, Liam Cromarty. For everything, thank you.”
Liam stood staring long after Louise had disappeared into the crowd, until the blare of an insistent horn reminded him that he was holding up traffic. He didn’t recall driving back to Perthshire, but he was still pondering Louise’s words when he got home and found Uncle Donald dozing in a chair on his front terrace.
“You’re an idiot,” Donald said, not even opening his eyes.
Liam took a place beside him, sitting right on the hard stones of the terrace. “Aye, and you’re where I get it from.”
“Lad, you cannot let that one go. Move to America, commute across the ocean, or kidnap her, but don’t waste any more time wallowing in your guilt and grief. You’ll end up singing to the fish and wondering how seventy-five years can pass in a summer.”
Dougie joined the discussion, hopping onto Donald’s lap.
“Donald, I’ve wronged that woman, and I didn’t admit it to her. Isn’t it better that she recall me as a Highland fling than learn that I played a significant part in her worst betrayals?”
No, it was not. Having put Louise on the plane, Liam hated the thought of letting his lies and silence be the last chapter in their story. Could he make it right?
Could he ever make it right?
Helen came panting around the side of the house, wet from the shoulders down and reeking of the river. She shook—of course—baptizing Liam and annoying Dougie too.
“You were a right mess for a bit,” Donald said, not uncharitably. “Graduate school and all that whatnot with Karen. That’s behind you now. A cat, a smelly dog, and a tipsy old man aren’t very good company compared to the lass.”
They were good company. Louise was better company.
“Louise makes the most beautiful ceramics you’ve ever seen, Donald. You did see some of it when I first moved into the house. The perfect blend of shapes, colors, textures… She has magic in her heart.”
She still had the magic, maybe more than ever. Liam had felt it vibrating through her when she’d been at her wheel, had gloried in its reflection when they’d made love.
“Louise made all those vases and pots and dishes? The blue and the green, and peacocky stuff?”
“When she was only a student. I’ve rented most of her pieces to a New York law firm that won’t send them back to me willingly. That firm represents obscenely successful artists, and her work is exactly what they wanted to grace their common areas. I hadn’t connected L. Mavis Cameron with my Louise Cameron.”
“Well, then,” Donald said, passing Liam the cat and rising. “You have matters to see to, Liam. You’d best get on with them.”
Dougie bopped Liam’s chin, seconding the motion, apparently.
“Classes start back up in a week, Donald, and Louise wasn’t exactly reluctant to get on that plane.” Because she was off in search of happiness, and what woman wouldn’t relish such a quest?
Donald stopped halfway across the terrace to pet Helen’s shaggy head. “Sooner begun is sooner done, Liam Donald Cromarty. That woman made you happy, and I’d about given up on you.”
Liam had about given up on himself. “You think I should fight for her.” So did Liam.
“You’re not the brightest of my nephews, but you usually come to the right answer eventually. Am I wrong, Liam?”
Liam rose, the cat in his arms. For two weeks, he’d had somebody to share his meals with, also his bed, and his heart. Those two weeks had been the best he could recall.
“I’m saying you’re right, Uncle, but this is a battle I must win, and putting together my strategy will take some time.”
“I’ll be at the river,” Donald said, disappearing down the steps. “If you should take a notion to travel, I’ll look in on your beasts.”
“You heard him,” Liam informed the dog and cat. “I’d best get busy. In New York the day’s already half over.”
* * *
Liam didn’t call, he didn’t e-mail. He’d replied to the text Louise had sent two weeks ago confirming her safe return to the United States.
“Rejoicing in your safe arrival there, missing you here. Will be in touch. Throw splendid pots until then. Liam Cromarty.”
Not, “Love, Liam.”
Not, “Yours, Liam.”
Not fondly, sincerely, truly yours…
Louise smashed her clay flat again.
“Are you angry at that clay?” Jane set down the carry out Eritrean on the studio’s work table. The space was rented, the light entirely artificial, and the wheel grouchy.
“I did better work in Scotland,” Louise said. “I can’t focus here. What is wrong with me that I’m attracted to men who—”
Louise’s phone rang, blaring “Scotland the Brave,” about which Jane apparently knew better than to comment.
“My hands are muddy,” Louise said. “Would you get that?”
Though in Scotland, it would be barely seven a.m. Would Liam call that early?
“I’m not getting this,” Jane said. “You’re letting it ring through. It’s Robert.”
“And I had no appetite before the phone rang.” Robert and his latest scholarly piece of tripe could abuse semicolons on somebody else’s watch. Let his Sweet Young Thing help him get published. “I have pots to throw.”
“Wash your hands,” Jane said, arranging carry-out containers on the work table. “I brought you a heather ale to try. Dunstan likes it for a change of pace.”
Louise turned on the tap at the sink and scrubbed at her hands. Did Liam enjoy heather ale? Was he back at his classes? Had he gone fishing with Donald lest his uncle get too lonely?
“Earth to Louise.”
“How is Dunstan?” Louise asked, shutting off the tap and taking a whiff of vegetable sambusas Liam would have delighted in. She should have made them for him, with a nice peppery—
“Dunstan is worried about his cousin Liam.” Jane said.
Louise slammed the lid of the container shut. If she’d had clay in her hands, she would have thrown it against the wall.
“Do not mess with me, Jane DeLuca Cromarty. I’m PMSing and nursing a broken heart, my muse is playing hard to get, and I’m about to give notice that I won’t be teaching in the fall. Is Liam okay?”
Jane set down her unopened bottle of ale, slowly. “You already quit the lawyer day job, Louise. Are you quitting the artist day job, too?”
“Is. Liam. All. Right?”
“Dunstan can’t tell. Liam’s preoccupied, according to the family grapevine, but not like he was after his wife died. They’re not sure what’s up, but Uncle Donald’s keeping a close eye on him.”
“Uncle Donald isn’t exactly a good influence.” But he was a cagey old guy who knew a thing or two about loneliness. Louise opened her ale and passed Jane the bottle opener. “I’m tempted to delete Robert’s message.”
Louise took a sip of fermented grain and Scotland.
“You deleted Robert from your bedroom that’s a start,” Jane said around a mouthful of spongy, vinegary injera bread.
Did Liam even like Eritrean cuisine?
“Robert was never there much to begin with,” Louise said. “For the last six months, nobody was asking and nobody was telling. He claimed he was on writing deadlines. Leave me some bread.”
Jane divided the remaining bread in half. “Robert’s in New York. If you move up there for the privilege of reminding him to put the seat down until he finds some other female to sponge off of, I will smack you.”
Liam had made sure Louise was never at risk for that kind of behavior again.
“I like this ale,” Louise said, peering at the label. “Fraoch is the Gaelic word for heather.”
“And Liam is the Gaelic word for heartache,” Jane retorted. “Dunstan says Liam has left town, and Donald isn’t saying where he went.”
Maybe to a cottage near a loch in the Highlands, maybe to purchase more art.
“He’s not headed here that I know of,” Louise said. “He said he’d be in touch, but that might be Scottish for ‘don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya.’”
“You can take the woman out of Georgia…” Jane said. “You going back to Scotland?”
The damned phone rang again. “Robert,” Louise said, putting the phone in silent mode. “He must have already run off his Sweet Young Thing.”
Jane tore off another strip of bread. “Revenge is mine, sayeth the former girlfriend, but you honestly couldn’t be bothered, could you?”
“With Robert? I knew better, Jane. Before law school, when Hellenbore took such an interest in my glazes and was so encouraging, I was an innocent. Robert was… a distraction.”
A lousy distraction.
Jane closed one eye and peered down inside her bottle of ale, managing to look both elegant and silly.
“So if Liam called you in the next fifteen minutes and asked you to join him for a Roman holiday, you’d tell him he’s had his shot, one and done?”
“If Liam called, we’d talk about where we go from here,” Louise said, assuming her little heart didn’t go pitty-patting away with her brain at the sight of even his phone number. “I’d take time to think about any decisions, and he’d understand why.”
If Liam could fly to Rome, he could fly to DC. If he could call Singapore, he could call Louise.
“You’re not eating much, Louise.”
Dunstan would inhale any leftovers Jane took back to the office. Louise used the bread to scoop up another mouthful of spicy potatoes.
“I miss him, Jane. I really, really miss him. He’s dear, lovely, an adult, hot, thoughtful….”
“And not calling you,” Jane said. “Give it time. Dunstan sometimes takes a while to figure things out. We sort through legal cases together in nothing flat, but family stuff always takes longer.”
“You’re a good friend.”
The phone buzzed, knocking against the table.
“Answer the idiot,” Jane said, taking a sip of ale.
Louise glanced at the phone, intending to let Robert’s pestering go to voice mail for the third time.
Her stomach gave a funny little hop at the digits crowding her screen. “It’s Liam.”