He couldn’t go to his flat—with all the boxes stacked, waiting to be shipped, it felt like a warehouse. Instead he went to the office.
No, it didn’t escape his notice that the office felt homey—damn Trudy.
He let himself in, wanting to be angry with her for decorating the space she was supposed to be packing up, hating that he sort of liked it.
Shaking his head, he walked to his office as quickly as possible and shut the door.
Now what?
He looked around at a loss. Then he sat at his desk and pulled out the present Trudy had gotten him.
The pink bow mocked him.
Which was precisely why Trudy had picked it. Frowning, he tore it off, along with the glittery wrapping paper.
Whatever was inside shifted. Gritting his teeth, he opened the box.
There was an album.
He took it out carefully, setting it on his desk. He stared at the childlike drawing on the front that said “You and I.” Had Trudy done that?
Shaking his head, he opened it to the first page. A copy of a check was pasted in the center. He read the amount and who’d paid it. Payment from their first case, he realized suddenly. He’d liberated a businessman who’d been taken while in Iraq.
Turning the next page, there was a set of broken handcuffs attached to the page, with a caption in Trudy’s messy handwriting that said “The pair they tried to use on you in Bogota, when you rescued the daughter of the U.S. general.”
He touched the cuffs. He remembered the way they’d felt when they’d put them on him, but the fear in the girl’s eyes had been bigger than his own. He’d escaped because he’d had to—for her.
Page after page, there was evidence of their years together. Plane tickets of note, amusing anecdotes. Letters that he’d never seen—from people he’d rescued as well as their families. He stopped on one, swallowing the regret as he read the thanks the man gave him for bringing back his wife’s wedding ring even though Jon wasn’t able to bring her back alive.
At the end, there was a note bookmarking the last page, in Trudy’s handwriting.
You made a difference in these people’s lives. Who’s going to protect them when you stop?
He heard Summer tell him he was a hero, but he’d never believed. He just did what he was good at—what he was paid to do.
Jon closed the scrapbook and leaned his head back. Trudy played hardball. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she was in league with Summer.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Since Rosalind had come home last December, the girls had started meeting every Tuesday for drinks at the pub down the street from the house. Jacqueline had been both thrilled and envious when they’d begun the new tradition. She wanted them to be close; she wished she could have joined them.
And then they invited her.
She looked at Beatrice and Viola, who stood at the bar chatting with the bartender as he made their drinks. She loved being included, though she liked giving them their space to connect. They’d never been close, and now there was Summer.
She’d made an exception for today though. Today she needed to talk to Bea and Viola.
Viola walked over, smiling. For the first time in almost a year her second oldest daughter looked at ease, if not happy. Viola smiled as she slid into the booth and handed her a glass. “We got you a margarita, too, because why not?”
“Why not, indeed?” She’d need the fortification tonight. She took a salty, tangy sip and raised her brows. “I like it.”
“I thought you might.” Viola smiled at Beatrice, who joined them. “The bartender was cute.”
“He was an overeager child.” Bea set her mobile on the table and then smiled at her sister. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “But he’s attractive enough.”
Jacqueline glanced at the bartender, who was still staring after her oldest. Beatrice was a force to be reckoned with—Jacqueline just hoped her daughter wouldn’t sabotage herself. She took another sip of her drink to keep herself from asking about Luca.
Bea turned to her. “You wanted to talk to Vi and me, Mother?”
“Yes.” Heart suddenly beating heavily, she reached into her purse and pulled out the two chapters she’d written this week. “I’d like you to read these.”
The girls took them, little frowns lining their foreheads.
Bea looked up. “This is about me.”
“I’m writing a memoir,” she managed to say over the nerves clogging her throat. “If you’re amenable, I’d like these to be the first chapters.”
They lowered their heads and began to read in earnest. The sound of each page turning was sharp over the bar’s ambient music. She picked up her drink and drank a bit more. She remembered back before she was married when she used to smoke, when she was with Declan. If only she still did.
Beatrice set the pages down. “You wrote this?”
“Yes.” Under the table, her fingers fidgeted. “Is it that bad?”
“Bad? It’s lovely.” Viola leaned toward her sister. “Listen to this. ‘My daughter Viola shows me every day what being a mother really means. I remember once when her daughter, six years old at the time, knocked over a dessert that was meant for a dinner party. Chloe looked up, horrified by what she’d done, but Viola returned with two forks. They sat on the floor, laughing, tragedy averted.’ I’d forgotten about that.”
Beatrice smiled. “She makes me sound like I’m superwoman.”
“As long as your mobile is your weapon of choice.” Viola faced Jacqueline. “Did you always want to be a writer?”
“No.” The praise from her daughters stalled her. “You think it’s well written?”
“Mum, I can’t believe you were hiding this talent.”
“I wasn’t hiding it. I didn’t know I had the skill.” It was all due to Declan.
She’d been unfair to him. He’d been an ass, but she hadn’t given him any reason to believe in her. Add to that the hurt that he’d carried from years before. It was no excuse for the way he’d acted, but she should give him another chance. He’d always been important to her, and that hadn’t changed.
If anything, she wanted him more now.
Beatrice picked up her mobile and began tapping at it. “How much of your book do you have written?”
“Just these two chapters.”
Her daughter nodded. “I know someone at William Morris who reps book and film rights. There are people who’ll give a fortune for the memoirs of the Countess of Amberlin, especially when it’s so well written.”
She put a hand to her throat. “You think so?” she managed to ask.
“Definitely.” Beatrice looked up, a small frown lining her face. “That’s all right, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” She laughed a little. “Yes, of course.”
Viola grinned. “I can’t wait to see what you write about Titania.”
“I can’t wait to see what you write about yourself,” Beatrice said softly, taking her hand. “I hope it has a happy ending.”
Her eyes teared up, but she smiled and lifted her drink. “I’m planning on it.”
“Toasts,” Portia exclaimed, walking up to the table with Sebastian and Summer in tow. Sebastian looked hesitant, as though he wasn’t certain he should be there. Summer looked like someone had killed her puppy.
“Just in time,” Viola said, smiling at them all.
“Are we celebrating?” Sebastian asked, glancing questioningly at Jacqueline.
She smiled to assure him that he was most welcome. “As soon as you have a drink.”
“Well then.” He turned to Summer and Portia. “Ladies? What can I get you?”
They gave their drink orders, watching him go to the bartender.
“He’s a nice man,” Jacqueline said softly.
“I like him,” Portia said.
“Because he loves all things Summerhill almost as much as you.” Bea smiled at her younger sister. Then she turned to Summer. “Now, quickly before he comes back. What’s wrong?”
Summer’s mouth fell open and she blinked rapidly.
Jacqueline reached across the table to pat her hand. “Shouldn’t you be used to Beatrice by now?”
“Beatrice always manages to knock people over the head,” Viola said with a teasing smile. Then she put her arm around Summer, too. “The weekend didn’t go well?”
“It went too well, but with the wrong man.” Summer’s lips quivered. “Which wouldn’t be so bad, but he left me a note with Ryan Huber’s information on there, as if he wanted to give me to him.”
“And that’s bad?” Portia asked hesitantly.
“Yes, it is,” Summer said, miserable.
So that was the lay of the land. Summer had fallen for this other man. One couldn’t help whom one loved—sometimes it was meant to be despite the best intentions. “Darling, don’t you think that might be because he’s under the impression Ryan is the man you want?”
“Yes, but—”
“There is no ‘but,’” Beatrice said, sitting back. “If you aren’t explicit, he’s not going to understand you want him. He’s a man. He has to be given specific instructions.”
“Amen for that,” Sebastian said, setting the three drinks on the table. He rubbed his hands and looked at all of them. “So what sort of girl gossip did I miss?”
Summer slid her wine closer. “We were just discussing how men can’t take any hints.”
Nodding, he pulled a chair from another table and straddled it. “Did your hints involve lingerie?”
“Lingerie?” Summer frowned thoughtfully.
He nodded. “When lingerie is involved, a man sits up and pays attention.”
“I told you this man was brilliant,” Portia said, beaming. “Lingerie always sends a clear message.”
Bea raised her brow. “But is that the message Summer wants to send?”
“Yes,” Summer said without hesitation. Her jaw set and she nodded. “I want Jon.”
“Then give him a clear message,” Sebastian suggested.
“I think I know exactly how to do that.” Summer looked around the table. “I need help with the lingerie.”
“I’d offer,” Sebastian said, lifting his beer, “but maybe your sisters would be better qualified.”
Shaking her head, Jacqueline smiled at Summer. “‘The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.’”
“
All’s Well That End’s Well
,” Beatrice said.
“Uh-oh,” Sebastian said. “Should I have brushed up on my literature?”
“I named all my girls after heroines of Shakespearean comedies because I wanted them to have happily ever afters.” Jacqueline took Summer’s hand. In that, she understood Tabitha’s wish for Summer—it was what all mothers wanted for their daughters. “I didn’t name you, but
All’s Well That Ends Well
seems fitting, doesn’t it?”
“Do I get a play?” Sebastian asked.
“
The Tempest
,” Portia replied.
He snorted. “I wish. I’m more like
The Barber of Seville
.”
Summer frowned. “That’s not Shakespeare.”
“I’m willing to let it be if Sebastian goes around singing in tights,” Viola said with a grin.
He stood and bowed with a flourish. “Dearest cousin, your wish, my command.”
The girls broke out in laughter as he began to dance on his toes. Bea dared him to sing an aria, and Viola promised to take him shopping for tights. Portia laughed and laughed, and Summer stared in wide-eyed wonder at the scene.
Jacqueline looked around the table, listening to her family’s antics.
Her family
. Maybe she hadn’t made such a mess of life after all.
Declan sat in the usual seat, though instead of tapping furiously at his laptop, he stared out the window, his brow furrowed in thought.
She wondered what he was thinking about. She didn’t dare hope it was her.
The moment of truth. She took a deep breath and strode inside to his table.
He looked up immediately. She couldn’t read a thing in his gaze. Was that worrisome? It was certainly to be expected.
Without asking permission, she sat down and took out the pages she’d brought for him. “I want you to read this.”
He pulled the short stack of papers closer and glanced at the first page. “A memoir?”
“Yes.”
He read a few lines before he looked up. “This hasn’t happened though.”
She nodded. “No, but I’m hoping it will.”
Frowning, he lowered his head and began to read in earnest. He ran a hand over his hair, intent on the words. There were moments when his gray eyes sharpened, and places where his lips quirked, as though he were amused.
Finally he lifted his head and studied her. “This outlines a future where we live together.”
“Yes.” She folded her hands on the table to keep them from shaking.
“We don’t know each other any longer,” he pointed out. “We don’t know if we’re compatible. We haven’t declared undying love.”
“Those are all things that we can rectify.” She tapped the story she’d written. “This is a day out of what I hope our future life looks like. It’s not reality, it may never be. But I have hope that it can.” She took his hand in both of hers. “Forty years ago I was too young to know what I wanted. I made mistakes, and I’ll make more. I’m not perfect. And maybe we really aren’t suited to each other, but I’d like to try.”
He said nothing.
The silence stretched as he watched her. Her eyes held his steady. She was afraid if she broke the contact that the moment would be lost and he’d walk away, for good this time.
Then he stood and helped her to her feet. “Will you go on a date with me?”
She smiled, her heart lifting with joy she hadn’t felt in so long. “Yes, please.”
He lifted her chin. “I promise nothing.”
And yet she could see in his eyes that he was willing to give her the world, and that was all that mattered. Smiling, knowing him, she rose on her toes and kissed him to show him that she understood.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Summer stood in front of Jon’s office. Next to the door, there was a gold plaque that said Smith & Associates in block letters. She adjusted her grip on the package she carried and tried to breathe, made difficult because her heart beat in her throat.
“Is this it?” Viola asked from behind her.
She nodded, feeling her sister shift the boxes she carried, too.
“Then shouldn’t we go in?” Chloe asked, an eye roll in her voice.