"Then you-"
"Yes, I told her I would take it, but not to keep. There's too much pain attached to it. That's not what my father intended when he made it."
"But it's worth-"
"Nothing. Or everything," said Erika. "I'm going to give it to the Victoria and Albert. The museum has a fine jewelry collection, and my father would have been proud to see it there."
"I would like my father to be proud of me." The confession caught Gemma unawares. "He told me that I was hurting my mother by not marrying Duncan."
"Well." Erika sipped at her coffee without wincing. "I am not a psychologist, but it may be that your father is projecting his own wishes onto your mother, perhaps in part because he cannot fully admit them.
"But you shouldn't let your decisions be influenced by what will make your father or your mother happy, but rather by what will make you and Duncan happy."
Gemma twisted her cup in her hands. "But I'm…afraid." There, she had said it. "Why isn't Duncan afraid? There are so many things that could go wrong. I don't want to-"
"You cannot stand still. And Duncan knows all about fear. He lost Kit's mother. He almost lost you. And he lost the baby that was his as well as yours. I suspect that is when he made the leap that you are afraid to make. And what, after all, have you to lose?"
"Myself," Gemma said softly. "I don't want to be like my mum. I don't want to orbit around someone else's sun."
"Are you sure it's not the other way round with your parents? That it's your father who orbits your mother?" asked Erika. "And besides," she added with emphasis, "you are not your mother, and Duncan is certainly not your father."
"But what if…" Gemma forced herself to admit the thing that terrified her most. "What happened the other night…It was Doug in the line of fire, but it could have been Duncan…What if I lost him?"
"Then," said Erika, "you have to consider the alternative to taking the risk. And that is many long nights of lonely suppers and cold beds. And teetering on the fence doesn't protect you from pain; it merely gives you more to regret."
Gemma slid round on the piano bench just a little, running her fingers lightly over the keys. There was a chime of sound, so faint she thought she might have imagined it, but it seemed to reverberate through her body.
Without looking at Erika, she said, "I got a call today. From Duncan's cousin Jack's wife. My friend Winnie, the Anglican priest. She's pregnant."
"Ah. How do you feel about that?"
"I'm not sure. Happy. Sad. Jealous. Confused."
"Yes." Erika nodded. "I expect so. Have you told Duncan?"
"Not yet. I was in the City, visiting my mum."
"Then you should go and tell him now. It's cause for celebration."
"I should, shouldn't I?" Gemma felt a sudden, unexpected fizz of exhilaration, like champagne bubbles in her blood, and almost laughed aloud. Winnie was pregnant.
She stood and went to Erika, dropping down on one knee so that she could look up into her face. For an instant, she saw the young woman Gavin Hoxley had loved, and who had taken the leap of loving him back, regardless of the consequences. "Will you be all right?"
"I'm not sure I know what all right is." Erika smiled, and the twinkle was back in her dark eyes. "But I think I will ask my friend Henri to dinner."
Gemma walked down Arundel Gardens, feeling the slight spring as her heels connected with the pavement. The sun shone in a blue and perfectly cloudless sky, and the air seemed to have texture to it, so that she almost felt as if she were swimming in its crystal clarity.
When she reached Portobello Road she bought flowers from the corner stall, two dozen red tulips, imagining, as she watched the vendor wrap them, the bright splash of color they would make against the white wall of the sitting room when she put them on the bookcase. Then, a bit farther along, she chose strawberries and asparagus, taking her time, as if finding the perfect specimens was the most important thing in the world. The street was crowded, the shoppers brought out in force by the beautiful day, but for once she didn't mind the jostling, and the colors of people's clothing and stall awnings seemed unnaturally bright.
With the flowers cradled under one arm, she swung the carrier bag from the fruit and veg stall in the other hand, making her way farther down the road, glancing desultorily into shop windows. She thought she might buy shoes, or an inexpensive bracelet under the Westway, something entirely frivolous, entirely out of character.
But just before the Westway, her eye was caught by a print on a photographer's stall. She bought it without deliberation, handing over a note with a smile, then walked away, examining her find. The house she thought she recognized as one nearby, but its cream brickwork and the French blue of a bay window on the first floor served merely as a backdrop for the graceful curved limbs of an apple tree that filled the frame, bursting with white blossom.
It was an ordinary scene, simple and uncomplicated, full of promise.
Duncan met her in the hall, taking her bags and the paper cone of flowers. "I'd have bought them for you," he said.
"I know." She followed him into the kitchen. "But I wanted to buy them myself. Kit stayed with Dad at the bakery. Where are Toby and the dogs?"
"I've fed Toby lunch and sent them outside again. They're like dervishes in the house today. Spring fever. Shall I get a vase, or do you want-" He stopped, looking puzzled. "What is it? Did I miss a spot shaving? Egg on my face?"
Gemma found that her hands were trembling. She took a breath, hoping her voice wouldn't squeak. "No. It's just…I was wondering…I was wondering if we might invite Winnie and Jack up for a weekend. Sometime this summer. And Hazel. And your family, of course."
He frowned. "What-"
"I was wondering if Winnie could, you know, officiate. In a parish that wasn't her patch. At a…wedding."
"A wedding?" He stared at her, the tulips tilting dangerously in his grasp, forgotten. In his eyes she saw a flare of delight, and herself reflected, infinitely, like an image in a hall of mirrors.
"A wedding. If you wanted…That is…"
"I think," he said slowly, setting the flowers on the table, "that something of the sort could be arranged."
About the Author
DEBORAH CROMBIE was born and educated in Texas and has lived in both England and Scotland. Her Kincaid and James novels have received Edgar®, Agatha, and Macavity Award nominations, and her fifth novel, Dreaming of the Bones, was named a New York Times Notable Book of the Year and selected as one of the 100 Best Crime Novels of the Century by the Independent Mystery Booksellers of America. She is a bestselling author in Germany, and her novels are also published in Japan, Italy, Norway, the Netherlands, France, the Czech Republic, and the United Kingdom. Crombie travels to England several times a year and has been a featured speaker at St. Hilda’s College, Oxford. She lives in a small North Texas town, sharing a turn-of-the-century house with her husband, three cats, and a German shepherd.
