Forty-five
Peter flung the brush down in disgust. The painting he’d begun the day before was flawless from a technical standpoint but lacked the spark that would lift it from the realm of craft to that of beauty.
The word his teacher had used was hout—“wood” in English.
No life. And he knew why. He was wracked with guilt.
No matter what Campbell had done or was about to do, she hadn’t deserved what he’d just done to her.
He hadn’t been the one to expose her to the reporter.
That was her doing. It was clear her life was something akin to a platter full of spinning tops, perennially ready to explode into chaos.
But her life was also her own, and if what Mertons said was true, Peter had changed it for the worse.
Was losing a child you had never known the same as losing one you had? Was there a gradient to such a loss? He kicked himself. Who was he to judge?
Peter had told himself he’d come to this time to protect Ursula, but he had also come to protect his reputation.
And he’d been willing to go so far as to put a woman’s good name at risk for it.
He looked at the small sketchbook and the letter it contained.
In truth, he had been willing to do more than that.
And now, no matter what he had been willing to do or not, he’d changed her future. The realization sickened him.
He couldn’t change the past, no matter how fervently he might wish to, but he certainly had no business playing God with Campbell’s future. He must return to the Afterlife and accept his fate.
But before he left, he had one final deed to perform. He must beg Campbell Stratford’s forgiveness. He picked up his coat and scarf, grabbed the sketchbook, and left.