Chapter Three
Elora
It gets to one p.m., and Linc still hasn’t turned up. I start to think maybe he isn’t coming back. He must have had second thoughts about seeing me again and returned to his hotel instead.
Then I remind myself that seeing me isn’t a big deal for him. It’s more likely he’s gone to visit his mother and brother after the funeral, as Joel said he hasn’t been back to New Zealand since he left.
Telling myself I’m relieved, and trying to ignore how devastated I feel that I won’t get to see him again, I head down to The Albatross Café to get some lunch, buy a chicken salad and eat it looking out at the sea, then treat myself to a chocolate muffin to cheer myself up.
I don’t know what makes me walk back along the waterfront while I pull off pieces of it and nibble them, but it’s only as I approach the memorial that I see him sitting on the wall facing the harbor. He’s still wearing his black suit, although as I draw near, I can see he’s taken off his tie, which is sticking out of his pocket. His elbows are on his knees, and he’s sunk his hands into his hair. I can just see the black ink of a tattoo peeking above his collar on either side of his neck—a pair of wings, maybe, like David Beckham has.
He obviously doesn’t want to talk to anyone, or he’d have gone back to the museum. But I know a figure in pain when I see one, and I can’t just walk away. He means more to me than that.
“Linc?” I say cautiously as I get nearer.
He lowers his hands and looks around, revealing red eyes and an expression that illustrates his emotional turmoil.
I don’t even have to think; I drop my bag beside him, kneel, and put my arms around his neck. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, hugging him.
He exhales, a sigh that carries the weight of the world, then buries his face in my neck, tightening his arms around me. His hair is wet, and so’s his suit; he must have walked here and gotten caught in the recent shower.
I rub his back, murmuring things like, “It’s okay,” and, “everything’s going to be all right.” He doesn’t cry, but I can feel him giving sad little shudders as he wrangles his emotion under control.
Eventually, he shifts my weight so I’m sitting on his lap, then turns his head and rests his cheek on my shoulder, looking out to sea. I press my lips to his hair, afraid to move in case I break the spell. He smells of some expensive cologne, not the cheap body spray he and my brothers used to wear back in the day. My fingers touch the nape of his neck, where the hair is so short it’s almost shaved. I want to trace my finger along his tattoo and follow it below his collar, but I don’t. Where did he get it? Does he have any others?
He turns his head again, so his nose is pressed into my blouse, and inhales. “You smell good,” he mumbles. It sends a little shiver through me. I still can’t believe he’s here. Where has he been for ten years? What has he been doing? And who has he been with? It occurs to me then that he almost certainly has a girlfriend. He could even be married, although he’s not wearing a ring. Whatever the case, I’m sure he’s only here temporarily, for the funeral. He’s probably heading back to Europe in a few days.
Suddenly uncomfortable at being so close to him, I move off him and sit to the side. “Did you walk back in the rain?”
He nods and runs a hand through his hair, then gives a rueful smile to find it wet. God, he’s so handsome, even more so now his features have lost their boyish softness. Ten years ago, he was cute, cocky, and mischievous. Is there any of that lad left in the cautious, guarded man before me?
“Was it awful?” I murmur.
He huffs a sigh. “Fucking horrible. The vicar sang Dad’s praises and told us he was safe in the arms of God.”
I pull a face. “I guess that’s kinda what they have to say, right? Doesn’t mean it’s the truth.”
He gives a short laugh. “I knew you’d understand.”
“Of course I understand.” I can still remember the evening, about a month after he arrived at Greenfield, that he told me and my brothers about his father. About all the things he used to do to him. I’d cried, and both Fraser and Joel had cursed and sworn to avenge him. Linc had looked somewhat bemused at the notion of having someone fighting for him for once.
“I thought maybe your father might have convinced you by now that everyone deserves redemption,” he says.
I meet his eyes. “Definitely not.” I speak with enough vehemence to make him lift an eyebrow. I don’t elaborate, though, and I guess he feels he doesn’t know me well enough to query further.
He blows out a long breath and looks out to sea. “I saw my mother.”
“Was she okay?”
“She told me…” He looks back at me. “She said he wasn’t my father.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“She said she had an affair early in their marriage. Dad—Don—found out and beat the guy up, and she never saw him again.”
My jaw drops. The implications of that are enormous.
Finally, it explains why his father hated him and treated him so badly. Don must have seen the other guy every time he looked at Linc. He would have been a constant reminder of Nancy’s infidelity. For fourteen years, Linc had to deal with his father’s hostility and contempt without a clue as to why, and I know it had a profound effect on him.
He told me once that he could feel his father inside him like an evil spirit, as if he was possessed. I think he’d hoped my father could exorcize him. He was on the way to being healed, and then my father caught us kissing, and it all went to shit. When Linc left at eighteen, he must have had to cope with the knowledge that he was stuck with the malevolent aura that had latched onto him like a parasite. But if he’s not Don’s son, that means he doesn’t have Don’s blood or DNA. That vile, hateful man isn’t a part of him.
And suddenly, I realize why he was crying.
“You’re free,” I whisper.
He smiles then, his eyes lighting with such joy and relief that it brings tears to my own eyes. “ Liber sum ,” he says. It’s Latin for ‘I’m free.’ “I need to get that on a tattoo across my forehead,” he jokes.
His eyes meet mine, and a tingle runs down my spine. Ooh, I’ve dreamed for ten years about the way he used to look at me. I told myself repeatedly it wouldn’t be the same now, but here he is, staring into my eyes with the same intensity that’s haunted me all these years.
I swallow hard. “I saw the tattoo on your neck. Do you have others?”
His eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles. “Yeah. Quite a few.” He pulls back the sleeve of his jacket and lifts the shirt sleeve as far as it will go with the cufflink in. It reveals black ink on his forearm.
I touch it lightly, fascinated. “Younger Futhark?” They’re runes from an old Germanic alphabet, used by the Vikings after about the ninth century. As kids, Linc, Joel, Fraser, and I wrote messages to each other using lots of different methods including invisible ink and secret codes, one of which utilized these Viking runes.
“Yep,” he says. “Just like we used to write.”
Surprised, I add, “Can I see the rest of it?”
“Sure.”
He slides off his jacket. Then he pops the cufflink through the buttonhole and folds up his shirt sleeve. It reveals a line of runes, surrounded by other Viking patterns. I have something close to a photographic memory, so it’s easy for me to recall the alphabet.
I trace the runes, saying them out loud. “It’s a German word?” I conclude. He nods, eyes dancing. I do my best to pronounce it. “ Unsterblichkeit . Um… Undying? Oh! Immortality!”
He laughs again and rolls the shirt sleeve down. “Yeah. I got it in 2018. I helped out on the Gjellestad dig.”
“The excavation of the Viking ship? In Norway?”
“That’s the one. I get a tattoo every time I go on a dig. I call it my passport.”
Without his jacket, his soaked shirt has stuck to his torso, and I can see ink on his arms, chest, and back. The wet cotton also outlines an impressive array of muscles.
“You should get out of those wet clothes,” I point out.
He looks down at himself. “Yeah. I’m probably going to get serious chafing after that walk.”
I laugh as we get to our feet. He takes his phone out and checks something, then says, “Oh yeah, I’m in the Pavilion. It’s not far, right? I walked here from it this morning.”
“It’s just around the corner.”
“Looks like it’s time for Google maps,” he says.
I smile. “Come on, I’ll take you there.”
He doesn’t argue, and we set off, heading for Lambton Quay.
“Has Wellington changed much?” I ask as we pass the shops, busy on this warm January day.
“I’m a tad embarrassed to admit I’ve never been here.”
My eyebrows rise. “Seriously?”
“Don and Nancy weren’t into traveling.”
I’m quite shocked that he hasn’t been to the capital. I’m hardly widely traveled, but I have at least been to most of the major cities in our small country. “Does it feel like coming home, though?”
“Kinda. It’s odd hearing the accent again. I’ve lived in England for quite a long time.”
“Bloody brilliant,” I say in my best British accent, and he chuckles. “This way,” I add, leading him up a steep flight of steps to the Terrace.
“I’d read that Wellington is all hills,” he grumbles as we finally arrive outside his hotel.
“Yeah, it keeps me fit.” I stop outside and smile. “Well, here you go.”
He looks into the hotel, hesitating. Then he gestures inside with his head. “Want to come in with me? I’ll get changed and we can catch up over a coffee.”
“I’m on my lunch break. I should get back to work.”
That makes him chuckle. “Still the same old Lora. Gotta do the Right Thing.” His eyes flare, teasing me.
“I have responsibilities,” I say hotly, “and I don’t like to take advantage of my co-workers.”
“Very commendable.”
I roll my eyes, mumble how he hasn’t changed either, and take out my phone to text Zoe that I’ll be late back.
Grinning, he leads the way inside the hotel, and we cross the tiled floor to the elevators. When the doors open, we go inside, and he touches the keycard to the pad. Then he presses button twenty-six.
“The top floor?” I say.
“Only the best,” he replies.
My eyes widen. “You’re in the penthouse?”
He leans against the side wall of the carriage, just smiling.
I stand against the back wall, and we observe each other for a moment.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” I say eventually.
“So have you.”
“I’m not a millionaire.”
“‘The blessing of the Lord makes a person rich, and he adds no sorrow with it.’”
“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t quote the Bible at me,” I say crossly.
He gives a short laugh, sliding his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Sorry.”
“I know I was prissy and self-righteous back then. But I’m not like that now. Not as much, anyway.”
“I liked self-righteous Lora,” he says, tipping his head to the side. “Innocence is an attractive quality.”
“Maybe when you’re ten. Not when you’re twenty-four.”
He just smiles. His gaze is a gentle caress. “You were the first person ever to show me kindness. I’ve never forgotten that. You were all of ten when I arrived at Greenfield. I was sitting outside your dad’s office, terrified, and you came and sat next to me and gave me half your Twix.”
“I remember. You had scars all over your face.”
“But you weren’t frightened of me?”
“No.” It hadn’t even occurred to me. All I’d seen was a scared boy who needed a friend.
His gaze skims down me, right to my shoes, before brushing back up to my face. Now, his eyes hold a hint of heat. “You’ve grown up,” he comments.
“All the way to a C cup,” I say with some sarcasm, presuming that he’s commenting on my figure.
He laughs as the elevator stops and the doors slide open. “You don’t blush as much,” he says as we walk out.
“I do. But my foundation is six inches thick now so it’s not as obvious.”
He chuckles, walking along the quiet corridor to one of the two doors that face each other in the middle. “You still have an English-rose complexion. I used to think you were cute, but you’re beautiful now.” He waves the keycard over the pad on the right-hand door, opens it, and goes inside, holding it open for me.
I pause on the threshold for a moment. He watches me, his brows drawing together.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Are you coming in?”
“Give me a second.” I close my eyes and breathe in and out a couple of times.
“Elora,” he says softly. “I didn’t think. You don’t know me from Adam anymore. I shouldn’t have asked you up here.”
“It’s okay. Just give me a sec.” I think about his lovely compliment, I used to think you were cute, but you’re beautiful now . He’s not a stranger. We spent a lot of time alone together, walking in the forests around Greenfield, talking about archaeology and travel. He was like a brother to me, and I’m safe with him.
I open my eyes. “I’m okay now.” I walk past him into the apartment, and he closes the door behind him. “Can you lock it, please?” I ask.
“Of course.” He locks the door.
I check the lock. Then I walk in. “Wow, I think you can see the whole city from here.”
“Yeah, it’s a pretty good view.” He frowns at me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, don’t mind me.”
“All right. I’ll be back in a minute.” He walks toward what I presume is the bedroom.
“Do you drink coffee?” I ask. Neither of us did back then.
“By the gallon.”
“Shall I make us one?”
“I’d love one. Thank you.” He smiles, as if he’s not used to people doing things for him. Then he disappears into the bedroom.
I go into the kitchen, which is huge and gleaming and looks untouched. A coffee machine sits on the worktop, together with a box containing an array of pods, so I turn the machine on, choose two, and get to work preparing them.
While the coffee starts pouring into the cup, my phone buzzes in my trouser pocket, and I pull it out and read Zoe’s text. You go mop his brow, girl , she says.
Heat blooms in my cheeks as I open the small carton of milk from the fridge. I used to think you were cute, but you’re beautiful now . The words continue to spin around my brain like leaves whipped up by the wind. It was a nice thing to say, but I mustn’t let it go to my head. I’m just here to catch up with an old friend. There’s no other reason that I—
My brain screeches to a halt as he comes back out, dressed in a pair of old, faded jeans, barefoot and bare chested, carrying a tee and rubbing his hair with a towel.
I stare at the sight of his taut, muscular body. Jesus, the guy is ripped, and he’s absolutely covered with tattoos. I didn’t think I was into tatted dudes, but holy hot ink, Batman! I have to close my jaw to stop my tongue rolling on the floor like a cartoon character’s.
“Do you… um… take sugar?” I squeak.
“No thanks.” He comes over to collect a cup, leans a hip on the worktop, and tosses the towel aside. “Thought you might want to check out the tats,” he says, pointing at himself. “I’ll be interested to see how many places you can identify.”
Transfixed by the sight of all that ink, I put down my coffee cup and stand in front of him with wide eyes. I let my gaze roam over his muscular body and walk slowly around him as I study each tattoo.
“This looks like it’s from the mosaic of Noah’s Ark found in a synagogue in Israel,” I say, observing the scene from Genesis on the right side of his chest, showing a pair of bears constructed from tiny colored squares.
“Correct.”
I touch his right upper arm. “No prizes for guessing where this is.” It’s an Egyptian pyramid.
“Yeah, I helped excavate a Second Dynasty child burial at Saqqara.”
I draw my finger down to his forearm. It has an unusual drawing of a man’s profile. “This looks like the graffiti from the Written Rock of Gelt.”
“That’s exactly what it is. It’s a caricature of the commanding officer in charge of the quarrying found at Hadrian’s Wall.”
“Early third century?”
“Yeah, AD207.”
“You were at the dig?”
“Yeah.”
Somewhat envious of his experiences, I continue around to his back. One shoulder blade bears a strange pattern of misshapen squares and curved lines. “This looks like an aerial photograph.”
“It is! Well done. Do you know where it is?”
“Not offhand. Give me a clue.”
“English. In the Domesday Book. One of the best-preserved deserted medieval villages.”
“Oh, Wharram Percy?”
“Yep.”
“That’s terrific.” I move across to his other shoulder blade. A tattoo of a rabbit sits at the top. “I’m not sure what this is.”
“It refers to the rabbit bone found at Fishbourne Roman Palace in Sussex.”
“Oh, I read about that! It moves the arrival date of rabbits in England back, like, a thousand years, right?”
“Yeah. It was excavated in 1964, but at the time it wasn’t thought to be anything special. I was cataloging the remains, and it just jumped out at me as being from a rabbit. Genetic testing confirmed it.”
I shake my head in wonder and continue around him.
“They’re not all things I personally had a hand in,” he says.
“No, I’m guessing you weren’t at Sutton Hoo when this was uncovered in 1939.” I touch the recreation of the distinctive Anglo-Saxon helm on the left side of his back. “Or there when Richard the Third’s skeleton was found.” There’s no mistaking the portrait of the English king who fought at the Battle of Bosworth.
“Just things I have an interest in,” he says.
“Arms up.” When he raises his arms, I follow the tattoos around his ribs, trying to ignore the bulge of his biceps. Wow, there are so many tattoos, mainly referring to items from British history. Henry the Eighth’s battleship, the Mary Rose. One of the Lewis Chessmen from the thirteenth century. The Alfred Jewel, a late ninth century book pointer, complete with the lettering that says, ‘Alfred ordered me made.’ Lots of other smaller pictures I don’t recognize but turn out to be artifacts he’s either found or seen and been fascinated by. All joined with Anglo-Saxon and Viking interlacing patterns—knots and loops and pictures of animals.
I walk all the way around him to his back again, then stop and touch the wings on his neck. “And these? What do they refer to?”
He lifts a hand to them. “They’re not archaeological.”
The fact that he doesn’t reveal what they mean tells me it’s something to do with a woman. She must have been special if she prompted him to engrave a memory of her on his skin. I feel a tug of jealousy that someone claimed his heart. But what did I expect? That he’s been a monk for ten years?
“They’re magnificent,” I tell him honestly. You’re magnificent . I don’t say it, but I think it.
“Thank you.”
I touch the pendant that’s hanging around his neck on a black cord. It’s a silver St. Christopher. “To protect you on your travels?”
“Yeah.” Smiling, he tugs on his tee. “What about you? Do you have any tattoos?”
“No. My body’s a temple. I’m not going to desecrate it with ink.”
That makes him laugh. He picks up his coffee, and we go into the living room and sit on the sofa a foot apart. He sips from his mug, watching me. When I first saw him, in his suit and tie and handmade leather shoes, he looked like a businessman, suave, sophisticated, and wealthy. Now, in his black tee and faded jeans, with the tattoos visible on his arms and his hair sticking up on top, he looks like James Dean. A rebel, possibly with a cause, now he knows about his father.
“So did your mum tell you who your real father was?” I ask.
“She said his name was Edmund Mansfield.”
“Did she tell you anything about him?”
He shakes his head and looks into his mug. “I didn’t ask. I just wanted to get away.”
“That’s fair enough.” When he first told me that his father was the one who gave him the scars on his face, I asked him what his mother said when she found out, and he replied flatly, ‘Nothing. She was there when it happened.’ That shocked me. I couldn’t imagine anyone—least of all a mother—standing aside and letting someone do that to a child. My mother would stand in front of a tank for her children, and so would I, if I had any.
“Did she tell him about you?” I ask.
He shakes his head again.
“Do you want to find him?”
His eyebrows rise, as if he hadn’t considered that. “I don’t know. I can’t imagine he’d be pleased to know he fathered a child twenty-eight years ago.”
“Or maybe he’s only got girls. Or no children at all. He might be thrilled to know he has a son, especially one as successful as you.”
His lips slowly curve up. “Always looking for the silver lining,” he says softly. “You haven’t changed at all, have you?”
I look away, across the tops of the high-rise buildings, to the choppy waters of the harbor. Technically, he’s right—I’m the same person I always was. I dress the same, I have the same attitudes, the same interests. On the surface, I’m indistinguishable from the young girl I was when he knew me.
But inside, I’m completely different. I’m hollow, as if I’ve been scooped out with a melon baller. It’s not his fault. Or not entirely, anyway. Maybe he began the process, but my mistakes are my own, and I have nobody to blame but myself.