Chapter 22
Iforce this new word to write over our reality, over everything I knew of AJ. “Arrested?”
“I’m afraid so.” Mr. Gould’s voice is crackly, but every word drops like a stone into my heart. “For pub brawls, but I suspect there was a great deal more—perhaps involving large sums of money. It seems that, in a matter of weeks, he went from working class to making large business investments.”
That angry voice sounds in my head. “We’re dealing with several thousand pounds now, and this is unacceptable.”
“Large…Pardon, did you say AJ has investments?”
“Did have. All dried up now, I’m afraid.”
“AJ, investing. It all seems…” as surreal as watching AJ’s body walk out after hearing that angry voice in the telephone booth. “It’s impostable. Im—”
“Impossible. And no, it’s not. Somehow he managed to lay hands on a great deal of capital. What I need to know is: where did he get a small fortune? And what became of it? You don’t happen to know, do you?”
“Well, he certainly doesn’t have it anymore. And as far as where he came by it, I cannot begin to imagine.”
“There’s a chance he still has it hidden somewhere. It’s doubtful, but I’ll need you to find out what you can. It might become a liability to you if he possesses ill-gotten gains.”
“You mean…fraud? Theft? And what has he done with it if we’re starving and sleeping under the stars?”
“I’ll find out more. Will you ring me again tomorrow? Same time.”
I grip the receiver and lick my lips. “All right.” Although I’m tempted to ask if I can ring him back tonight, as I won’t be able to sleep.
“Very well. I’ve two clerks on the matter. And Merryn…take care, will you?” His voice drops into the firm, fatherly tone he only uses in private moments.
“Of course. I’ll be all right, Mr. Gould. Truly, I will.”
But I’m not. The world feels bottomless as I walk back.
Then I descend the rock cliff down toward the C-shaped inlet and strike moss on a slanted rock.
My foot slips and I tumble down, hitting the boulders on my left side.
I throw my arms around my head to protect it, but the water pours over the rocks, grabbing me and pulling me out.
It’s strong and I tumble over rock and sand and bits of seashell as I scramble against it.
It wants to own me, this sea. To pull me back as punishment for resisting my past here all this time. It has beckoned and taunted me, and now it’s gotten ahold of me. It will drown me. I tumble through the water. The wave pulls me in, and I paddle and scratch and kick, but its strength is enormous.
No. No! I’m so close to the truth. So close.
A good blow and you’ll lose what little ground you’ve gained…
I breathe in, pulling in saltwater, and it stings my nose.
Burns my throat. Gasping for air, I shove myself toward the shore, but waves tumble me back and forth.
I brace for a blow to the head. I tumble again and again, thumping my head on the sea floor, and then I clamp one hand on a rock and pull myself up with a burst of strength.
I pant and cough as I lay on the sand. My ears buzz and a heartbeat throbs in my skull.
I cough out briny seawater and crawl toward the rocks, shaky and cold. Bits of shell bite into my knees and calves. I lower my head, loosened hair blowing in front of my face, and I realize I’ve lost my hat.
I wore a hat, didn’t I? I can’t picture it, and close my eyes. Feather. No, flower. Purple? No, I do not care for purple. Gray. I recall something gray. But is it a hat? Odd shapes float on the fringes of my vision as the world blurs, then solidifies, then blurs again.
Where’s Mum?
I’ll be back, Merryn love. Watch for me at the window.
Which window? Where?
I stand on the beach, feet apart as my body sways. I came from…that way. Somewhere over there, and up. And I am now headed…?
Home. Yes, home. I need a lie-down. Which way to my bed? I can picture it, but the world is off-kilter. Something is wrong.
My gaze flits over the rocks and locks onto a steep path—yes. Yes, that’s it. Truth trickles into the cracks of my mind—I came down those steps and walked to the inn. I talked to him—Gould. Yes, Gould. I bring up the memory of his face and the conversation returns, detail by detail.
AJ. Criminal. Hidden money.
I hobble up the footpath, pain with each step. The facts return and douse me, and I cannot breathe. But then the familiar tower of Dunn Cottage comes into view, and deep inside something releases.
I climb the steps and slip inside that sanctuary buried in rock. How dim it is. How oddly quiet. I shift the curtains and let in daylight. It’s jarring, so I shut them partway and feel my way toward my carpet bag to change. My traveling gown is dusty, but dry. I change into it.
Back in the main room, AJ is not in sight, but a paper is anchored to the table with a rock.
Not a rock—a brooch. My brooch. The one I lost. Beneath it, a strip of paper with another word: Re-broach. When a gifted brooch is recovered and gifted a second time. Not to be confused with “reproach” for losing said brooch, which this definitely is not.
I finger the brooch, feeling an odd twist between a wry smile and dread. Then, with my head still smarting, I pour into my new memory book everything I’ve learned concerning AJ. Everything may go tumbling out once again, should I strike my head.
Footfall pounds down from somewhere above and my husband is here, his hair ruffled as if from the wind, a boyish smile lighting his face. “Ah, she lives!”
I stare at him, at the hair falling over his face.
Did he always squint that way? Had I never noticed it?
Lady St. Laurent once told me about the night she’d discovered a vastly different side to her quiet husband.
She’d surprised him at his club and witnessed her mild-mannered husband shooting out of his chair during a game and challenging another man.
And in that moment she saw the dull gent who’d always bent to her will…
as her equal. We fool ourselves, Merryn, when we think we know our husbands entirely.
And this is the part that echoes as I sit before the fire at Dunn Cottage.
This is our one fatal flaw: we mistake harmony for intimacy, and we stop looking, stop digging for more.
Harmony. That’s what we have, isn’t it? Real love is more than harmony. And intimacy only comes with honesty. Is there any truth to what I know of my husband? Do I truly wish to know the rest?
“Are you well?” he asks.
I grimace as my leg tenses, and I turn from him. “Perfectly.” I lift my feet onto the opposite chair and pick at my shredded stockings.
“Well, indeed.” He kneels and brushes my hands away, peeling the stockings off from the knees down, rolling them over my legs and running a calloused finger along the tender flesh of my calf. “What’d you do, luv? Brawl with the beach?”
I tug my legs away, letting my skirt fall over them. “I can look after myself.”
“Clearly,” he says, one eyebrow raised. “Stay here.” He moves away with none of his usual energy—almost a limp—when has AJ ever limped?
—and reappears with a cloth and kettle of water.
“I meant to make us tea with this.” He wets the washcloth and smooths it gently over my feet, the indent of my ankle, and up the length of my calf.
Ill-gotten gains. Thief.
Pain stabs my tender flesh. “Ouch! What are you doing?” I jerk my feet away but he tugs them back onto his lap. He picks at something and I pull away, kicking at him.
“Hold still, Mer.” His grip is firm but gentle. “They’re embedded.”
“What are?”
“Shells.” He anchors my legs to his knees. “Broken bits.”
I bury my face in my hands as he picks tiny shards from my raw skin. “Are you finished yet?”
He bends close, picking out a shard. “Nearly.” He works on my left calf the most, and when he stops, it’s a blessed relief. He smooths cream on it and wraps it in linen, which cools the sting. Maybe love means sacrifice.
That quality he has in spades.
But can it ever be enough without truth?
He’s frowning. “Might need to see a physician.”
I sigh. “We haven’t the money.”
He glances about. “We can scrounge up something to sell.”
“No, we cannot! This cottage isn’t—” I stop short, because perhaps it is.
Mine, that is. I don’t know anything for certain anymore, but I look at my husband’s face, trying to place that anger in his mouth, trying to understand what I heard about him today.
“Ansel, have you any investments? This would be a fine time to suddenly remember them.”
“I haven’t two pennies to rub together, luv.” His jaw tenses. “I’ve said as much already.”
“And before? Have you ever—”
“Speaking of remembering, have you recovered anything new?”
I bite my lip and shake my head. I want to probe further, but I sense I already have my answer in his lack of an answer. Dread hovers like a storm cloud, ready to burst.
AJ fans tender fingers along the injured flesh outside the wrap, checking for more flecks, picking at a few small ones. Then he casts that green-gold look up at me and something delightful bursts inside.
“Nothing.” It’s impossible to capture in mere words what AJ does to my heart.
His confident, gentle smile releases something tight in my chest. Any time he’s near, the essence of who he is—radiant, sacrificial, easygoing—spills into the atmosphere…
and lightens it. No matter what the next days show me about my past, about AJ, I cannot imagine ever being indifferent to Ansel James Winthrop.
Oh, but I wish to be. I pull back. “You needn’t do this. I can look after myself.”
“You already said that.” He anchors my legs and continues working, applying a layer of salve. “You know, my mother had an apoplectic fit once.”
“Oh?” I hold my breath as a tiny speck of his backstory floats so casually into the air between us. I twist her gold ring on my finger. “What happened?”