Chapter 8 Prudence, Fathers & （badly uted） Apologies #2
“I thought surely either my aunt or my sister had already spilled the beans?” Pru frowned, but Rhiannon’s smile did not waver, and it smoothed the jagged edges of the implication that she was aware people gossiped about her.
“It has been a passion of mine for decades, restoring old books. I want to say I was even somewhat successful at it back on the West Coast when time allowed. So, when the return to Crow’s Nest became an unavoidable reality, it felt natural to fall back on what I’ve always loved doing. ”
“You’re talking about Crow’s Nest as if it was a punishment, Rhiannon dear.
Sure, it doesn’t have the allure of LA or even Europe.
Though I confess nothing quite has the allure of Europe, the French croissants alone are to be tasted to be believed.
” He laughed, and as Rhiannon joined him, Pru could feel the sudden change in the air.
A chill that not even the warm morning sun could chase away.
“Oh, you know how it is. Once you fly the Nest, pun intended, returning is not always a pleasant opportunity or an option.” She extended that fine-boned hand and laid it conspiratorially on his as they shared a moment of false camaraderie Pru could not understand.
It abraded her nerves, making her wish for an ability to pry back the invisible curtain of the secrets that were discussed right in front of her and glean behind the dance the two were performing.
When her father finally turned to her, she knew it would have to be done another day.
“The town hall is calling my name, Prudence. I shall see you at the Mansion on Sunday after church.” With a quick sideways hug, he was gone, leaving Pru standing in the middle of the Fiction aisle, her words slowly dying on her lips.
As if witnessing their demise, Rhiannon carefully picked up their thread.
“You don’t go to church, Prudence. In the weeks since I’ve arrived, I’ve never seen you leave this place earlier than noon on Sundays, and even an entrenched heathen such as myself knows that is too late for whatever sanctimonious fare they are serving in those pews these days at those hours.”
“My father is a deacon. He keeps trying to get me to go. I stopped going when I turned twenty-five.”
Suddenly Rhiannon was too close, and Pru hadn’t even noticed she had moved.
Leaning on the third shelf, her bracelets jingling as she ran her fingers through her mass of auburn curls, she might as well had been something out of a romance book.
Beautiful, charming, dangerous. And not at all real.
Pru blinked and expected to be alone among the books when she opened her eyes.
Except she was met by Rhiannon and her knowing smirk.
“And what else did you quit when you turned twenty-five, Ophelia.”
“How do you know this name? I never gave it to you.” Pru’s words were barely a whisper.
Rhiannon was too close. Crowding her. Making her forget things, questions.
But not her dreams. The woman who surely was Rhiannon, addressed her by this name there as well.
In a tender voice of someone who cared. Who had no agenda.
“You haven’t?” Rhiannon’s tongue peeked from behind the rows of white teeth.
If she was surprised to be called out for using the middle name she must’ve asked Victoria or Ceridwen for, Rhiannon played it off with ease, clearly a better actress than Pru would ever think herself of being.
Pru, who only presently thought about running away.
Rhiannon fingered a spine of the book closest to her and Pru nearly fainted.
“I must’ve heard it somewhere, my aunt or my meddlesome sister surely,” was all she said in that lower than necessary tone of hers. And the fake note was back.
Pru closed her eyes and counted to three. When she opened them, Rhiannon was no longer near her.
“You don’t have to do that, you know.”
The bracelets jingled again, and Rhiannon spoke without facing her.
“Do what?”
“Pretend. You don’t need to pretend with me.”
She felt the waves of something powerful radiate from the taut shoulder blades, partially hidden by the green silk. Then the shoulders dropped, and Rhiannon turned back around.
“I came to apologize.”
Pru started, then set her cold coffee mug on the shelf next to the book Rhiannon touched earlier.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“Oh, I do. You’re young and you might not realize—”
Pru laughed without putting any heart into it.
“I live on the island, Rhiannon. You Crowharts love to pretend that people are entirely oblivious to things around us, and while most indeed are, some of us are more observant. And to be honest, none of you are very good at hiding it.”
Rhiannon’s gaze turned sharp, the danger Pru kept sensing lurking just under the surface rearing its head.
“Some have things to hide, Prudence. And some have left all of that brouhaha in the past. You’d do well not to listen to Ceridwen as much.”
“Or Victoria?” Pru parried, and Rhiannon’s lips twitched.
“Feel free to listen to her. She might impart a ton of gossip, a ton of innuendo, and even more fairy tales. She’s a wonderfully unreliable narrator, though. So be warned.”
Rhiannon took a few steps forward and Pru found herself face-to-face with her neighbor.
Not the one from last night. And not even the one who carried trash to her door, gorgeous and indignant.
This was the neighbor she was used to: distant, detached, slightly disappointed to be breathing the same air as all these townies.
“I came to apologize, and so I did. And I hope you understand that I will not be indulging whatever imaginary scenarios you have conjured up in your head.”
Even the choice of words was curious, and Pru allowed herself to smile. And lay down the gauntlet.
“Well, in that case, I shall have to conjure up said scenarios by asking Ceridwen to indulge me and my questions.”
And now thunder came. Distant, quiet, as if a mere reminder that it was always there to begin with, almost sly in its deceptiveness and the whisper of presence.
Rhiannon’s face remained inscrutable for a moment, and then she turned around and left the shop.
As she crossed the threshold, Pru murmured, “And you never really did say you’re sorry. ”
Her first indication that her words had reached their target was a slight hitch in Rhiannon’s long, graceful stride. Her second was a light warm breeze suddenly ruffling her messy hair, untangling her already falling apart bun. As apologies went, this one needed work.