CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Niall had thanked Liùsaidh, not Lucy, while the people who mattered most in his world were watching. With her arrival, a weight had lifted from his chest. Niall hadn’t planned to say her full name, a name he whispered when they made love, turning the word into a benediction. But he liked the sound of it in his head. Liked even more the way her mouth curved into the smile she reserved for him. It had taken her walking out of his life for the hammer to drop hard enough for him to realise he’d been falling in love with her since the day he’d first seen her.
He just hadn’t been prepared to admit it.
Didn’t think he had the right to burden her with promises other women had told him were worthless.
Standing in the centre of the warehouse, she was working her gran’s pearls with the speed of spinning reels at an Irish ceili. Probably worrying about her welcome, when he counted her presence tonight as his crowning achievement. As the minutes had become a half hour, then an hour, then two, he’d begun work on a Plan B, involving kidnapping and locking her in this exhibition space until they fought themselves to a standstill. Fighting with her was better than losing her. He took a step in her direction.
“Niall, a moment.” The Michael Portillo look-alike, whom Anna had identified as a major art critic, stood at his elbow. The lemon jumper slung across his shoulders was a direct steal from the train-travel aficionado’s wardrobe.
“Good of you to come.” Niall spotted Anna signalling him from across the room, her hand gesture threatening murder if he didn’t play nice with Mr. Crimson-slacks-and-purple-dress-shirt. He tracked Lucy moving in the direction of the makeshift bar positioned under a window.
“I nearly didn’t.” His blunt words caught Niall’s attention. “I don’t usually report on furniture, but your marketing manager was very persuasive.”
Marketing manager? “You mean Anna.” He flicked a glance toward his sister-in-law, who waggled her fingers at him.
“She hounded me”—the critic smiled, destroying the English upper-class gravitas he’d been channelling since his arrival—“in the nicest possible way. She supplied a full bio, plus photos of your major pieces. Your work’s even better than she promised. My review will be uploaded tonight, the digital version’s available after midnight. How about a shot to go with my text?” He held up his phone.
“Where do you want me?” Niall glanced around, a photo a small price for freedom.
“Where you are works. It’s an elegant sideboard, and the bowl of old-fashioned yellow roses accentuates it nicely.” He snapped a few shots. “Is Anna here?” he asked a little too innocently. “I’d like to put a face to the name for future reference.”
“She’s responsible for the roses.” Niall grinned. “Over my right shoulder. One o’clock. Black dress with a necklace of coloured beads.” The dress was demure, but Anna was luminescent tonight.
The man’s eyes widened. “She’s your marketing manager?”
“She’s outstanding at her job.” Niall kept his expression bland. Anna looked delicious, although his personal vice was a sedate antiques specialist wearing her gran’s pearls, sipping white wine, in one of her standard black business suits, and moving with elegant grace through the dwindling crowd. He needed to catch her before she disappeared. “If you’ve finished with me, there are some other people I need to catch up with.”
Please be finished with me.
The critic smiled and headed in Anna’s direction.
Lucy stood with her back to the room, in front of the gumnut mirror. Niall absorbed her scent as he drew closer, pausing to breathe in her presence before reaching her. He’d felt invincible in her bed. Who knew invincibility was having the woman you loved tucked against you during the night, her hand in yours? He missed the sensation.
“Thank you for coming,” he repeated the words she’d used at her gala.
“You came to my show,” she replied, colour flaring in her cheeks as if the memory was uncomfortable. “And I delivered you immediately into Peter’s determined clutches.”
“A useful introduction,” he contradicted her. “He came earlier tonight, brought some buyers with him.” Niall mentally measured the ground he needed to make up since their last conversation.
He’d waved his self-doubt like a magic wand over Lucy’s head and turned her from a generous, warm-hearted companion into a polite stranger. Politeness was her default shield.
“I had an army of helpers.” He continued. “Mum handled personal invitations. Anna handled social media, plus design and, by some magic known only to her, guaranteed the appearance of one of the top arts reporters in Sydney. Liam stitched up insurance and security. Kate phoned my old clients and asked to borrow back items for the show. But you know that.” I’m babbling he thought, unable to help himself.
“I was with a client when she called, so didn’t have time to ask her much. It’s a great venue.”
In the background, William Barton’s didgeridoo drifted on an orchestral wave, a lyrical repertoire of barks, yelps, squawks and bird and bush sounds.
“Anna suggested I approach Hunter.” He’d missed talking over the venue, the arrangement of the pieces, even the music selection with Lucy. Although Barton was in tonight’s playlist because Lucy loved the power and passion of the sounds coming from a length of termite-hollowed wood.
“Because he has empty warehouses?” she asked.
“He has properties, friends with properties and access to more through business connections. He conjured this space at less than gallery rates.” Niall allowed some of his bewilderment to surface. The guy had been helpful, and refrained from scoring points or calling him an idiot or even mentioning Lucy’s name, when Anna must have outlined his stupidity. Niall had wanted to howl at the moon.
“Are you afraid you’ll owe him?” Her head tilted to one side, her gaze considering.
“I paid the amount requested. I said thank you. He was plausible about a gap in occupancy. We’re doing each other a favour.” Niall wasn’t 100 percent convinced, and he was also accruing personal debts with a nonchalance that a few weeks earlier would have shocked his cautious soul. “How have you been?” She looked alive, vibrant, as if his absence had allowed her to bloom.
“Busy,” she said, and he’d lost the right to push for details. “You look tired.”
I’m tired of being tired. I want more in my life than my craft. I want you in my life, on any terms you care to grant.
“But you must think it’s worth it”—she made a show of sniffing the air—“I smell success. Congratulations.” Then she waved her wine in the direction of the room. “How many times have you sold the table?”
“Three, the two new orders will have different timber. I doubt I can get another piece of Huon pine of the same quality,” he said. She’d demanded he take a hard look at himself. The reflection in his mirror hadn’t been pretty. “Your bowl’s another reason for my success. Half a dozen orders for something similar—a riff on a theme. I appreciate you letting me borrow it after I was such a fool.”
She sipped her wine, studying him over the rim of her glass. “I don’t believe I called you a fool.”
“Not to my face.” He winced. “Can you stay? I mean, can I buy you a drink after the show’s over?”
“I’d like that. We need to tie up a few loose ends.” She looked over his shoulder. “Kate’s signalling to you.”
“I should be circulating.” He was afraid if he turned his back she’d vanish. “A few loose ends” sounded like a short conversation, scuttling the hope he’d let run wild with her arrival.
“Circulate, Niall. I said I’d stay for a drink.”
* * *
Lucy tracked him withher gaze, while storing up his special brand of sandalwood and citrus scent. Torture to be so close and still have a yawning chasm between them.
She’d expected the show to be a success. How could anyone not recognise his skill? But believing it and seeing it were different beasts, and gave her more insight into his misgivings. He’d laboured for years, won prizes, taken on debts not of his own making, and—he was an artist. Doubt would be a constant, a splinter lodged in an impossible-to-reach spot.
The chatter grew quieter, the waiters packed up and disappeared while Lucy moved from piece to piece, surrendering to the compulsion to touch his creations. She wasn’t quite sure of the house rules, so was careful not to let her hand linger. Niall’s work drew her like a child in a sweet shop offering free access to her favourite jelly snake. Her finger, trailing across each surface, was a poor substitute for touching him.
Hunter tapped her on the shoulder. “We’re off.”
“Thanks for the moral support.”
“Anna confessed she told Niall weeks ago he was wrong not to tell you about the exhibition.”
“I guess without his stubborn streak he might not have achieved so much.” Although having the support of the straight-shooting Anna gave Lucy a girl-power boost of confidence. “To be honest, he looks slightly bemused, a man who’s overwhelmed by the reception of his brilliance.”
“Don’t go all soft and gooey on him. If you’re interested in him, make him work to win you.” Hunter finished before joining Anna at the door. He was replaced by a heavily pregnant Kate.
“I’m glad you were able to make it.” Kate rested one hand on her baby bump.
“Thanks for asking me,” Lucy replied.
“Niall sent your invitations. Wished on the blarney stone or some such nonsense before he pressed send. Liam and I are taking their mum home. Whatever you said to Niall, it made him see sense.”
“What does sense look like on Niall Quinn?” Her free hand crept to her gran’s pearls. If he still planned to reject Grandpa’s bequest after tonight’s success, his principles had destroyed his good sense.
“This.” Kate gestured around her. “I gather you told him to stop being such an idiot and just organise an exhibition.”
“Whisht. I never called him an idiot.”
“You might not have said the word, but you got the message across.” Kate lowered her voice. “He’d started to doubt himself and think we were saying his work was wonderful because we love him. He needed a nudge. You gave it to him.”
“He’d hate us talking about him.” And while he might appreciate her prodding him, that didn’t change the past and the secrets they’d kept from each other, and might continue to keep from each other. Niall had them pegged as opposites—attracted—but not soulmates.
* * *
Niall closed the frontdoors on the final straggler and turned to rest his back against it.
“Don’t we leave by the same exit?” She joined him in the vestibule.
“There’s a back exit, but I had another idea.” I might only get one chance at this apology.
“I agreed to a drink.” She sounded wary, but willing, and the hopeless romantic in Niall chalked that up as a positive.
“My idea includes a drink.” He took her arm and steered her into the larger space. Snagging two chairs from a set of four nearby, he set them on opposite sides of the Huon table. “Please have a seat. I’ll be right back.”
Niall returned with a bottle of champagne and two flutes to find her stroking the curved back of her chair. Her delight in his furniture was satisfyingly honest. He needed her honesty—and her warmth—in his life.
She turned toward him. “They match,” she said, then gasped as he came closer. “French, handblown bowls and cut facets. Late nineteenth century. Where on earth did you get them?”
“An auction,” he said, although her reaction justified his lengthy search to find the rare glasses. “You seem to like matching sets.”
“I like you, Niall. Despite everything that’s happened, I like you.”
Liking wasn’t what he’d hoped for when he’d bought the glasses for her. “Please sit.” He eased out the cork, and the champagne burbled into the glasses.
“To Quinn, by design.” She toasted him. “It seems to be a larger enterprise than you originally envisaged.”
“Someone I respect told me not to be so thin-skinned—”
“I didn’t call you a fool, or an idiot or say you were thin-skinned.”
“You said I was afraid.” He grimaced. “I’ve done a bit of thinking in the last two weeks. You were right. I was also stubborn, bloody-minded, and content to drown in self-pity.” He’d thought the words would stick in his throat, but maybe the ancient Scots who said confession was good for the soul had a point. “It makes sense to use all my skills. I’d prefer the balance to be more furniture, less restoration and frames. After tonight, I might be able to make that happen.”
“Why didn’t you believe it could happen before tonight?” Her hand curled around the edge of the table.
Niall imagined her fingers trailing over his chest the way they had over each piece in this room. The simple eroticism of her action had started a slow hum, low in his body. The bond between them held, but she was strong enough not to forgive him.
“Maybe because it never has.”
She deserved chapter and verse of what had crawled up his backside and made him shut her out.
“And that’s a half-arsed answer,” he said.
* * *
Lucy considered himacross the width of the table. He’d made the kind of admissions few men in her experience were capable of, certainly not any of the men her mum had kept company with. Strengths could be weaknesses. A tired, determined man whose integrity caught him by the balls could at times be stubborn and bloody-minded.
“I want to apologise for pouncing on you the morning after I turned up uninvited. I treated you like the prize in some swinger’s raffle.”
He mumbled something barely audible. Had he said “fuck buddy”?
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” Colour stained his cheeks. Was he embarrassed? “Why did you? Pounce on me like that, I mean?”
“I could tell you were unhappy, but I couldn’t work out why.” Although being called a fuck buddy would go a hell of a long way toward explaining his disgust at being treated like a one-night stand. “Instead of asking you, I channelled Mum. Sex papers over any cracks in a relationship.”
“You know that’s not true.” He stretched his hand across the table to cover her free one. “Do you want to know why I was unhappy?”
“Yes, but I need to tell you a story first.” And see if you’re still in the room at the end of it.
“Do you want me to come around to your side of the table?” He took her consent seriously.
Lucy turned her hand over and linked fingers with him. “I want to look at you while I tell you.” To see if you’re repulsed or pitying. She released his hand and sat back. “I had to look after myself and Mum when I was a kid. Every night I told her I’d wake her in time to walk me to school. She’d laugh and say ‘she’d get up when she was ready.’”
“You were always late. You told me that.” He, in turn, leaned back, giving her the space she asked for.
“And I always ignored her. I took her a coffee. She loved coffee—hot, strong, and black.” Lucy pictured her mum’s sleepy grin. “She’d wrap her hands around the hot cup, inhale deeply as if it was some magic potion and say, ‘Perfect, baby.’”
“I’ve never seen you drink coffee,” he broke the silence.
Lucy focused on Niall again. “It reminds me of the day she died.” She sipped the sparkling wine, needing to ease her dry throat. “During the week, I’d dress for school, wake her, and leave. She rarely walked me to school, but she’d always call out ‘Love you,’ before I reached the front door.” Lucy smiled at the memory. “I looked forward to weekends. Mum liked to window shop, to scout out the neighbourhood, maybe line up a date. She’d be up by ten, so I’d wait to make the coffee. The day she died ...” She huffed out air trapped by the tight bands encircling her chest.
“Tell me, Liùsaidh.” He was listening with his whole body, and compassion shaded his gaze, not pity or disgust. But she hadn’t told him the worst.
“I let my mum die.” Her chin wobbled.
“You didn’t.” He gripped her hand so tightly she winced. “Sorry.”
“No. I didn’t,” she whispered, his absolute conviction the missing piece of the puzzle. “But for a long time, I believed I did.”
“You’ve carried this weight since you were a kid?” He eased his hold, shaking his head in disbelief. “You were barely ten years old.”
“Yes, and it’s taken me a lifetime to work out I’m not responsible.” She inhaled his scent, his flavour of patience and goodness, and continued. “She was careless in the company she kept. The night before, a dealer came to visit. I’d seen him once or twice. They disappeared into the bedroom. I saw him the next morning. Leaving. He said she wanted to sleep, to tell me to leave her to sleep. I waited and waited. At midday I opened the door. She wouldn’t wake up.
“I should have checked sooner.” Lucy released his hand and locked her fingers together, her knuckles the bone white of her dead mother’s face. “I couldn’t wake her up. I called the ambulance. The police came, then social security.” Sirens, the sirens had competed with each other to drown out her screams.
“What about feckin’ family or friends?” He pushed to his feet.
“No family. You know it took weeks to track down Grandpa and Gran,” she said, his anger easing a wound so deep in her heart, the scar tissue had scar tissue. No one had been angry at her mum’s death, angry at Lucy’s loss. The emotions swirling in her mother’s bedroom had been all wrong. “There was a police-appointed counsellor because I was a child. A woman, but I can’t remember her at all.”
“Some half-trained eejit feeding the doubt in your mind,” he muttered.
“I don’t think it was her.” And it no longer matters.
“You’d lost your mum. You were in shock. And she let you leave without proving your fears were baseless.” Protecting the weak was second nature to him. “Someone said something. What did they say?”
“I don’t remember who asked what. It all became one joined-up blob.” Lucy shook her head, their faces had faded to a blur over the years, until only the questions appeared in block capitals in her dreams. Hounding her.
“Shock untethers you.” He’d looked grief in the eye and hadn’t forgotten a second of the maelstrom.
“Mum’s rule was no later than ten. ‘Why didn’t I check sooner?’ Someone asked me that.” She lifted her head and met his gaze. “The claws from that one question got sharper with the passing of time.”
“Keep talking.”
“Because talking can defang monsters?” She gave a half laugh, because she’d already used a lifetime of tears on what-ifs. “‘Why did I believe a strange man? Why didn’t I check straight away? Wasn’t I curious?’”
“You didn’t check sooner, because he”—he held up a finger—“he’s the person Tomas reminds you of?”
She nodded.
“Your mum’s boyfriend claimed to be passing on her message. Not your fault. She was responsible for you, not the other way around,” he repeated arguments she’d only let herself believe since meeting him. “When did she die?”
“They couldn’t determine the exact time of death.” Another claw from the multi-toed monster haunting her. “Some time in the morning. A range.”
“But she could have been dead when her boyfriend left your apartment?” He zeroed in on one of her endless what-ifs.
“Or she could have been alive.”
“I want to smash walls.”
“Thank you for being angry my mum died. And for listening.”
“I hate that you’ve lived with this fear.” He returned to his chair. “Want to know what I was doing at age ten?”
“Not answering questions from the police?” She swallowed another mouthful, the dance of bubbles in her bloodstream a counterpoint to her tragic tale.
He smiled. “Swinging off a rope into a river. Searching in the undergrowth for bits of rock or wood I might be able to fashion into something. Sweating on getting a new chisel for my birthday. Arm wrestling with my brother. The grown-ups are supposed to be responsible for us.”
“The police were careful not to blame me. I remember sitting in a corridor while adults buzzed about me. I knew it was my fault. Why did I change my routine? Every morning I took her coffee. Without fail. Why did I fail on that day?” Her catechism had been different to the fearsome biblical one her Presbyterian gran memorised as a child, but Lucy could recount hers just as fluently.
“When I was a kid”—he reached across the table to tuck her hair behind her ear, his fingertip stroking the softer skin there while his thumb brushed her cheek—“I pinched a biscuit from a batch Mum had made up for a neighbour. A mirror in the hall came crashing down. I was positive the two were related. Steal a biscuit and disaster happens. You weren’t to blame.”
“I wasn’t. But for a long time I thought I was.”
“Didn’t your grandparents exorcise that demon for you?”
“I was in the next room when Gran died. I shouldn’t have left her alone.”
“Why did you?”
“She was settled in her chair with a photo album. I went to make tea.” A routine she and her gran had established.
“But the police came back.” His outrage took him the mental step from one death to the other. Her responsibility—cause and effect. “And you had a feckin’ useless boyfriend who made a joke about it being natural to anticipate an inheritance, to look away while accidents happened.”
“I’ve been afraid I’ll hurt the people I love.” Her deepest, darkest shame, and he’d coaxed it from her like he coaxed magic from a block of wood.
Do you understand I just said I love you?
“Hence the over-the-top hospital in the home for Cam?”
She nodded.
“When were you going to tell me?” His question restored hope.
“That morning, but I chickened out.”
“Why not tell me at the workshop?”
“Because I’ve never told this story before.” She sucked in more air. “Because I wondered if treating you like a fuck buddy triggered your disgust enough to cut all ties with me.”
“You heard that?” He scrubbed his face.
“I hate myself for that morning. For making you feel less because I got cold feet about telling you about Mum.”
“We’re all allowed to be scared sometimes,” he murmured.
“I hate even more knowing the restoration work I demanded because I went into a funk when Grandpa died forced you to cancel your original exhibition.” Her heart stalled. Because he hadn’t offered to sit beside her again. Hadn’t said one quick screw between lovers was only one beat of a symphony.
“It’s not your fault.”
“You’re right, and I’m over taking responsibility for things that I can’t control.” Lucy owed Niall for that. Whatever happened between them, she’d always be grateful he’d challenged her to face and defeat her demons.