Page 143 of A Shore Thing

“Children.” His whisper floated between them. “Children are commonly considered chief among the rewards you mentioned.”

She opened her eyes, looked into his.

“Did you want them?” he asked.

Her reply stuck in her windpipe. She had, and she hadn’t.

“Do you? Want them?”

“I don’t know,” she said, truthfully.

“My wife would know she wouldn’t know that particular joy.”

Another diversion. Did he even realize?

“Kit.” She curved her hand on the back of his neck. “Children are orphaned and deserted at horrifying rates. You can create whatever kind of home you wish, with whomever else you invite into your life.”

He let her draw his head close.

“You claimed you don’t trust your lovers to see who you are. I think you’re afraid they will see who you are. You keep your attachments brief to prevent the possibility. If you’re not seen fully, rejection can’t touch you fully. If you were seen—it would brutalize. It would hurt so badly you might feel it wasn’t survivable. I know. I felt it once. I felt like I’d flayed myself, peeled layer after layer, showed everything, wanting him to want me. And he didn’t.” She felt it now, a ghostly trace of the panicked agony that had ripped through her in the days and weeks following her wedding, before she’d understood and made peace with the terms of the marriage. “But it is survivable. You must hazard it. Not to love. You’re good at loving. To be loved.”

He pulled back, hard, and she dropped her hand.

She’d crossed a line. They were down to a fistful of hours, and she’d become reckless.

“Or maybe you truly do prefer summer flings,” she said.

His voice didn’t rupture the hush. It was the barest scrap of breath.

“Is that what this is?”

She didn’t answer. Her heart pounded in her ears as she waited for his answer. After a few moments, she turned, putting her back to him. She heard him sigh, and a few moments after that, he pulled her against his chest, wrapping her in an embrace. When the sun replaced the moon in the window, they were still lying in each other’s arms.

The sun stroked her cheek. What if she were a plant, nourished by light? Light was more ubiquitous than love. It warmed her, and so did Kit’s skin, his breath, his hand heavy on her hip. The awareness that had struggled up at the first touch of gold subsided into the darkness. And this was where the roots grew—in the sweet, deep, dark. She burrowed down, blissfully mindless. Plantlike. When her lashes fluttered next, Kit was cradling her closer. The sun was high. It was high, and the birds were chirping, and…

She shot up with a gasp. “I’m late!”

—

She arrived at the platform uncombed and out of breath. James and Thomas left off pleading with the conductor.

“Here she is,” said James, relief and concern on his face as he looked her over.

The conductor’s expression was sour.

She turned to Kit, who’d raced with her through the fields and through the narrow, winding streets of St. Ives, and there was so much more to say, and do, but the time had run out. A few rote words were exchanged. A hand was extended and clasped. They might have been strangers. Her face felt like rubber. Kit’s eyes told her nothing.

“Muriel,” murmured James. “Not to rush things, but we’re well past all aboard.”

She nodded. She boarded. By early evening, she was back in London.

33

“Go to London,” said Lucy, underlining the words with a slash of her brush through the air.

“I can’t have heard that right.” Kit was sitting in the grass by her easel, painting small rocks.

“Go to London,” she repeated. “Look at you. You’re languishing. We’ve been painting en plein air every day since she left, and every day your complexion looks more like moldy cheese. It’s pitiable.”