Page 40 of A Shore Thing

They looked at each other, the companionable pause rattling with more rain.

Kit sighed and pushed back his hair. “I hope you did come to the Smack for conversation. Otherwise, I can’t imagine the disappointment.”

“I’m not disappointed. This has been interesting, to say the least.” Raleigh took out his watch. “And now it’s late. I should head back to the hotel, in case Muriel tries to drag me out of bed before the sun. Unless…” He dropped the watch back into his pocket. “A drink?”

“One drink.” Kit turned. “I’m buying.”

An hour later, they were both slumped over the bar, laughing about nothing they could remember.

“Do I have a chance?” Kit wheezed. It was likely a non sequitur, so he clarified. “A chance with Muriel?”

Raleigh nodded emphatically. “No.”

“Was that a yes or a no?”

“Let me think.” Raleigh put his tumbler to his temple. “Yes, no. You don’t. Not a bloody chance.” He started laughing again.

“Because…” Kit slumped further. “Because of what I told you.”

“What? No, because she thinks you’re a lazy, heartless, selfish, promiscuous blackguard whose talent finds its primary outlet in the torture of cats.”

“I don’t entirely understand the accusation.” Kit wasn’t sure he wanted to. “But I plan to make amends. I’m going to find her an artist.”

“You should paint the seaweed,” said Raleigh frankly. “If you want a chance.”

“I cannot.” Kit’s words had begun to slur, so he pronounced each consonant. “It is beyond my power.”

“At the moment I should say so.” Raleigh put his hand in Kit’s face and wiggled his fingers. “Neither would I wield a scalpel.”

Kit batted at the hand, focused his eyes on Raleigh, and frowned. It was a bit frightening to get pissed with a man who fiddled in people’s brains.

“Sober up,” he commanded.

Raleigh turned his wiggling fingers into a signal to the barkeep. “Did she tell you why she wants the illustrations?”

“She wants them for her lecture.”

“For her lecture,” repeated Raleigh. “But there’s more to it. She’s a plant hunter. Knows loads about trees, shrubs, flowers—plants from all around the globe that people want to grow or use. Some American botanists—women, by the way—invited her to talk about her expertise. But then the patronizing tosser in charge told her she had to talk instead about the love of seaweed, as promulgated by Mrs. Alfred Gatty, an amateur algologist. Algologist. Algologist? It twists the tongue. Algologist. God. Where was I? The tosser. He did it to put Muriel in her place.”

Even through his stupor, Kit felt a spark of anger on Muriel’s behalf. Various profanities muddled on his tongue.

“Gah,” he said.

“Exactly. She’s incensed. And she’s going to say so, during the lecture. Cheers.”

The barkeep was refilling their tumblers.

“Why, then?” Kit laid a shilling on the bar. “Why the illustrations?”

“She wants to do what she was asked to do first, impeccably and impressively and inoffensively. For credibility. So it’s more difficult for people to dismiss her as a raving termagant when she makes it rain fire at the end.”

“She doesn’t need paintings for that.”

“I agree. But she thinks she does. Your paintings in particular. That watercolor—it’s what gave her the idea. It has acquired for her a talismanic significance. The premise is misguided, but the cause is noble. To hell with patronizing tossers!” Raleigh lifted his glass. It left a sparkling trail in the air.

Kit shut his eyes. The darkness kept sparkling. To hell with patronizing tossers. His own bloody credo.

Only he couldn’t paint the seaweed himself.