“You caught me off guard. Of course I’ll take them to him. I should have realized.”
He shrugged off her stilted promise with stiff negligence. They couldn’t seem to overcome the intimate revelations of a few days ago. It had drawn a line beneath their relationship, leaving it summed up as unworkable. He wanted children. She couldn’t give him any. He thought he was incapable of love. She couldn’t prove him wrong when he couldn’t love her.
Did she love him? Yes. Her girlish crush had deepened and matured into something abiding and strong. But so what? She had thought an affair could bring them closer, that she would touch him, draw him out, but she had turned into yet another person who had raised his expectations and then dashed them. He’d never trust in her love.
“While I have your attention …” she began, and then had to clear her throat.
Her abdomen tightened with foreboding. She told herself to quit being so nervous. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been mentally preparing herself for this. She had been working nonstop on arrangements, determined to finish by Nic’s deadline as a matter of pride. She had talked to Frankie, booked travel, and even begun packing her things. She still found herself beginning to shake.
Get a grip, Ro. You knew the end was coming.
Which was the part that was making her fall apart. Dispensing of things was sad, but they were just things. Even the house was something she was gradually letting go of as she accepted that the people she loved would no longer be there to welcome her into it. There was one thing she couldn’t face letting go of, though: Nic.
She tucked a strand from her ponytail behind her ear. Her hand was shaking and she saw his gaze fix on it. She folded her arms.
“I’m almost finished, so I should tell you where everything stands. These boxes are going to a theater manager in London who wants to set up a dedicated display in his lobby. A courier is coming tomorrow.” Rowan jerked a look to the ceiling. “Mum’s gowns are being auctioned. I gave the auction house your PA’s details. They’ll set up a convenient time to send a team to inventory and pack those properly.”
“You’re not keeping any?”
She understood his surprise. He knew as well as she did that designers had lined up to custom-make haute couture for Cassandra O’Brien. They were gorgeous one-of-a-kinds—but they were Cassandra’s style, not Rowan’s.
“Where would I wear them?” she dismissed. “No, they’re works of art, so I’ll let them benefit an artist by using the money to set up a trust for my father.” She glanced warily at him, bracing against his judgment, hurrying to clarify. “So I won’t have to resort to tasteless appearance fees or anything like that again.”
If she had hoped for an approval rating she was disappointed. He scowled, seeming both thunderstruck and filled with incomprehension.
“You’re not keeping any of it?”
It being the collection of her mother’s possessions, she assumed.
“Well, a few things, of course.” She shrugged, pretending it didn’t bother her how judicious—ruthless, even—she’d had to be. The boxes for the thrift store were filled with chotchkies that had no value but had been in her life as long as she could remember. She would have kept them for her own home if she had had one. “I kept some snapshots and Mum’s hand mirror. The dish she put her jewelry in at night. Things like that.”
“What about her jewelry?” He leapt on the word. “Auction?”
Rowan pressed her lips together. “I wanted to ask you about that.”
“I’m not going to contest ownership, if that’s what you’re worried about. Olief would have given those things to Cassandra without any expectation of getting them back. If you want to auction them to give yourself a nest egg, do.”
“I don’t.” She tried to suppress the testiness that edged into her. “I’m not interested in profiting from gifts that marked important occasions in their life. Besides, we won’t know if they’re mine or my father’s until the will is read. I just wanted to ask you to take responsibility. I don’t have a safety deposit box or anywhere else secure.”
His stare grew inscrutable.
Rowan was hugely sensitive to the air of intensity gathering around Nic like dark clouds—especially because she didn’t know how to interpret it.
“I’ve sorted Olief’s things as well,” she prattled on. “Just recommendations, of course. He has some gorgeous tuxedos that would fit you with a minimum of tailoring.” She couldn’t help stealing a swift tallying inventory of his potent physique, turned out professionally for telecommuting in a striped button shirt and tie. “I’d love to include the vintage one with those things going to London if you’re okay with that?”