Chloe had died suddenly, without her being able to say goodbye or hold her one last time. She wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But what about watching Rob slowly die while she could do nothing to save him? How terrible would that be? Why would she deliberately choose to put herself through that sort of suffering if she could avoid it?
She wasn’t a masochist, and she wasn’t strong or brave. Most of the time she contemplated the years ahead and wondered how she would manage. And those years without Rob? What would happen if she gave in to her love for him and he died? What then? Death was final, grief wasn’t.
Reiver was outside and Castle Manor silent; thick stone walls insulating her from the sound of river and wind. She felt alone, stuck in a mausoleum of rising panic. Her mind fought against her heart, her fears against her love for Rob. Her fingers itched to feel the smooth surface of ivory keys and she tapped them on her thighs dejectedly.
The doorbell sounded and Anjuli jumped, startled. The morning room was at the back of the manor, facing the moors, and she hadn’t heard a car pull up. Was Rob back so soon? Damn it, she wasn’t ready to talk to him yet. Sure, she had to tell him about her finances, but what about her fears? After his confession she couldn’t tell him she was too afraid to love him.
Anjuli opened the door and smiled with relief when she saw Damien’s handsome face. He held up a shopping bag. “You promised I could cook for you if I went out with Murran so here I am. Late lunch or early dinner, whichever you prefer.”
Whistling a jaunty tune, Damien followed her to the kitchen. God, it felt good to be in his uncomplicated company. She helped him unpack the butcher wrapped, blood-red steaks and season them with black pepper, garlic and Worcestershire sauce. He made space for them to marinate in her fridge, prepped baby potatoes and washed the salad.
When had two gorgeous men become so casually familiar with her kitchen?
Damien grinned. “I only know how to cook man food. I also brought a steak for Reiver.”
Hearing his name, Reiver ran in from the garden and barked a greeting at Damien. “My dog is in love with you.”
“One down, one to go.”
“Are you calling me a bitch?”
Damien stuttered an apology, looking distressed. Oh, how could Mac not like him? He was a gentleman, good company and a good friend. And he was great fun to tease.
“Gotcha,” she laughed, surprised that she could.
What she needed was Damien’s lightness, his laughter and his charm even if only for an hour or two. He could tell her about his date and she could give him the female perspective. Her public spectacle, the meltdown and Rob’s previous illness would be the last thing on her mind.
“You are a wicked woman, Anjuli Carver.”
“How about a beer before lunch to make up for it?”
Damien followed her to the morning room, occasionally stopping to make a comment about progress on the manor. He leaned against the large sash window to read the neat, cursive writing above the fireplace. Underneath the layers of old wallpaper, Anjuli had uncovered an eight-line poem, dated 1842.
The scrawl started a few inches under the cornice, ending with the date and signature just above the wooden mantel. It was amateur and sweet, and had probably been penned by one of the decorators for his sweetheart before he’d papered the walls. Feeling whimsical, Anjuli had decided to keep the poem and clear-varnished over it. The other walls were newly plastered and with the exception of a faded Victorian day bed and the bookshelf Rob had put up, the room was empty and ready for decorating.
Damien sighed. “The poor lad should have memorised some Byron if he was so desperate to win...” he skimmed through the poem, “his bonnie wee lass’s heart.”
Anjuli arched her brows. “Did declaiming poetry work for you with Murran last night?”
“She likes motorbikes and acrobatics. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Not the woman for you, then?”
“Don’t think there is one.” He looked suddenly sad and turned to face the view. Anjuli put her beer on the mantelpiece and walked over, placing her hand on his arm. Whatever had happened to him in the past had left its mark, but she wasn’t the person to erase it.
They stared at the grass-covered moors in companionable silence. The river snaked to the right and then disappeared from sight, hidden between the hills. The early grey mist had burned away and it was windy. Cotton-candy clouds raced overhead, revealing the sun and then hiding it like a magician’s hat trick.
Well, there was no magic that could counter how she felt about Rob’s cancer. Pretending she was fine when he came back would be impossible. She was terrified. Images swirled in her mind, a large coffin being interred this time, and of her, standing as she had stood at Chloe’s funeral, wanting to jump in and be buried under the same wet earth.