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The door opened with a jubilant swing and banged into the wall, bringing them apart with a jump. Sean stood there with a large bouquet of wildflowers in one hand and an enormous grin on his face.
“What ho, future Hollisters all,” said the medical centre’s answer to Bertie Wooster. He looked from one to the other of them with an almost ludicrous expression of pleasure, like a Golden Retriever observing the movements of a tennis ball. “This is great,” he said happily. “It’s like Tinker Bell falling in love with Captain Hook.” At their looks of mutual aggravation, he went hurriedly on, “I come bearing gifts and good tidings.”
“May I suggest you deliver them, then,” said Mick dryly, “before you find yourself making a short, sharp exit?”
His repressive tone didn’t seem to dim Sean’s spirits much. The other man proceeded uninvited into the room and pulled up the spare chair. Sophy found herself eyeing him with an unusual degree of cheer and goodwill; her head, in fact, was starting to drift down pleasantly fuzzy avenues. She had reached the enjoyable stage of loopiness, similar to that short window of time between the second glass of wine and the third, when all the world is beautiful but one doesn’t yet feel compelled to tell it so.
“Good news, first of all,” said Sean, a bit more seriously. “It sounds like the police in Christchurch have made a positive ID on the perp in custody and can link him to a number of assaults in the Canterbury area. So I would be extremely surprised if the bastard sees the light of day any time soon and it won’t just hang on Sophy’s testimony.”
Mick looked as if he was biting back a number of questions, but after a quick glance at her, he merely stated, “Good.”
“Good,” Sophy echoed chirpily, not entirely sure to what she was agreeing but willing to go along with his opinion because he was so nice.
A grin tugged at Mick’s lips and he hastily rubbed a hand over his nose.
Sean was eyeing her in open amusement.
Ignoring both of them, Sophy focused on the flowers in his hands.
“Are those for me?” she asked brightly. “That’s nice.”
“Hmm? Oh.” Sean looked down at the bouquet and then presented it with a flourish. “No, my own offerings are forthcoming. I didn’t want to miss visiting hours. Or any of this,” he said, gesturing between them and returning an unperturbed smile for Mick’s scowl. “I ran into your art teacher outside. He says these are from the school with best wishes for a quick recovery and he won’t come in and disturb you again, but will hope to see you back soon.” He hesitated. “He also said that he thinks your work is unfortunately not salvageable. I’m sorry, Sophy. Was this the piece that Mick has been bending and flexing for?”
Mick had turned abruptly to look at her.
“The sculpture was ruined?” he asked, looking aghast on her behalf. And possibly his own. Visions of further “bending and flexing” were probably dancing in his head. Silly. She still had the sketches and in any case…
“That’s okay,” she said, the blow considerably more cushioned at that particular moment than it likely would be tomorrow. “I think Hades preferred to return to the Underworld.”
“You aren’t going to start again?” Mick still looked concerned. “When is the deadline for the competition?”
“I still have a month. I will start again, but not with that subject.” Sophy tried to give him a tender look and lost her train of thought halfway through. The resulting expression felt a bit...droopy. “I think he was a one-off. Although he had nothing on the real thing.”
Mick and Sean both looked slightly pained.
“Oh,” said Sean unenthusiastically. “Anatomically correct, was he?”
“No.” Sophy frowned at him crossly. “It was only a head and torso. I left out the good stuff, but I hadn’t even seen it in the beginning.”
A rather strange sound emitted from the back of Sean’s throat. Mick clapped a large hand over her mouth.
“Poor thing,” he said to Sean. “Must have hit her head when she fell. Doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
Sophy tugged at his fingers, freeing her lips. She touched them gingerly a few times. No, they were still there. They suddenly tilted in a tiny, provocative smile.
“It’s okay,” she said again. “I have a very different mythological figure in mind this time.”
Epilogue
Eleven months later.
The rainbow trout flipped and twirled at the end of the line. Sophy stared at it with the dismay that most fishermen reserve for a disappointing catch of floating weed.
“Oh my God,” she said. “It’s a baby. Throw it back!”
Mick looked up from where he was re-threading his own line.
“It’s not a baby,” he said, exasperated. “It’s a good-sized fish.”
