Page 112 of A Convenient Fiction

“Laura—”

“You’ll have to hurry.”

Alex pushed his fingers through his hair. “I needn’t meet him. You and I can leave Grasse. We can—”

“I think you should speak with him,” Laura said. “No more running.”

Emotion tightened his throat. “Yes,” he agreed at last. “As you say.” His voice was a hoarse rasp. “No more running.”

He swept up his hat as he walked to the door, casting one last look at Laura before he left the room. Her mouth tilted up in a faint smile of encouragement.

The sight of it hardened his resolve.

Minutes later, he entered the small café at the end of the street. It was filled with tourists and locals enjoying afternoon cups of tea and coffee. The air was redolent with the fragrance of freshly baked pastries and bread.

He scanned the crowd, grateful for his height. It allowed him to see over the heads of the patrons at the small tables near the front of the café, and to the back corner, where a gentleman sat alone at a table.

A gentleman wearing silver spectacles.

Alex’s gut clenched. He stared at the man for a moment. A man who was, undoubtedly, Tom Finchley.

Tom saw him, too. He gave him an arrested glance. And then he stood, waiting.

Alex crossed the room to meet him. When he reached the table, he stopped, not two feet from his former friend. And they looked at each other. They simply looked—studying each other’s faces in taut silence.

Tom was the first to break it. “How much you resemble Justin.”

A spasm of emotion nearly stole Alex’s voice. “You’ve seen him?”

“Quite recently. We’ve remained close over the years.”

“And Neville?” Alex asked. “Did he…?”

“He’s alive,” Tom said. “Thriving.”

A swell of relief crashed over Alex, as powerful as a tidal wave. He sank into one of the chairs. “There were no ill effects from the fall?”

Tom resumed his seat. “He sometimes finds it difficult to form words, but there’s nothing wrong with his intellect, or with his body.”

“Does he still reside in Devon?”

“He does. He and Justin, both. I saw them not two weeks ago at my wedding breakfast.” Tom’s mouth curved slightly. “I’m lately married.”

“As am I.”

“Your wife is lovely.”

“She is,” Alex said.

“I understand she employs Harold Weatherwax as her solicitor.”

“Not any longer. The man lost most of her money in some infernal canal scheme.” Alex paused. “He claims you put a spy in his office.”

Tom shrugged. “Needs must.”

A waiter approached them, enquiring if they wanted to order. Tom lifted his brows at Alex in question. Alex shook his head. He thought he saw a flicker of disappointment in Tom’s face. Perhaps he’d expected that Alex would wish to stay longer? That he’d have a desire to reminisce? But Alex felt no such urge.

“Revenez plus tard, s’il vous plaît,” Tom said.