Page 117 of A Convenient Fiction

“Do you wish to?”

He was quiet again for another long moment before answering. “I’d like you to meet him. And he wants me to meet his wife, as well. I suspect he’s as proud of her as I am of you.”

She glanced down at him. “Are you proud of me?”

“Always.”

“I don’t know why.”

This time, he didn’t hesitate. “Because you’re the best person I know. The kindest. The bravest.” There was a catch in his voice. “And because you’re everything to me, Laura. I don’t know what I’d do if you ever left me.” He gave a short laugh. His breath was warm against her throat. “I suppose I shouldn’t admit to that.”

“Why not? You already know that I love you. And I’m certainly not going to leave you.” She threaded her fingers through his hair. “I believe I’d follow you to the ends of the earth if you asked me. A bistro round the corner will be no trouble at all.”

His arm came around her waist, drawing her close.

She’d told him that he didn’t have to say it back, but she waited nonetheless. Waited for him to say that he loved her, too. She certainly felt as if he did. It was in the touch of his hands, and the deep tenor of his voice. The way he held her in his arms as if he’d never let her go. She sensed it as surely as if he’d declared it from a mountaintop.

And a few moments later, it seemed as if he did declare it. Albeit, in a way that only she would understand.

“Would you like to go to the seaside tomorrow?” he asked.

Happiness was an elusive thing at the best of times. But she felt it flower within her. A bright bloom of optimism. Of hope. “To Cannes? Or to Devon?”

His chest rose and fell on a deep breath. “Let’s start with Cannes. And then…we’ll see.”

“I remember Hayes’s Lavender Water.” The rims of Tom’s spectacles glimmered in the light from the bistro’s brass gasolier. “I used to see it in the apothecary shop in London where I bought my shaving soap.”

“Oh yes,” Laura said. “It was our most popular product. For a time you could find it most anywhere.”

Their table was set back near the kitchens. It was small, covered with a snow-white cloth. For the last hour, the four of the them had huddled around it, drinking red wine and eating a simple Provençal meal of lamb stew, fried artichokes, and some manner of garlic soup that seemed to contain every vegetable in the region.

Alex was quieter than usual. He was still trying to acclimate himself to the reality that Tom was here in front of him. Not only here, but in good spirits. Laughing, and drinking wine. Showing no signs of anger or bitterness.

It was the oddest thing to see Laura seated beside him. To watch the pair of them talk with each other. Smile at each other. As if Alex’s past and his future had collided on a remote railway track.

But this was no gruesome collision. There was no wreckage. No injuries. Instead, he had the strange sensation that the two disparate halves of his life were interweaving before his eyes. Joining together at the seams with a strange—and altogether unexpected—sense of rightness. Of harmony.

He wondered if Tom was experiencing the same feelings.

Jenny Finchley wasn’t the sort of lady Alex would have expected his old friend to have married. She wasn’t shy or retiring. Quite the reverse. She was as vibrant as a flickering flame. Alive with questions and opinions. The way Tom looked at her, one would almost think he was a victim of mesmerism. He was plainly besotted.

“There are rose fields in Egypt,” she said. “I’d thought perfumeries in France and England imported their flowers from there now. Or from Turkey or some such place.”

Laura nodded. “In many cases, yes. Especially with roses. But some flowering plants—like lavender—are better grown at home in England. It makes for a softer scent. That’s one of the reasons I was so disappointed to learn that Mr. Weatherwax had sold our farm in Dorset.”

“The canal scheme,” Tom said. “Was that how he lost the profits from the sale?”

Alex frowned at the grim reminder. “So he claims.”

Tom’s own expression grew serious. “All isn’t lost. I’ve been investigating the matter for a client of mine, and it appears as though there was fraud on a massive scale. With luck, some of the victims of that scheme might see a percentage of their investment returned to them.”

“And some of the solicitors involved might see themselves struck off,” Jenny added. “You can’t imagine the sort of things—”

“My dear,” Tom remonstrated gently. “You know we’re not to speak of the particulars.”

Jenny managed to look chastened. “Was that a particular? Do forgive me, my love.”

Laura glanced between the pair of them, a hopeful glimmer in her eyes. “Do you truly mean that? There might be a way to recover some of my money?”