soberly.
“Your wife?”
He nodded, forced a smile. “She thinks I should find a nice girl to settle down with. That’s what I meant by that. It’s sort of a joke around here.”
Ravenna slowed beside him, reached out to take his arm. “I don’t understand,” she said, pulling him to a stop. “Your wife wants you to have an affair? That’s why you flirted with me?”
His eyes rested heavily on hers. “She wants to go to London, she wants us to…We had a bit of a row two years ago. She wants a divorce.”
When he looked away, glanced down at her hand where she gripped his sleeve, Ravenna realized she’d caressed him ever so slightly, comforted him without meaning to. She didn’t take her hand away. “And you won’t go to London?”
His lips tightened. He shook his head. “I keep hopin’ she’ll come around someday.”
Seeing that love in his anguished eyes, that useless and bitter love for his wife, made the pain knot up in her heart. She doesn’t love you , she wanted to say, but I do, God how I do .
With an obvious step backward, he pulled out from under her hand. He looked around the parking lot uneasily. “Anyway,” he said, “I lost my head back there in the pub, coming on to you like that. It just never dawned on me that you didn’t know m’life story like everyone else. I mean, I’ve been married nine years now. I thought everybody knew that.”
“You feel like you know me, that’s why.”
“Yeah, and that reminds me,” he said, and gently he kicked her foot with his boot, “if you and I have been more than friends, you might at least fill me in.” He said this casually, even with a hint of a smile, but he was braced for her answer, she could see it.
“We were more than just friends, yes,” she said.
His features dulled instantly. His eyes darkened to guilty embers, and as if her answer could save his soul, he put out the question she knew would come. “Before Fiona, was it?”
“It was before everything,” she agreed. “You can feel it between us, can’t you? Don’t you feel it when you look at me?”
Hunching his shoulders, he leaned against a parked car as he considered. “There is something about you, I can’t…can’t quite put my finger on.”
“The way I look, maybe? What I’m wearing seems wrong?”
“It’s your voice, that’s what it is. Very low-pitched, very familiar. I ought to remember a voice like yours.”
She felt her pulses quicken. He remembered their past life together . Not just a talent for recalling twelve-year-old girls he’d once sat in an amusement park ride with, but he actually remembered Elizabeth as an adult. “I had an English accent,” she said, studying his expression. “Can you remember? My name was Mary Hallett, and we lived in a country house next to the sea. You took me to some ruins, and you and I were—”
“This was a schoolyard game?” Suspicious, the way he looked at her then.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean did you make this up? Little girls do things like that when they meet older boys. When I went to America in ’77, I was seventeen years old, and you must’ve been, what, half my age? Any eight-year-old girl would be impressed by a seventeen-year-old—”
“I was twelve in—”
“Then it was America, I was right. You probably saw me when I played at that college, what was it called? You really had me frightened there, tellin’ me I was your lover an’ that.”
“But you were,” she insisted. “We were lovers, you can feel it as much as I can.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “not if you were twelve years old, I’d never have—”
“I wasn’t twelve, I was, I don’t know, twenty-six or something in 1790, and you were—”
“ 1790?”
“Yes, in Devon, that’s why you can’t remember, because it was two hundred years ago and I didn’t have an American—”
Her voice wavered and abruptly broke, for he wasn’t looking at her. With hands still shoved in the pockets of
“Your wife?”
He nodded, forced a smile. “She thinks I should find a nice girl to settle down with. That’s what I meant by that. It’s sort of a joke around here.”
Ravenna slowed beside him, reached out to take his arm. “I don’t understand,” she said, pulling him to a stop. “Your wife wants you to have an affair? That’s why you flirted with me?”
His eyes rested heavily on hers. “She wants to go to London, she wants us to…We had a bit of a row two years ago. She wants a divorce.”
When he looked away, glanced down at her hand where she gripped his sleeve, Ravenna realized she’d caressed him ever so slightly, comforted him without meaning to. She didn’t take her hand away. “And you won’t go to London?”
His lips tightened. He shook his head. “I keep hopin’ she’ll come around someday.”
Seeing that love in his anguished eyes, that useless and bitter love for his wife, made the pain knot up in her heart. She doesn’t love you , she wanted to say, but I do, God how I do .
With an obvious step backward, he pulled out from under her hand. He looked around the parking lot uneasily. “Anyway,” he said, “I lost my head back there in the pub, coming on to you like that. It just never dawned on me that you didn’t know m’life story like everyone else. I mean, I’ve been married nine years now. I thought everybody knew that.”
“You feel like you know me, that’s why.”
“Yeah, and that reminds me,” he said, and gently he kicked her foot with his boot, “if you and I have been more than friends, you might at least fill me in.” He said this casually, even with a hint of a smile, but he was braced for her answer, she could see it.
“We were more than just friends, yes,” she said.
His features dulled instantly. His eyes darkened to guilty embers, and as if her answer could save his soul, he put out the question she knew would come. “Before Fiona, was it?”
“It was before everything,” she agreed. “You can feel it between us, can’t you? Don’t you feel it when you look at me?”
Hunching his shoulders, he leaned against a parked car as he considered. “There is something about you, I can’t…can’t quite put my finger on.”
“The way I look, maybe? What I’m wearing seems wrong?”
“It’s your voice, that’s what it is. Very low-pitched, very familiar. I ought to remember a voice like yours.”
She felt her pulses quicken. He remembered their past life together . Not just a talent for recalling twelve-year-old girls he’d once sat in an amusement park ride with, but he actually remembered Elizabeth as an adult. “I had an English accent,” she said, studying his expression. “Can you remember? My name was Mary Hallett, and we lived in a country house next to the sea. You took me to some ruins, and you and I were—”
“This was a schoolyard game?” Suspicious, the way he looked at her then.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean did you make this up? Little girls do things like that when they meet older boys. When I went to America in ’77, I was seventeen years old, and you must’ve been, what, half my age? Any eight-year-old girl would be impressed by a seventeen-year-old—”
“I was twelve in—”
“Then it was America, I was right. You probably saw me when I played at that college, what was it called? You really had me frightened there, tellin’ me I was your lover an’ that.”
“But you were,” she insisted. “We were lovers, you can feel it as much as I can.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “not if you were twelve years old, I’d never have—”
“I wasn’t twelve, I was, I don’t know, twenty-six or something in 1790, and you were—”
“ 1790?”
“Yes, in Devon, that’s why you can’t remember, because it was two hundred years ago and I didn’t have an American—”
Her voice wavered and abruptly broke, for he wasn’t looking at her. With hands still shoved in the pockets of
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