the kitchen, setting them aside while she got out the bottle of white she’d opened for Carrie.
“I like your place,” Malachi said from behind her.
“So do I.” She poured a glass, turned to offer it. As he was closer than she’d anticipated, she nearly plowed the glass into his chest.
“Thanks. I think the hardest aspect of traveling is not having your own things about you. The little things that comfort you.”
“Yes.” She let out a quiet breath. “Exactly.” To keep busy, she filled the vase with water, then began to arrange the flowers in it, one by one. “That’s why you caught me in pajamas this afternoon. I was wallowing in being home. In fact, other than the limo driver, you were the first person I’d spoken to since I got back.”
“Is that right?” So Anita hadn’t beaten him, after all. “Then I’m very flattered.” He picked up one of the roses, handed it to her. “And I hope you’ll enjoy the evening.”
She did. A great deal.
The restaurant he’d chosen was quiet, with soft lighting and discreet service. Discreet enough that the waiter hadn’t blinked when she’d picked her way through the menu, ordering a salad, without dressing, and requested her fish be broiled without butter and served without the accompanying sauce.
Because he’d ordered a bottle of wine, she accepted a glass. She rarely drank. She’d read several articles on how alcohol destroyed brain cells. Of course, a glass of red wine was supposed to counteract that by being good for your heart.
But the wine was so soft, and he managed to put her so completely at ease, that she never noticed how often her glass was topped off.
“It’s so interesting that you live in Cobh,” she said. “Another tie to the Lusitania. ”
“And indirectly to you.”
“Well, my great-great-grandparents were brought back here for burial. But I suppose, like so many of the others, they were taken to Cobh, or Queenstown then. It was foolish, really, for those people to make that crossing during wartime. Such an unnecessary risk.”
“We never know what another considers necessary, or a risk, do we? Or why some lived and some died. My ancestor wasn’t from Ireland, you know.”
She nearly missed what he was saying. When he smiled at her, just that way—slow and intimate—his eyes seemed impossibly green. “He wasn’t?”
“No, indeed. He was born in England, but lived most of his life here in New York.”
“Really?”
“After the tragedy, he was nursed back to health by a young woman who was to become his wife. It’s said the experience changed him. Word is, he was a bit of a loose cannon before it happened. In any case, his story’s been passed down through the family. It seems he was interested in a certain item he’d heard was in England. Seeing as you’re an expert on Greek myths, you might have heard of it. The Silver Fates.”
Struck, she set down her fork. “Do you mean the statues?”
His pulse jumped, but he nodded easily. “I do, yes.”
“Not The Silver Fates. The Three Fates. Three separate statues, not one, though they can be linked by the bases.”
“Ah well, stories take on a life of their own, don’t they, over generations.” He cut another bite of his beef. “Three pieces, then. You know of them?”
“I certainly do. Henry Wyley owned one, and it went down with the Lusitania. According to his journal, he was going to England to buy the second of the set and to, hopefully, follow a lead on finding the third. It seemed so interesting to me as a child to think that he’d essentially died for those pieces that I looked up the Fates.”
He waited a beat. “What did you find?”
“Oh, about the statues, next to nothing. In fact, it’s most commonly believed they don’t really exist. For all I know Henry had something else entirely.” She moved her shoulders. “But I found out about the Fates of mythology, and kept reading. The more I read, the more fascinated I was by the gods,
“I like your place,” Malachi said from behind her.
“So do I.” She poured a glass, turned to offer it. As he was closer than she’d anticipated, she nearly plowed the glass into his chest.
“Thanks. I think the hardest aspect of traveling is not having your own things about you. The little things that comfort you.”
“Yes.” She let out a quiet breath. “Exactly.” To keep busy, she filled the vase with water, then began to arrange the flowers in it, one by one. “That’s why you caught me in pajamas this afternoon. I was wallowing in being home. In fact, other than the limo driver, you were the first person I’d spoken to since I got back.”
“Is that right?” So Anita hadn’t beaten him, after all. “Then I’m very flattered.” He picked up one of the roses, handed it to her. “And I hope you’ll enjoy the evening.”
She did. A great deal.
The restaurant he’d chosen was quiet, with soft lighting and discreet service. Discreet enough that the waiter hadn’t blinked when she’d picked her way through the menu, ordering a salad, without dressing, and requested her fish be broiled without butter and served without the accompanying sauce.
Because he’d ordered a bottle of wine, she accepted a glass. She rarely drank. She’d read several articles on how alcohol destroyed brain cells. Of course, a glass of red wine was supposed to counteract that by being good for your heart.
But the wine was so soft, and he managed to put her so completely at ease, that she never noticed how often her glass was topped off.
“It’s so interesting that you live in Cobh,” she said. “Another tie to the Lusitania. ”
“And indirectly to you.”
“Well, my great-great-grandparents were brought back here for burial. But I suppose, like so many of the others, they were taken to Cobh, or Queenstown then. It was foolish, really, for those people to make that crossing during wartime. Such an unnecessary risk.”
“We never know what another considers necessary, or a risk, do we? Or why some lived and some died. My ancestor wasn’t from Ireland, you know.”
She nearly missed what he was saying. When he smiled at her, just that way—slow and intimate—his eyes seemed impossibly green. “He wasn’t?”
“No, indeed. He was born in England, but lived most of his life here in New York.”
“Really?”
“After the tragedy, he was nursed back to health by a young woman who was to become his wife. It’s said the experience changed him. Word is, he was a bit of a loose cannon before it happened. In any case, his story’s been passed down through the family. It seems he was interested in a certain item he’d heard was in England. Seeing as you’re an expert on Greek myths, you might have heard of it. The Silver Fates.”
Struck, she set down her fork. “Do you mean the statues?”
His pulse jumped, but he nodded easily. “I do, yes.”
“Not The Silver Fates. The Three Fates. Three separate statues, not one, though they can be linked by the bases.”
“Ah well, stories take on a life of their own, don’t they, over generations.” He cut another bite of his beef. “Three pieces, then. You know of them?”
“I certainly do. Henry Wyley owned one, and it went down with the Lusitania. According to his journal, he was going to England to buy the second of the set and to, hopefully, follow a lead on finding the third. It seemed so interesting to me as a child to think that he’d essentially died for those pieces that I looked up the Fates.”
He waited a beat. “What did you find?”
“Oh, about the statues, next to nothing. In fact, it’s most commonly believed they don’t really exist. For all I know Henry had something else entirely.” She moved her shoulders. “But I found out about the Fates of mythology, and kept reading. The more I read, the more fascinated I was by the gods,