Fairytale Come Alive

Chapter Three Ginger Snaps

Isabella

Isabella sat next to Prentice the next morning as he drove them toward Fergus’s home after they’d dropped the children off at school.

She had carefully missed the pre-school preparations, although she heard them because she’d opened her door so she could. Mostly Sally’s ceaseless chatter but also Jason’s low mumbles and Prentice’s deep rumbly commands. It sounded manic but fun.

She’d come down at what she’d hoped was the last minute (and she’d been correct) and did her best to be cool and detached from Sally and failed miserably. She couldn’t be cool and detached from the sweet, high-spirited, brown-eyed, brown-haired girl who looked startlingly like Fiona, a fact which had to be both heartbreaking and easing for Prentice.

Then she’d asked for a ride to Fergus’s to which Prentice agreed.

While on their way to school, Sally asked approximately one thousand questions about what “Mrs. Evangahlala” was making for dinner that night give or take a question or two. Then she’d stood at Isabella’s door of Prentice’s Range Rover, slapping it and waving madly until Isabella smiled and waved back. Only then did she turn and run toward the school.

Now, Isabella had her hands clenched tightly in fists, feeling the calming pain, her eyes looking out the window.

“This is the last time you’ll have to do this. I’ve a rental car being delivered today,” she told him.

“Aye,” he replied shortly.

Isabella forged ahead in her attempt to be polite. “I know Annie has a goodly number of guests coming this week but I’ll call around to some B&Bs and –”

He cut her off, “I wouldn’t do that.”

Isabella persevered, “Maybe there’s a cancellation or –”

Without taking his eyes from the road, he interrupted her again, “Don’t do it, Isabella.”

She found this vaguely surprising. He’d made it perfectly clear he didn’t want her in his home. He’d made it infinitely clear he didn’t want her around his children. Why wouldn’t he want her to find alternate accommodation?

“It’s no bother,” she went on. “They have cancellations all the time, I’m sure something will come up.

He glanced swiftly at her then back to the road. “Likely, aye.”

“So, I’ll make some calls.”

“No, you won’t.”

She turned and looked at him.

Age, she thought, had not been kind to him.

It had been generous.

How he could be more beautiful now than when they’d been together when she thought he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen (because he was) was a cruel twist of fate.

He still wore his thick hair (which she described to her girlfriends at Northwestern as “exactly two shades lighter than the darkest, dark brown”) a little long. Sun and laughter had given him attractive lines radiating from the sides of his eyes. His jaw had lost none of its sharp angularity, nor had his cheekbones. His eyes were the same unusually beautiful every-color as they’d always been. Even his body had become better; he was bigger, more muscular, more powerfully-built.

She took her thoughts off her latest cruel twist of fate and stated, “I don’t understand.”

“You’re no’ unknown around here,” Prentice said by way of explanation.

She was not unknown everywhere thanks to Laurent and her father and, well, freaking Laurent (the jerk).

“I’m used to that,” Isabella explained softly.

“Aye, I’m sure you are. Perhaps I should have said you’re no’ liked around here.”

Silently, Isabella pulled in breath. She hadn’t expected that.

She should have, especially after what Debs said the day before, not to mention what Prentice had said, both of these instances scoring at her heart.

Luckily, her heart had been lacerated beyond feeling much of anything anymore so she didn’t feel like tossing herself off the nearest cliff, of which there were a fair few around here.

But still, she hadn’t anticipated that.

Once upon a time (in other words, twenty years ago), Prentice’s village was the only safe haven Isabella had known in her life.

Now, it was a place where she was reviled.

She tightened her fists further and looked out the window, murmuring, “I won’t make the calls.”

“Aye, smart,” he muttered and she got the impression he was barely listening to her.

Which he probably wasn’t.

She stayed silent until he stopped in front of Fergus’s house. She didn’t look at him when she expressed her gratitude for the ride and put her hand to the door.

“Isabella,” he called, she stopped and turned to him.

He was holding up a key.

“To the house,” he said, dropping it in her palm when she lifted her hand for the key.

His eyes started to move away but all of a sudden they jerked back, slightly narrowed and focused on her palm.

Instantly, her hand closed over the key.

“I’ve decided I’ll make dinner and then I’ll explain to the children that I have a raging headache,” she blurted, wanting to divert his attention as his still narrowed gaze followed her closed hand.

His eyes shot to hers, his mouth was tight and he looked very angry.

“Why in the fuck would you do that?” he bit out, his voice proving she was so, very correct about him being so, very angry.

“Um –” Isabella’s mind went blank at his anger.

She remembered a great deal about him (in fact, pretty much everything) but she’d never seen him angry (well, not this angry). She didn’t know what to say, she didn’t even know if she could speak.

Then she remembered what to say.

“So I can leave you to dinner and get to my rooms.”

His head gave a small jerk and he looked over her shoulder, probably, she decided, to gain control.

Then his eyes met hers.

“Their mother died of a brain tumor,” he told her and it sounded like those words were dredged straight out of the depth of some hole inside of him that was too deep to measure.

“I know,” Isabella whispered. “Annie told me.”

“It started with headaches.”

Isabella automatically made a noise as if someone very strong had pressed the breath right out of her lungs.

She was going to cry.

She was going to cry.

Oh no.

No, no, no no, no!

She couldn’t cry!

Her hands fisted, the key bit into her palm, the pain shot through her and she didn’t cry.

Instead, she said, “I’m an idiot.”

He turned away, putting one of his hands back to the steering wheel, the other to the clutch.

“I’ll come up with something else, I promise,” she blathered on.

Only his head turned so he could look at her.

“Food poisoning!” she cried, sounding both stupid and desperate.

“I’m not sure food poisoning is good, Isabella, considering you’ll be cooking.”

Yes, stupid.

Yes, an idiot.

Yes, desperate.

Triple threat!

“Oh, right,” Isabella muttered but he’d already turned back away.

Isabella opened her door, promising again (under her breath this time), “Well, I’ll think of something.”

She barely got the door closed when he drove away.

She stood in the drive watching his SUV thinking she hated pretty much everything about her life, but the thing she hated most at that particular moment was hearing Prentice address her as “Isabella”.

Then she turned and walked up to Fergus’s house.

Fiona

“Flapjacks!” Annie shouted from down the grocery aisle, she was holding up a box of flapjacks in each hand and waving them around. “Kids love flapjacks!”

“I’m not stocking their larder, Annie, I’m making them dinner,” Isabella called back.

“Nothing wrong with stocking that hot guy’s larder, you hear what I’m saying?” Mikey muttered, staring with curiosity at the jam selection.

“Don’t go there,” Isabella warned softly.

“Time heals all wounds,” Mikey was still muttering and his eyes had gone narrow.

Fiona watched closely as Isabella allowed herself an open reaction, considering Mikey was staring at the jams and Annie was tossing flapjacks into the cart Isabella was pushing.

Sorrow.

Unadulterated.

Then she masked it.

No, Fiona thought, time did not heal all wounds.

“Where’s the grape jelly?” Mikey asked the jam selection.

“They don’t have grape jelly here,” Annie explained.

“That’s un-American!” Mikey shrieked, his head turning to Isabella and Annie.

“Well, yeah, considering we aren’t in America,” Annie drawled.

“Kids love grape jelly,” Mikey said with authority.

“American kids like grape jelly, Scottish kids like, I don’t know, marmite,” Annie replied as Isabella pushed the cart forward.

“Marmite?” Mikey asked then pulled an exaggerated horrified face.

Lime marmalade! Fiona shouted her children’s preference.

“Lime marmalade,” Isabella said instantly and Fiona was so shocked she accidentally floated straight through Mikey causing him to shiver.

She hated floating through people and avoided it at all costs, she didn’t feel anything physically, just emotionally, but it made her sadder than her normal sad at being dead when the only thing she could make people feel was cold.

“Cat walked over my grave,” he whispered, doing another shiver just for effect as Isabella grabbed a jar of lime marmalade. Then she grabbed another one.

“I hate lime marmalade, too sweet,” Annie mumbled.

“It’s fruit and sugar and fruit is sugar so there’s no way for it not to be sweet,” Mikey hilariously explained.

No matter how funny he was being, and Fiona had decided she liked Mikey, Fiona wasn’t listening.

She floated close to Isabella and asked, Can you hear me?

“So, I’m thinking chicken strips, fries and some kind of vegetable,” Isabella, clearly not hearing Fiona’s voice from beyond the grave, stated. “What kind of vegetable?”

Peas, Fiona told her.

“Broccoli?” Annie asked.

“I don’t think so. Forget the veggies, kids hate veggies,” Mikey advised and Fiona forgot she liked him and gave him a dirty look.

For the past year, one month, three weeks and five days (and then some, considering she was super sick before she died but her Mum had helped with the cooking then), Prentice hadn’t been great on the nutrition front.

Her kids needed their veg.

“How about green beans?” Annie asked.

Peas! Fiona shouted at Isabella.

“Peas,” Isabella said and Fiona stopped floating along with them, her shock and excitement was too profound.

Good God, could the woman hear her?

She was stunned motionless for so long she had to float up and over the shelves to catch them up on the other side.

“What are you making for dessert?” Mikey asked when Fiona arrived.

“No dessert. I don’t want Prentice to think I’m trying to make them like me,” Isabella answered.

Fiona closed her ghostly eyes.

Yesterday, after her beloved husband told off his hated ex-fiancée, Fiona had wished she could kiss him (not for the first time).

Today, she wished she could kick him (also not for the first time, however, it had been the first time since she’d died).

“You make a mean hot fudge sundae,” Annie said to Isabella.

Sally would love an American hot fudge sundae, Fiona told her excitedly. And Jason’s favorite food in the world is clotted cream ice cream. Make that!

“No dessert,” Isabella said softly but firmly in her weird authoritative voice.

Annie halted, Mikey halted with her and both of them glared at Isabella, Mikey adding a cross of the arms on his chest which made his glare far more effective.

“Okay, Debs was out-of-control yesterday. You shouldn’t be surprised about that, Debs was always out-of-control,” Annie stated. “And Prentice got upset with you but you shouldn’t be surprised about that either. First, you dumped him and never explained, which, I will repeat, for the five thousandth time, you should have. Or you should have let me explain it to him and Dougal and Debs and everybody. Something, which I will remind you, you refused to let me do, about… oh, I don’t know? Five thousand times. Or you should have let Dad say something which he’s been wanting to do for years. And last, Prentice lost his wife and he’s on edge. He’s taking care of two kids, running his own firm, his best friend is blissfully happy and his ex-girlfriend is sleeping under his roof.”

“And who arranged that?” Isabella returned coolly and Fiona, floating beside her, nodded in invisible agreement because, especially for Annie, that was underhanded.

Though, Fiona was curious to know what there was to explain and why Isabella wouldn’t let Annie or Fergus do it.

Annie had the good manners to blush.

“I want all the people I love to get along,” she said quietly and Fiona lost her pique.

So did Isabella.

Even so, Isabella walked around the cart to her friend and grabbed Annie’s hand. “First, I think you know why I’ve never explained or let you explain.”

“I know why,” Annie returned. “I just don’t agree.”

“I don’t either,” Mikey put in.

Fiona floated closer.

“I know you both don’t agree,” Isabella replied. “But I believe, deeply, it’s better this way and I’ll ask, again, that you respect my wishes.”

Neither Mikey nor Annie looked happy about this but they didn’t respond.

Isabella continued, “And, I’m sorry Annie, but Prentice doesn’t have to like me. He doesn’t even have to get along with me. He has to put up with for me for one week. Then, sweetie, I’m gone. Don’t put this pressure on him, he’s got enough on his plate. Just let me...” Isabella stopped, her eyes got big, her usually remote face filled with pleasure, making her beauty radiant as it had been the day before when she’d smiled at Fergus then she practically did a small jump in her high-heeled, fancy, posh, brown boots and cried, “I’ve got it!”

Fiona stared, even Isabella’s soft voice had raised with excitement.

“Got what?” Mikey asked, staring at her avidly, a small grin on his lips. The look on his face and the attention he was giving his friend told Fiona he didn’t often see her like this and he was intent on enjoying it on the rare occasions she showed it.

But Isabella had raced back to the handle on the shopping cart and was pushing it with renewed vim and vigor, like she had a new lease on life.

“The food for the kids and Prentice won’t be from me,” she announced, her eyes searching the shelves, her hands reaching for a variety of biscuits and she studied them. “The sundaes won’t even be from me. I’ll tell Prentice that Annie went shopping with me and I’ll tell him Annie bought it.” She stopped studying the biscuits and looked gleefully at the stunned Annie and Mikey. “He’ll never know!” When she finished, she was almost shouting.

It was so perfect, Fiona nearly laughed.

Instead she shouted as loud (which was silent) as she could, Chocolate fingers and custard creams!

“Chocolate fingers and custard creams,” Isabella murmured, Fiona just stopped herself from doing a happy, floaty cartwheel that somehow, on some plane, Isabella Austin Evangelista could hear her and Isabella put down the biscuits she had and reached for Jason and Sally’s favorites. “And ginger snaps for Prentice,” she whispered.

Fiona closed her ghostly eyes.

She remembered Prentice loved ginger snaps.

Fiona wanted to hate her but what woman who carried around pictures of a man she had to love with all her heart in a secret compartment of her luggage and wore his ring hidden around her neck and remembered for twenty years that he liked ginger snaps could be hated?

Not to mention that Fiona had caught her opening her door so she could hear the morning pandemonium in the great room.

Really?

Even his dead ghost wife who seriously wanted to think she was a deceitful bitch couldn’t hate her.

And anyway, she was finding excuses to put food in the house and giving Fiona’s children peas.

Fiona, too, had to put up with Isabella Evangahlala (Fiona cracked up every time Sally called her that) for a week and if she put good food in her children’s bellies and lime marmalade in the cupboard and ginger snaps in the cookie jar, she figured that would be a lot easier to do.

Clotted cream ice cream! Fiona screamed

Isabella shoved the cart forward, mumbling, “Clotted cream ice cream.”

Isabella

Isabella was in her rooms in Prentice’s house when she heard Prentice and the kids come home.

She’d been there for a few hours, feigning jetlag after they’d dropped off the food and went back into town to do some shopping.

However, shopping in the village became not so fun when Isabella ran into a dozen people she knew and most of them acted like they didn’t see her, the others like they didn’t know her and one stared at her like she was singlehandedly responsible for famine in Africa.

Even though Annie had set aside that day to spend with her and Mikey before the onslaught of celebrations, both her friends saw the villagers’ behavior and they didn’t demur when Isabella lied and said she needed to rest.

Being in Prentice’s house without Prentice and the children and with time on her hands meant Isabella did something she knew she shouldn’t.

But she couldn’t help it.

She’d given herself a tour of his house.

Annie had told her that Prentice had left the firm he’d worked for five years ago and started his own. He had five employees and enough work that it was steady, busy and his family was comfortable.

He’d also designed this house.

And it was extraordinary.

The great room with its huge wall of windows, the large, rectangular gleaming dining table at the foot of the stairs, state-of-the-art kitchen with stainless steel appliances and an enormous American refrigerator was, in itself, phenomenal. The blond wood, open-backed (and sided) wide stairwell, the steps that seemed (because they were) suspended in midair was unusual and amazing. The upper floor fed off the side into the cliff that rose beside of the house, four bedrooms (one which was a playroom-slash-music room) and a full bath with the kids’ rooms having their own jack and jill bathroom. The master suite (which Isabella very quickly dashed through even though she really, really shouldn’t have) had a sitting room, bedroom, walk-in closet and bathroom with sunken tub.

Isabella noted that Fiona’s clothes and belongings were no longer in the room and, even though that made her heart contract, she was glad that Prentice had moved beyond what she suspected was a very difficult stage of the grieving process.

On her side of the house there was a study (obviously Prentice’s), a television room with a big, comfy sectional couch (there was no TV in the great room, or any other room in the house for that matter), a half bath, a large storage area and a mudroom-slash-laundry room.

There were balconies that faced the sea leading from the great room, Prentice’s bedroom and even a small private one in her rooms.

The rooms were huge, airy and full of windows. The blond wood floors, timber sashes and skirting boards were gorgeous. The unusual lines of the ceilings and quirky touches were extraordinary.

The entire house was magnificent.

It wasn’t decorated to Isabella’s taste (obviously). Isabella liked no mess, no clutter, clean lines.

But this was a family home stuffed full with books, picture frames and proudly displayed but poorly crafted children’s art. The fridge was covered in bits and pieces. The mudroom was filled with coats and boots and dirty laundry.

Even so, there was a flair to it that reminded Isabella of Fiona. It was comfortably appointed but decorated with a hint of fun and playfulness with bold and bright colors that would only be used by a woman who was confident in herself and her taste.

Exactly the opposite of Isabella who had hired a decorator to decorate her apartment and had very little hand in the choosing of anything, fabrics, colors, draperies, she didn’t care. She didn’t really even see it.

Her home was the place where she existed just as her life was simply an existence.

Once she’d finished her tour and dinner chores, she’d retreated to her rooms.

Now, to her surprise, she heard scrambling feet coming close and Prentice’s voice calling sharply, “Sally!”

The scrambling feet sounded on the stairs and Isabella whirled to the door she hadn’t closed.

She’d just finished doing yoga.

She’d asked her doctor to titrate her off the anti-depressants she’d been taking for years. He hadn’t wanted to but she didn’t want to be zoned out when Annie finally had her dream come true.

In fact, she figured she’d been zoned out long enough.

She’d taken her last pill two days before.

Isabella felt (and convinced her doctor) that she could deal with the dark thoughts and she’d created a variety of mechanisms to help her do it.

She had her journals.

She kept things ordered and tidy around her.

She used aromatherapy to help her sleep and other times besides, like now when she practiced yoga.

Before leaving the village that day, she’d bought four fantastic, homemade candles from Fern Goodacre’s cute little shop. One was in the sitting room, currently burning a calming scent of lavender, one was in the bedroom and two were in the wardrobe for use by the next guests, a small present for Prentice that he probably wouldn’t notice and didn’t have to enjoy himself.

She was wearing her roll-top, wide-legged, charcoal gray yoga pants and a plum colored, shelf-bra camisole. Her feet were bare and her hair was pulled in a messy knot secured by a ponytail holder on the top of her head.

Isabella was not in “company clothes” as her father called them and also demanded that she wear them at all times when “in company” which was, unless she was alone, pretty much all the time.

She had no choice. Before she could move, Sally burst through the door still wearing her school uniform with her pink and purple rucksack strapped to her back.

“We’re home!” she shouted as if Isabella was at the other side of the house not right in front of her.

Isabella couldn’t help herself, she smiled.

“I see that, honey.”

Sally took in all that was Isabella and the room including the yoga mat on the floor before she asked, “Whatcha doin’?”

Isabella leaned down to pick up the mat and started rolling it up when she heard adult footsteps on the stairs.

Her heart skipped a beat.

“Yoga,” Isabella replied, her hands moving quickly on the mat, unsure of Prentice’s response to Sally’s impromptu visit and wanting to be prepared.

Sally lost interest in her answer and danced to the candle.

“What’s this?” she breathed, getting close and staring at it as if she’d never seen a candle before in her life.

Isabella forgot to concentrate on the sounds of someone approaching and took a wide step toward Sally, putting a hand to her shoulder and gently moving her away.

“Careful, sweetheart, that’s an open flame.”

Sally beamed up at her.

My, but she’s a gorgeous child, Isabella thought, her brain erasing of everything else.

She’d wanted children, badly. She could have borne dozens of them. She wanted a wild, happy house filled with photo frames of family snapshots and poorly crafted children’s art projects.

Unfortunately, she’d found she couldn’t have them. After years of heartbreaking tests, treatments and procedures she’d learned it was a complete impossibility.

It was also one of the myriad reasons Laurent replaced her, the other mostly had to do with the fact that he was a jerk.

“It smells pretty, like flowers,” Sally commented.

“That’s what it’s supposed to smell like.”

“How do they do that?” Sally asked and Isabella set the mat aside and crouched next to the child.

“They mix special oils with wax when it’s hot and liquid, like the top of that one.” She used her head to indicate the candle. “Then they pour it in and voila!” She threw her hands out and shook her fingers.

Sally giggled and asked, “Are they magical oils?”

Isabella moved the child’s long hair off her shoulder and replied, “Well, yes, I guess so, since they’re from nature and nature’s magical.”

Sally wrinkled her nose. “Nature’s not magical. It’s nature.”

Isabella leaned in close. “Then you haven’t seen a fabulous sunset or an apple tree in bloom or a Japanese oak in Autumn. I’d say all of those are magical.”

“To be magic, there has to be pixie dust,” Sally declared with authority.

Isabella smiled at her. “I think you got me there.”

“Sally,” a deep voice said behind them and they both jumped and turned to see Prentice standing inside the door.

“Mrs. Evangahlala has magic candles!” Sally cried.

Prentice’s eyes moved to Isabella and she held her breath as she slowly straightened. He watched her do this and then his gaze roamed down her body then up and over her hair.

Then, for some reason, his mouth got tight and his eyes moved back to his daughter.

“Sally, go put away your rucksack.”

“Okay,” she agreed happily then turned to Isabella. “Are you cooking dinner?”

Isabella kept her eyes firm on Sally when she answered, “Yes.”

“Can I help?”

Oh dear, what did she do with that?

She just stopped herself from biting her lip before saying, “I don’t think so, sweetheart. It mostly involves the stove and oven and that’s probably not safe.”

Sally’s face fell.

Instantly, Isabella felt like a screaming bitch.

“Maybe you can scoop out the ice cream for dessert,” she offered.

“We’re having pudding?”Sally screeched and her effervescence so surprised and charmed Isabella that she couldn’t stop herself from laughing.

“Yes, honey, you’re having pudding,” Isabella replied and stopped, glanced apprehensively at Prentice then back at Sally. “If it’s okay with your Dad.”

Sally whirled to her father. “Can we have pudding? Can we, can we, can we?”

“Books in your room,” Prentice answered. “We’ll talk about pudding later.”

Sally beamed then leaned toward Isabella and confided in a (very) loud whisper, “Daddy’d have said no right away if we weren’t having pudding.”

Isabella chuckled and then, all of a sudden, Sally threw her arms around Isabella’s legs.

She froze.

It had been a long time since anyone had touched her with spontaneous affection and she didn’t know if she’d ever, in her life, been hugged by a child.

It felt good.

Really good.

Lost in Sally, Isabella’s hand lifted and she lightly stroked the girl’s soft, beautiful hair.

Sally threw her head back, gave Isabella a sunny smile then dashed from the room.

Isabella watched her then her eyes moved to Prentice.

He looked ready to commit murder.

Oh dear again.

Before he could blow, Isabella spoke, “I need a word. Can you close the door?”

Prentice didn’t hesitate; by all appearances he needed a word too.

Or maybe several of them.

When the door clicked and he turned, Isabella quickly launched in, “The sundaes are Annie’s idea. So is all the food in your kitchen. She went shopping with me and got a little carried away.”

Prentice just stared at her but she was pleased to see he didn’t look like he wanted to strangle her anymore.

“She’s prone to doing that,” Isabella went on.

Prentice continued staring at her then he said on a sigh, “Aye, she is.”

Isabella couldn’t help it, it looked like she was getting away with it and she allowed herself a small smile.

Prentice’s eyes narrowed on her mouth.

She stopped smiling.

Then she started talking. “I’ll make dinner and then come up here. I’ll tell the kids I have jetlag or something. The hot fudge is already made, in the covered pot on the stove, you just have to heat it up and pour it over the ice cream. There’s whipped cream and cherries and I chopped up some nuts…” She hesitated when his face changed in a way she couldn’t read but she valiantly forged ahead mostly in order to get this over with, “If they like that kind of thing.” She paused again and he remained silent. “Nuts, that is.” More silence. “Kind of the All-American sundae.”

“When are you going to eat?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“You said you’d make dinner and come up here. When are you going to eat?”

“I’ll bring something up with me.” Then she wondered if he wouldn’t like that, these were nice rooms, clean and tidy, maybe he didn’t want food up there. “If that’s okay.”

Then he said something completely bizarre.

“So it’s the martyr.”

She was so stunned, she couldn’t control her reaction and she blinked.

“Pardon?” she repeated.

“Your game this time. The martyr.”

It felt like he slapped her and reflexively her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“I’m not playing the martyr,” Isabella denied softly.

“You had no dinner last night, no breakfast this morning, unless you had something at Fergus’s. You’re behaving like you’re chained to these rooms.”

“You told me you wanted me to spend my time in your house…” she lifted her hand and flicked it out, “in here.”

“I believe I said ‘as often as possible’, not every fucking minute.”

“Isn’t ‘as often as possible’ pretty much the same as ‘every fucking minute’?” Isabella asked, genuinely perplexed.

“Don’t play word games with me, Isabella. I have a university degree. I own a business, a home. I know the fucking English language.”

There it was again, the non-physical slap.

There was one thing Isabella Austin Evangelista knew how to do. She knew how to retreat from anger.

Therefore, she whispered, “All right, Prentice.”

His brows drew together over angry eyes and he stared at her. She calmly held his stare and her breath.

Then Prentice murmured, “Christ, it’s like I’ve never met you.”

She wasn’t surprised at his reaction. Twenty years ago their relationship hadn’t been totally perfect.

What it had been was passionate.

They’d fought and they’d been good at it.

Back then, she would never have backed down. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her with his anger. How she knew this, she didn’t understand, in the beginning.

Later, she would realize it was love.

Therefore, she felt safe fighting with him.

Isabella wanted to tell him that he hadn’t ever met her. She wanted to tell him that the girl he knew never really existed.

He’d created her.

Well, Annie did by asking her to spend that first summer in Scotland.

But Prentice had breathed life in her.

This was the real Isabella.

Instead, she remained silent.

They continued to stare at each other.

Then he looked away, opening the door, muttering, “Eat dinner downstairs, up here, I don’t give a fuck.”

She watched him walk down the stairs and turn on the landing, out of sight.

Then she started breathing again.

Then she wondered if maybe her doctor had been right and she really shouldn’t have stopped taking her medication.

Then she turned, picked up her yoga mat and blew out the candle.