Fairytale Come Alive

Chapter Five The Picnic

Prentice

Prentice opened his eyes to see the late September sun shining through the windows that made up one wall of his bedroom.

He stared through the windows.

Then his eyes cut to the alarm clock.

He leaned toward the clock; saw the alarm which was never turned off had, somehow, been turned off.

He’d slept in.

“Shit,” he muttered, throwing back the covers and knifing out of bed.

He needed to get the children up, fed, showered, dressed and he needed to get some work done before the picnic.

Not to mention he needed to do laundry or the children wouldn’t have any clothes to wear to the picnic.

He walked out the door to his rooms and stopped dead.

He heard Sally’s chatter then he heard Jason’s low mumble then he heard Isabella’s laughter, not wild and uninhibited but softer, more controlled and also clearly genuine.

He felt something settle in his gut at hearing those sounds in his home and that something, to his surprise, was not unpleasant.

Regardless, this annoyed him.

He strode to the stairs and surveyed the scene in the great room as he walked down.

Sally and Jason, both still in pajamas, were sitting at stools at the counter, their backs to him and they appeared to be eating.

Isabella was at the stove and, as Prentice made his way down the stairs, she turned, skillet in one hand, spatula in the other.

She caught his movement and did a little stutter step, stopped dead and stared up at him with her lips parted.

From the depths of his memory, he recalled that stutter step. She was grace personified but when she’d get surprised, become uncertain or was overwhelmed by her own enthusiasm, she could be clumsy.

Back then, Prentice found it adorable.

It was no less adorable now.

Fucking hell, he thought.

“Daddy!” Sally shouted, obviously following Isabella’s gaze. “Mrs. Evangahlala made us nanola pancakes!”

“Gra-nola,” Jason corrected, looking and sounding not surly and exhausted as he usually did the morning after an episode but instead rested and more like his normal self than he’d been in well over a year.

Sally looked at her brother and repeated, “Na-nola.”

“Gra-nola,” Jason reiterated.

“That’s what I said,” Sally retorted impatiently. “Na-nola.”

Jason’s gaze slid to Isabella and he muttered, “See? Mental.”

Isabella smiled a dazzling smile at Jason. A smile which, upon seeing it, Prentice also felt in his gut and that wasn’t unpleasant either which further annoyed him. Then she slid what appeared to be an enormous, perfect, golden pancake out of the skillet and onto Jason’s plate.

Prentice stopped at the side of the counter and studied the pancake. Jason was wasting no time buttering and pouring golden syrup on it. And Prentice was right, the pancake looked perfect.

Prentice turned his study to Isabella.

Her hair was up in another messy knot but one long, thick tendril had fallen out of the knot and was curling along her neck, down past her collarbone to rest against the skin of her chest.

She was wearing a satin dressing gown much the same color as the track pants she wore yesterday. It was cut in a man’s style but came down only to the tops of her thighs. It was tied at the waist but the front had come open, wide and gaping, to expose a black lace nightie.

The nightie fit her like a glove, with lace scallops tantalizingly edging the swells of her breasts. Her cleavage itself, although there wasn’t much exposed, was even more tantalizing.

He couldn’t see the hem of the nightie under the dressing gown which meant it had to be shorter than the gown.

A mental picture formed of what Isabella’s nightie looked like without the dressing gown and his body had another physical reaction, not in his gut, it was elsewhere and it, too, was far from unpleasant.

And it was intense.

“I want another one!” Sally shouted, luckily erasing Prentice’s mental picture of Isabella in a short, tight, black lace nightie.

“You’ve already had two, sweetheart,” Isabella responded.

Sally grinned. “I know but they’re yummy and I want another one.”

“Why don’t you let Mrs. Evangelista have one,” Jason emphasized the proper pronunciation of Isabella’s name and then went on, “And, maybe Dad might want one too.”

Prentice watched his daughter give his son a hilarious, wrinkled-nose “go-to-hell” look.

Prentice watched his son roll his eyes at Sally’s hilarious, wrinkled-nose “go-to-hell” look.

Prentice nearly laughed at their interplay, something he had done very rarely in the last year because they’d very rarely done anything to laugh about or, more accurately, Jason hadn’t.

“Give it time and let those settle in your belly, Sally,” Isabella advised softly as she turned back to the stove. “You don’t want to be overfull for the picnic.”

“Okay,” Sally agreed readily which was also surprisingly.

Prentice watched Isabella walk to the stove, his eyes captivated by her ass swaying beneath the satin then captivated by her long, tan legs moving gracefully through his kitchen.

She turned when she’d made it to the stove and her hands came up to pull her robe tightly closed. “Would you like pancakes, Prentice?”

His eyes snapped to her face.

It was not open and engaging as she looked at his children. It was cool and remote.

“Please,” he replied and walked to the coffee.

The pot was mostly full.

Fiona always made the coffee and his wife made great coffee. Prentice’s coffee, as was his cooking, was crap.

When Fiona was sick and after she was gone, nearly every morning Prentice had to make the coffee except for the mornings his mother, Fiona’s mother, Debs or Morag were there which, at his request, in order to try and get the children back to a different kind of normalcy once Fiona died, his family hadn’t been coming around to help for months.

It had been a long time. He hadn’t woken to a pot of coffee since…

Prentice didn’t finish his thought as that feeling intensified in his gut.

Fucking hell, he thought again.

He poured himself a cup while Isabella slid butter into the hot skillet which melted immediately. He watched while she poured batter on the butter and saw her coffee cup was sitting by the stove, the cup mostly full as the pot had been.

She’d been so busy feeding his children; she hadn’t had time for a cup of coffee.

Fucking hell, he thought yet again.

Sally chattered, Jason ate, Isabella concentrated on his pancake and Sally’s blather and Prentice felt, like last night, that she’d forgotten he was even there.

For reasons unknown to Prentice but likely because he found her new game immensely irritating and he decided instantly he too could play a game, he walked to the side of the stove, close to where Isabella was working. Turning his back to the counter, he rested his hips against it and sipped his coffee.

The coffee was fucking heavenly.

Christ.

“Will you give me a manicure before the picnic?” Sally asked Isabella.

Prentice turned to look at her and saw, to his surprise, that Isabella was fidgeting. Moving the handle of the skillet this way and that, she was twirling the spatula in her other hand in an absentminded way. Her eyes, however, were not on the skillet; they were on the counter behind Prentice.

“I can’t, Sally,” she answered the counter. “After breakfast, I’ve got to get to Annie’s to help with the picnic.”

“Can I go?” Sally yelled. “Can I, can I, can I?”

Isabella didn’t respond.

She stepped around him then halted in a jerky way. She tipped her head to the side, surveyed the counter, sighed, then tilted it back and looked at him.

Her face a mask of good manners, she said softly, “I’m sorry, Prentice, do you mind? You’re standing in front of the granola.”

He examined her makeup free face and, even with that detached expression he thought, since she’d been back, she’d never looked lovelier.

Feeling the need to be perverse, instead of moving out of her way, as she clearly wanted him to do, he twisted, grabbed the bowl of granola he was blocking, twisted back and handed it to her.

She took it.

“Thank you,” she said quietly and politely.

She moved to the stove and used a graceful hand to sprinkle granola on the pancake before she set the bowl aside, in the opposite direction to Prentice, and flipped it expertly.

Prentice watched her do this like it was fascinating which, bizarrely, it was.

“Well?” Sally shouted.

Prentice stopped watching Isabella’s hand and looked at his daughter.

“Can I go too?” Jason asked quietly, his eyes on the tiled floor of the kitchen.

Prentice froze at this request from his son who hadn’t been willing to participate in much of anything since his mother died.

Strangely, he felt Isabella freeze at his side too. Slowly, she turned and looked at Jason. Her profile was not polite and detached. It was soft and warm and unbelievably striking.

Again, Prentice felt that weight hit his gut.

Then her head twisted, her features rearranged swiftly back to aloof and she looked up at Prentice enquiringly.

“Sorry kids, you need clean clothes and I need to do laundry,” Prentice answered.

“No you don’t,” Sally proclaimed. “Mrs. Evangahlala and I’ve been doing laundry all morning.”

Prentice’s body turned to stone.

All except his eyes which narrowed and sliced to Isabella.

Instantly, Isabella whirled to the stove and started to fidget with the skillet on the burner.

“We’ve done two loads!” Sally announced triumphantly.

“You’ve been very busy,” Prentice murmured and he watched Isabella’s body get stiff, her hands fisted tightly and she moved to a cupboard. Unfisting her hands with visible effort which Prentice found peculiar and vaguely disturbing, she pulled down a plate, got cutlery, slid the pancake on the plate and handed it all to Prentice.

“The butter and syrup are on the counter,” she informed him softly, tipped her head to the counter and then immediately dismissed him and moved away.

Prentice put his coffee cup down next to Isabella’s, walked to the other counter and, while he prepared his golden, fluffy, delicious-looking pancake, he said to his children, “We’ll all go.”

Sally threw her hands up so fast she nearly teetered off the stool as she shouted, “Hurrah!”

Prentice smiled at his daughter.

He’d hoped that Annie and Dougal’s wedding would bring some happiness to his family, cutting through the undercurrent of despair Jason was always emanating that Prentice, for the life of him, had no idea how to chase away, likely because he couldn’t cut through his own.

It appeared this was working, even for Jason.

Regrettably, Isabella was the catalyst for it.

But Prentice would take what he could get.

Including her doing the laundry which was a chore he detested, something else Fiona did. And her brewing fucking heavenly coffee.

Prentice decided if Isabella wanted to play house and that came with good food and clean clothes, he’d fucking well let her.

Once he’d finished with the butter and syrup, he walked back across the kitchen and resumed his position next to Isabella while she cooked another pancake.

He thought, but wasn’t sure, he heard her suck in an exasperated breath.

This pleased him.

Then he tasted his pancake. It was superb.

He trained his eyes on his children. “If you’re done, dishes in the sink, beds made, showers, let’s go.”

Jason slouched off the stool and slunk to the sink, carrying his plate. Sally followed him doing the same but with much more enthusiasm.

Jason headed up the stairs.

Isabella gracefully strolled across the kitchen and took Sally’s plate from her.

“When are you going to give me a manicure?” Sally asked as Isabella turned to the sink and deposited Sally’s plate in it.

“We’ll find some time, honey.”

“Can we do it before the picnic?” Sally pushed.

“Sally,” Prentice warned but Isabella’s hand had lifted and she grabbed a thick hank of Sally’s hair and started twisting it gently around her finger.

She leaned down and smiled at his daughter, getting close to her face, this, unfortunately, gave Prentice an indication of just how short her nightie was as her dressing gown rode up and he saw more of her shapely thigh but he still didn’t catch a glimpse of the nightie.

Isabella spoke softly, taking his mind off her thigh (and ass and nightie).

“We’ll see, Sally. Do as your father said now. Okay?”

Prentice’s daughter knew that no’s came swiftly and maybes usually meant yes. Therefore she beamed at Isabella, nodded, turned and raced up the stairs.

Prentice finished his pancake while Isabella cooked the next one, alternately tidying the kitchen.

When it was done, she wordlessly slid it on his plate as if he was a statue holding a platter to display her glorious pancake. She switched the stove off and slid the skillet to another burner.

“Aren’t you having one?” he asked as he walked back to the counter for the butter and syrup.

“No,” she replied distractedly and he turned from his task to see her taking the bowl in which she’d mixed the batter to the sink.

It was empty.

“Isabella, have this one,” he offered.

She slowly turned and stared, aghast, at his plate. Then she carefully arranged her features, shook her head and turned again to the sink.

“No, thank you. I’ll have some toast.”

His annoyance returned.

He walked to her and demanded, “Isabella, take it.”

She didn’t look at him, busy rinsing dishes. “I’m fine, Prentice.”

His annoyance flared to anger.

“Christ, just eat it.”

She twisted her head to look at him and said in a flat, calm voice, “I said I’m fine.”

“Aye,” he returned, “as am I. I don’t need a second one. You can have it.”

Something lit in her eyes swiftly and, Prentice thought, intoxicatingly, as it also lit her entire face.

Then she snapped (but softly), “For someone who knows the English language you don’t seem to comprehend it very well. I said, I’m fine.”

Prentice felt an odd sense of satisfaction at her irate response no matter if it was quietly irate and his anger fled instantly.

He smiled at her and replied casually, “All right. I’ll eat it.”

Her eyes fastened on his mouth, her face seeming dazed for a moment before they lifted to his and she gave him a look that indicated she thought he was mental.

He nearly laughed.

And he thought perhaps this time, considering he knew the rules and the score, her game might be fun.

She busied herself tidying the kitchen and making herself toast.

Prentice ate and watched her knowing this irritated her and enjoying that knowledge.

“You’re good with the kids,” he remarked and she didn’t reply.

She was back to ignoring him.

He instinctively knew somehow, this morning he’d gained some advantage in their game.

Therefore, he pressed, “Why didn’t you have any?”

Her body stilled, her hands fisted then he could have sworn she actually forced herself to relax before she answered.

“I can’t.”

“Sorry?” he queried.

The toast popped up, she snatched it, put it on a plate and walked to the counter. “I can’t have children.”

Prentice stared at her back.

She had millions of pounds. Millions of her own; inherited from her mother and to be inherited from her father when the bastard thankfully left this earth, and millions in the divorce settlement given to her by her bastard ex-husband.

She could easily afford to pay top notch fertility specialists, the best in the world.

Regardless of the fact that it was absolutely none of his business, he asked, “Have you seen a specialist?”

He watched her head move, slowly, gracefully, her ear dipping down toward her shoulder then her neck twisting to the side.

There was something poignant about this movement, poignant and distressing.

Prentice braced.

She turned to him, lifted her eyes and locked them with his.

“Ten,” she said shortly.

“Ten?” he replied, stunned by her earlier movement and therefore not comprehending her answer.

“Ten specialists in four different countries. Five years of tests. Five years of fertility medication and two rounds of IVF. All of which failed.” Prentice watched her talk, her expression carved from stone, a weight settled in his gut and this one was unpleasant. “I can’t conceive,” she finished.

And, obviously, she’d tried.

Everything she could.

Christ.

“Isabella,” Prentice murmured, getting the distinct feeling he’d not only lost his advantage but he’d been an incredible ass.

Before he could say more, she snatched up her plate of toast, sauntered to her cold cup of coffee, hooked it with a finger and started to walk out of the room, saying softly, “I need a shower. I’ll see you at Fergus’s.”

Then she rounded the corner and she was gone.

He watched the entrance to a hall for a good, long while.

Then he muttered out loud to himself, “Fucking hell.”

Isabella

Isabella sat on the couch in the great room facing Sally, one of her legs bent and pulled up on the seat, Sally’s hand flat on her thigh. As she had been during the whole polishing portion of the shaping, buffing, varnishing manicure, Sally was calm and docile while Isabella put the last coat of clear varnish over the hot pink she’d already brushed on the girl’s final fingernail.

“All right, Sally honey, you’re done but you’ve got to sit there for a good ten minutes to give it time to dry.”

Sally surveyed her fingernails with a rapt expression on her face as Isabella caught movement out of the side of her eye and saw Prentice exit his study.

He stopped and leveled his gaze on them.

“They’ve never looked this pretty,” Sally breathed as if Isabella didn’t give her a manicure but instead painted her portrait displaying more talent than Gainsborough.

Isabella hesitated, fighting an urge that was nearly overwhelming because Prentice was standing right there.

Then she thought, Screw it.

Sally was just too danged cute.

Again, Prentice would just have to deal.

And anyway, it was all his and Fiona’s fault for having an endearing daughter.

She leaned forward, kissed the top of Sally’s head then got up, repeating, “Ten minutes, sweetheart.”

“Ten minutes!” Sally chirped and then sat statue-still in the couch.

Grinning to herself, Isabella went to the mudroom to get the laundry, walking by Prentice without looking at him but feeling his eyes on her as she went.

The tumble dryer had buzzed five minutes ago and she hustled in to fold the clothes before they became wrinkled.

She had no earthy clue why she woke up with Prentice’s family’s laundry on her mind but she did. That was her first thought, as if someone had shouted at her in her sleep to get up and do the laundry.

Which she did and it needed to get done.

Even though it felt strange and intimate handling Prentice’s clothes, there was a mountain of laundry. She’d done four loads now and there were at least two more to go (probably three). So much, she’d even run down between doing her makeup and hair to switch out the washer and dryer.

She’d just finished folding and was setting aside the pieces that needed to be ironed when Jason rounded the corner into the room.

“Dad says he’s ready to go,” Jason announced and Isabella thought that was a strange way to voice such an announcement, considering they were driving separate vehicles and they could go when they wanted.

She’d phoned Annie and let her know she’d be a little late as it was a moral imperative to give Sally a manicure. Annie had laughed and agreed that manicures for six year old motherless girls were, indeed, a moral imperative.

One example of millions as to why Isabella loved Annie.

“Could you do me a big favor?” Isabella asked, shaking out one of Prentice’s shirts and throwing it on a pile of other shirts to be ironed. “When you have a minute, can you take these latest piles upstairs?”

Jason had been delivering the stacks of folded clothes to their respective rooms all morning. Isabella had arranged it at breakfast, pre-Prentice showing up and her mind moved to Prentice and that morning.

He had shown up bare-chested, barefoot, hair tousled, looking unfairly, even, one could say, criminally attractive…

Oh, and when he’d offered his pancake to her, on his plate. The very thought of her doing something as intimate as eating off his plate was not to be borne…

Oh, and when he’d smiled at her, the first smile he’d sent her way since she’d been back, well, she thought for a second that she was going to pass out, literally fall in a dead faint on the floor.

“I’ll do it now,” Jason mumbled, picking up a pile of Prentice’s clothes and fortunately taking Isabella away from her thoughts.

“Thanks,” Isabella whispered, wanting to touch him, tousle his hair, anything to show the boy a little affection after what she heard last night.

But she didn’t.

She had four more days with this family, an unwelcome guest and when she was gone, she would be gone.

What she had to give was pancakes, laundress service and manicures.

And that was what she was going to give.

She wasn’t going to be able to wring miracles, take the tightness away from Prentice’s mouth (no way in hell) or cure Jason of his nightmares.

But she could sure as heck make pancakes.

And good ones.

She’d taken the clothes from the washer, put them in the dryer and was shoving another load in the washer when Prentice’s tall frame filled the door.

She twisted her head and visions of him in only pajama bottoms filled her brain.

She’d seen him shirtless twenty years ago, of course, and memories of his body, the defined muscles, the hair that matted his chest (not too much, just enough) had been fodder for many a fantasy when they were apart and the twenty ensuing years besides.

Now, the defined muscle had more bulk, more power. Even the way he held himself which, back in the day, was confident to the point of almost swaggering, was now more confident but without the swagger.

He knew who he was, had settled into his physique and the result was enthralling.

Still, he could have absented himself that morning and put on a shirt. It was the polite thing to do. She knew it was his house and she was a guest he’d rather not have but, really. To wander around the kitchen half-naked, standing close to her (probably so he could keep an eye on her and wrestle her out of the room if she did anything too friendly with his children), it was too much!

“Yes?” she prompted when he seemed fascinated with watching her measure soap into the load.

Prentice’s gaze cut to her face and took in her hair then her body before coming back to her eyes.

“We’re leaving.”

“I’ll see you there,” she turned away, dropping the lid on the washer, turning the dial and hitting the button.

He was still standing in the door when she made to leave the room.

“You’re coming with us.”

Isabella halted. Then she stared at him.

“I’ll drive myself,” she said.

“That’s unnecessary considering we’re both going to the same place.”

“I’d prefer to drive myself.”

“Why?”

Why, indeed.

Her hands clenched into fists.

Because being with you is killing me especially since you obviously hate me and I’ve never fallen out of love with you.

Because realizing there are more reasons why it was for your own good that I broke your heart hurts like hell. No Sally, no Jason, even with Fiona dead you had more in those years from her than you’d ever get from me.

Because I need a moment away from all that is you and your beautiful children to get my head together so I can deal with the day.

All of this Isabella thought but did not say.

“I just would,” she said instead.

“You’re coming with us,” he repeated.

“Prentice –”

“Sally wants you with us.”

Isabella snapped her mouth shut.

Well then, who could argue with that?

“I’ll get my purse,” she muttered and to her dismay, he barely shifted to the side so she had to squeeze by him, sucking in her belly and breath to get around him and her breasts still brushed his chest when she went by.

A heady thrill jolted through her body at that slight touch. A thrill he’d given her before, many a time. A thrill that she remembered like the last one she’d had was only yesterday.

Her fists tightened, her nails bit into her palms and she hurried to her room.

Fiona

Fiona floated with her family (and Isabella) to the front door.

Prentice was furious. Jason seemed confused. Sally was simply tired.

Isabella was wearing a brave face but the hideousness of the day had taken its toll. She was pale and there was a tightness about her eyes that was heartbreaking.

And her hands were clenched into permanent fists.

Fiona had been born in her village and she’d been proud of being a member of its community her whole life.

Until that day.

She knew, because she felt it herself, that everyone had felt duped by Isabella, not just Prentice. They all loved her, including Fiona. It got worse when she never returned even after the terrible accident that tore Annie and Dougal apart. That feeling had intensified further as she’d publicly moved on, living the high life of international fame and celebrity.

But, even if only for Annie’s sake, they could at least attempt to be polite.

Instead of vicious.

At Annie’s request, the minute Isabella hit Fergus’s house, she ran to the kitchen to start making dozens and dozens of Annie’s favorite cookies. The picnic was catered including a luncheon and then an American-style bonfire that night, roasting hot dogs on sticks and making s’mores which Fiona had never had but thought they looked delicious.

Isabella let Sally help but the making of cookies put Prentice in a bad mood which drove him to broody, something which Isabella ignored, in fact, she seemed to be doing her best to ignore Prentice as much as she could which, in turn (strangely, Fiona thought) was something Prentice seemed to be working at not allowing.

Fiona knew why the cookies made Prentice broody.

Isabella used to send him cookies from America, not to mention make them weekly for him when she was in Scotland. He’d told Fiona that when he told her about Isabella.

What Fiona didn’t understand was, if Prentice had “moved on” as he’d told Dougal he had, why the cookies would make him broody at all?

That day Isabella didn’t make them for Prentice, however. She made them for Annie and Dougal’s guests.

And the minute those guests (at least the villagers, Sally and Jason ate around a million of them and Prentice wasn’t far behind) found out she’d made them, they avoided them.

Pointedly.

Not only that, one villager, Hattie Fennick, actually made a point to take a bite then spit it out right when Isabella was watching her. Hattie had always been a cow, especially around Fiona who Hattie made no bones about not liking. Then again, she didn’t like pretty much everyone including Prentice, who Fiona had known for years Hattie had a raging crush on even after she hooked up with her husband Nigel but Prentice had never shown an interest or shown that he knew she existed at all unless he was vaguely irritated by something she’d done which made her act even more of a cow.

And that wasn’t all.

They made nasty comments, some of them loud, most of them when Isabella was in earshot.

They at least shielded Annie from it; she didn’t hear a word for which Fiona was grateful. They’d also been careful around Jason and Sally (Sally was oblivious, as usual; Jason had overheard a few things, which pissed Fiona off). The rest of the time they ignored her, cast her dirty looks or walked away when she approached.

Although they shielded Annie, they hadn’t any qualms about doing their worst in front of Fergus, Mikey, Dougal or Prentice.

Which made all four men livid even Dougal, probably on Annie’s behalf.

The picnic had started at two o’clock. It was now ten. Eight hours of torture for Isabella.

At first, Fiona had been shocked at how she coped. She acted for all the world as if she didn’t give one whit and spent her time talking with Fergus, Mikey, Annie, Sally and Old Lady Kilbride who wasn’t capable of hating anyone and had always stuck up for Isabella, unpopularly saying, “We don’t know. There are always two sides to every story.”

Isabella even spent time with Jason which was surprising since Hattie also commented loudly within Isabella’s (and Prentice’s) earshot, “God, the nerve of the woman. Fiona’s children. Jason. Who’s been devastated. The absolute nerve.”

But as the hours slid by, it had begun to wear, her façade slipped, as anyone’s would, and Fergus, Mikey, Dougal, Jason and, most especially Prentice, noticed.

Fiona was back to not hating her. In fact, she felt sorry for her. She had no idea what she would do if she’d been alive at the picnic rather than dead and haunting it but she hoped she wouldn’t have done that.

Of course, she did realize that, as a ghost, she had access to information that the villagers couldn’t know, but still.

They hit the great room and Isabella turned immediately toward the hall.

“I’m going to call it a night,” she said softly, her hands still fists.

Prentice opened his mouth to speak but Sally got there before him.

“Will you read me a story?” Sally asked, her voice tired.

“Sally –” Prentice began but Isabella talked over him.

Without hesitation, she switched directions, unfisted a hand and held it out to Sally, saying, “Of course, honey.”

Sally took Isabella’s hand and they walked up the stairs. Prentice’s eyes followed them, his face tight.

“Dad –” Jason began when the two females disappeared.

Prentice looked at his son. “Not now, mate.”

Jason wasn’t to be denied. “I heard some things –”

“It’s late, go to bed,” Prentice ordered.

Jason stared at him, defiance written in every line of his body.

Fiona felt worry tear through her. How was Prentice going to handle this?

Her husband sighed and turned to his son. “All right Jace. As you know from last night, a long time ago, Mrs. Evangelista used to holiday here.”

“Aye,” Jason prompted when Prentice stopped speaking.

“She did a couple of things that angered a few people. They haven’t gotten over it.”

“What’d she do?”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“What’d she do?”

“She hurt some people’s feelings.”

“So?” Jason asked. “People get their feelings hurt all the time. Worse stuff happens.”

Prentice’s face changed, anguish tore through it because both her husband and son had learned that lesson.

And Jason was right. Worse stuff happens, that was the God’s honest truth. Fiona was beyond the veil existence proof of it.

And now Fiona knew that something did not quite fit together with Isabella Austin Evangahlala.

There were, indeed, two sides to every story and no one knew Isabella’s.

Except perhaps Annie, Mikey and Fergus and they were all intensely loyal to her, something Fiona never understood about Annie or Fergus and didn’t think much about, until now.

Fiona felt another bolt of worry tear through her.

“Aye, Jason, worse stuff happens,” Prentice agreed.

“You should have said something,” Jason accused and Fiona was surprised at the heat behind his words.

He was defending Isabella. Fiona didn’t know what to feel about that but she had to admit the first thing it felt like she felt was pride.

Then again, Jason had always been a good lad.

“Jason –” Prentice started.

“You know she’s no’ a bad lass. You ate her pancakes.”

“Jace –” Prentice tried again.

“And she liked Mum,” Jason kept at it.

“Jason, it’s complicated,” Prentice finally got out.

“I don’t know what’s complicated about it. She’s nice and she painted Sally’s fingernails. And people like you. You’ve been living here all your life. They’d listen to you.”

Fiona watched as Prentice approached his son, reaching him and putting his hand on Jason’s tense shoulder.

“You’re right, I should have said something.”

“Next time, you hafta say something.”

Prentice nodded. “Aye, I will.”

Jason stared at him and Prentice held his stare. Then Jason nodded back and mumbled he was going to bed. Prentice went to his study and Fiona hovered with him until they heard Isabella come down the stairs. The minute he heard it, Prentice got up and walked into the great room, Fiona floating after him.

Isabella didn’t hesitate or look at him; she went straight toward the hall.

“Goodnight, Prentice,” she whispered, intent on (nearly) ignoring him.

Prentice had other ideas.

He took two long strides and his hand wrapped around her upper arm, halting her.

Fiona watched Isabella’s hands ball into fists and she bit her ghostly lip. She was beginning to hate it when Isabella did that.

Which was a lot.

Isabella’s head tilted back and she looked at Prentice. “Is there something you want?”

“Aye,” Prentice answered. “I want to know if Sally’s asleep.”

Isabella nodded. “PJs on, I even got her to brush her teeth before getting into bed. I didn’t get halfway through the book before she was out.”

Prentice didn’t move nor did he take his hand from Isabella’s arm. She shrugged her shoulder, bringing his attention to his hand. He still didn’t remove it.

“Prentice, I’m tired,” she said and she sounded tired.

She sounded shattered.

“Today –” Prentice started.

“No!” Isabella’s tone was sharp and it so surprised Prentice (and Fiona) that they both jerked (even Fiona).

Isabella twisted her arm but Prentice didn’t let her go.

“Isabella –” Prentice began again.

She stopped twisting her arm and glared at him. “Let me go.”

“I’ll have a word with –”

Isabella turned to face him, her expression grew cold and her brows went up. “What word will you have, Prentice? And with who? And why? In four days I’m gone.”

“But you still have four days.”

She laughed, it was an ugly sound.

Fiona felt something pierce her non-existent heart and she saw Prentice’s body go completely still.

“Trust me, Prentice, in my life? Four days of this is nothing. Four days is a walk in the park.”

Fiona saw Prentice’s hand tighten just as his brows drew together.

“Maybe I’ll take that offer you made a few days ago and you can explain,” Prentice said quietly.

She twisted her arm and she did it viciously, winning freedom from Prentice’s hand.

But she didn’t move away.

“Too late,” Isabella replied, her voice back to soft. “In four days, I’ll be gone and you’ll forget about me.” She threw out her arm, a movement that signified the villagers. “They’ll forget about me.” She pointed up the stairs and her voice changed, it grew rough as if coated with unshed tears. “And they’ll forget about me.”

Prentice got closer, Isabella stepped back.

When Prentice spoke again, his voice had grown soft and rough with emotion too.

“You’re not easy to forget.”

Isabella’s head tilted to the side as if genuinely perplexed.

“Really?” she asked quietly. “You could have fooled me.”

With that successful parting shot, she turned on her booted foot and walked away.

Prentice watched her go. Then he watched the empty hall. Then, as Fiona knew he’d do, he went to the study, got himself a whisky and went to the upstairs balcony to study the sea.

After some time, he went back to his study, refilled the glass and resumed his position on the balcony.

He left that glass on the railing beside the other one.