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 coul
dn’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 d
o. 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.
Chapter Four
Chicken Bits
Isabella
Isabella waited half an hour (exactly) before she went downstairs.
In that time she decided to keep her hair up in the messy knot because it wasn’t that attractive, with bits sticking out everywhere, and it might look like she was trying to be all girlie-perfect in order to cook a simple dinner if she did something with it. She also decided to stay in her yoga clothes because she’d look like an idiot if she changed clothes; she wasn’t going to make dinner for the queen, just a family.