Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 09 - Now May You Weep

And did he consider Hazel one of the fruits of his efforts? wondered Gemma. A just dessert?

Martin and Pascal set off immediately for the house, Martin a little groggily, as if he hadn’t quite recovered from his whisky-induced nap, Pascal with the firm step of a man with a purpose.

Gemma, however, stood a moment longer, surveying the house and garden in the flat light of midafternoon. It was the merciless time of day, when blemishes stood out from the hazy camouflage of morning and evening—a pile of timber against one side of the barn, proof of unfinished construction; a half dozen clumps of dandelion rising above the smooth surface of the lawn; a patch of crumbling harl above the scullery door. She found it comforting somehow, this evidence of ordinariness amid the B&B’s manufactured perfection.

Real life was waiting at home, for her and for Hazel.

She took a deep breath and headed for the barn, determined to pin Hazel down this time, to make her see reason.

But when she entered their room, it was empty. Both beds were neatly made, the duvets puffy. Hazel’s overnight case was closed, her few toiletries on the dressing table neatly arranged. Only a used and rinsed teacup betrayed the room’s recent habitation.

At least Hazel wasn’t with Donald; Gemma could be assured of that much. She would look for her in the house. But first, she took her phone from her handbag and punched in her home number. Suddenly too anxious to sit, she paced as it rang, sounding tinnily distant.

Where were they? Thinking of Duncan and the boys in the park, or perhaps at Otto’s for afternoon tea, she felt a stab of longing, and beneath that, a nebulous worry.

Why had Duncan been on the phone so late last night?

And why had he not answered his mobile? Had there been an emergency at the Yard, and all their plans for him to spend the weekend with the boys gone for naught?

Or had something else happened? But, in that case, surely Duncan would have rung her, she reassured herself. Still, a nagging instinct told her that something was wrong. She should have kept trying last night; she should have rung again first thing this morning.

She should never have left them.

Gemma let herself into the house by the front door, closing it gently behind her. The hall smelled of flowers and furniture polish, but the house was quiet, as if still deep in afternoon slumber.

Peeking into the sitting room, she found it empty as well. The fire was laid but cold, the cushions restored to plumpness after last night’s lounging. The room might have been a stage set, waiting for the action to begin.

Gemma had headed towards the kitchen, thinking the class might have begun to congregate, when she heard the murmur of voices from the dining room. One she recognized instantly—Hazel. The other was female, English, and clipped with anger. Louise.

“I know you didn’t approve of my coming,” Hazel was replying, “but surely you can understand—”

“Understand?” Louise shot back. “Oh, I understand that you think you can waltz back into our lives as if you’d never been away. And that we’re all supposed to welcome the prodigal with open arms, no matter how much damage you left in your wake the last time.”

“But I— Louise, you don’t understand. I had no choice—”

“Didn’t you?” Louise’s voice was sharp as an ice pick.

“Or did you just take the easiest course? Run away, and don’t think about the consequences.”

“But—Donald—Donald had the distillery—”

“Donald was devastated. And you left me to try to explain to him why the woman he loved had left him without a word of explanation—”

“Donald knew— He didn’t need me—”

“Didn’t he? You’re always so sure of yourself, Hazel, but this time you were wrong. I don’t think he’s ever recovered. Did you not wonder why he never married?”

“Donald? But Donald—I just assumed—Donald always had women queued up—”

“When did that ever matter?” Louise laughed. “Did you think love was a commodity? And now you’re going to inflict the same sort of damage on your new family, and you want my approval?”

There was a moment’s silence. Gemma stood rooted in the dining room, afraid to breathe, unable to move forward or back without betraying her presence.

Then Hazel’s voice came again, softly. “Louise, whatever else happened, I never meant to hurt you.” Footsteps echoed, faded away, and then came the slam of the scullery door.

Hurriedly, Gemma slipped out the front door, making as little noise as possible. She didn’t want to confront Louise, didn’t want to appear as if she’d been eavesdropping. And she must talk to Hazel.

She found her friend standing at the edge of the back garden, looking out towards the river, twisting her hands together.

“You heard, didn’t you?” said Hazel, without looking at her.

“Yes.” Gemma waited, watching a few horses grazing leisurely in the far pasture. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve been so stupid. So stupid about everything, and so dishonest,” Hazel said, as if she hadn’t heard the question. “I managed to convince myself that I could come back here and dabble my toes in the water, just testing it to see if it was still as nice as I remembered, and no one would get hurt.” Her lips twisted in a grimace of disgust. “I told myself I could always back out—choose not to act, and my life would just muddle on. But the truth is—Oh, Gemma. I’m not sure I can give it up. Can I go back to living a shadow life, when I know what I’m missing? Nothing’s changed between us, not in thirteen years. I’ve never felt this for anyone else . . .”

She turned to Gemma, her face tear-streaked. “I’m a fraud, Gemma, a bloody charlatan. I make my living telling people how to sort out their lives. When they make a balls-up of it I’m gently patronizing, as if I had all the answers.” She shook her head. “But this . . . this I don’t know how to fix.”

They dressed for dinner in silence, Gemma shivering a little as she pulled a moss green sweater over her head.

The evening chill had come in early, and the central heating in their room had not yet come on.

Earlier, when John had called them into the kitchen to finish preparing dinner, Hazel had begged Gemma to make her excuses, saying, “I can’t face either of them just yet.”

“Donald and Louise?” When Hazel nodded, Gemma said, “Right, then. Migraine it is. And I’ll come and fetch you when it’s time for drinks.”

No one questioned Hazel’s headache, but to Gemma’s

discomfort, Donald immediately snagged her as his cooking partner. Together, they had stuffed fistfuls of basil into the food processor, along with peeled cloves of garlic, deep green olive oil, roasted red peppers, and toasted pine nuts. This mixture they spread over the salmon fillets, leaving John to grill them at the last minute. They stirred the cheese into their celery and Brie soup, strung and sauteed the mange- tout. She and Donald worked well together, quickly establishing a rhythm, and by the end of the session she found herself smiling in spite of herself.

When they’d finished, John had dismissed them with a reminder that the evening would be festive, and to dress accordingly.

Donald, walking out with Gemma into the dusky garden, had stopped her with a touch on her arm.

“Gemma, put in a good word for me, will you?”

Feeling an unexpected sense of regret, she said, “You know I can’t. She’s my friend, Donald. I won’t encourage her to ruin her life. I’m sorry.”

He had shrugged ruefully and patted her shoulder.

“Didna fash yerself, lass. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask. I’m glad she has such a good friend.”

Now, taking her turn in the bathroom, Gemma scrubbed her hands in a futile effort to remove the odor of fish and garlic. Defeated, she rubbed lotion on instead, pulled her hair up into a loose topknot, brushed a little shadow on her eyelids, and swiped a bronzy pink lipstick across her mouth.

Then she gaped at herself in the glass, lipstick sus-pended in midair. Whom did she mean to impress with all this primping? Donald?