Disconcerted, Alexandra watched her sisters run ahead. "That's not very ladylike," she muttered to Tris. "A Lady of Distinction wouldn't approve."
"Is that why you're not going with them?"
"No. I'm…I cannot pick strawberries. They make me itch."
"Even if you just touch them?"
She nodded. "If I eat them, my tongue swells and my throat starts feeling tight."
And Juliana had known that, of course. Juliana had taken advantage of that to leave her alone with Tris. Juliana, who always knew what was best for everyone—one had only to ask her to be informed of that—had been trying to maneuver the two of them together all week.
Tris reached to touch her arm on the bare skin below where her blue puffed sleeve ended. When she jumped, he dropped his hand. "I'm glad you cannot pick strawberries."
Her arm tingling, she stopped walking and turned to him. "You're glad they make me itch?"
"I wanted to talk to you."
The little hairs on her arm were standing on end. "Talk to me about what?"
"Although we cannot ever be together as we might wish—" He cut himself off when she opened her mouth to interrupt, raising two fingers to briefly touch her lips. "There's no sense in denying what we both know."
Now her lips tingled, too. "There's no sense in discussing it, either."
"But that doesn't mean we cannot talk at all, about anything. I always considered you a friend, Alexandra. I don't want to lose that, too."
Tristan watched her fight with herself, watched her swallow hard, watched her eyes go from glassy to clear as she came to a decision. "I'll be your friend," she said at last. "Always."
He took her hand and squeezed it. "I'm so glad to hear that."
He expected her to pull her hand away. Instead she squeezed his back, so hard he wondered if her slim fingers might break. Then she didn't let go as they continued walking back to the abandoned picnic site.
They strolled silently for a while, simply holding hands. Such a small, innocent connection. But although he'd shared his whole body with many a willing female, he was more aware of Alexandra's hand in his than he remembered being aware of any physical sensation, ever. And he knew it was the same for her.
"Tris?" she finally said.
"Hmm?"
"Do you believe there's only one perfect person for each of us in this world?"
He smiled to himself. This was the sort of philosophical question she used to bring up when they were younger. "Perhaps some of us have no perfect person."
"Be serious," she said.
He had been, but obviously she didn't want to hear that. "No. My father believed there was only one for him, though. I don't think I ever quite forgave him for that."
"What do you mean?"
"He wasn't always a drinker and a gambler," he said, wondering vaguely why he was telling her this, "although I barely remember him as anything else. But my uncle assured me he'd once been a kinder man, and responsible."
"What happened?"
"When I was seven, my mother left us."
Her eyes widened. "She didn't die? She just left?"
"Yes, she just left. Went to America—"
"With another man?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. I expect there's more to the story than anyone bothered telling a lad of seven." Over the years, he'd never asked. Perhaps he'd feared the truth. And when his father and uncle died, the facts had died along with them. "One day my mother was gone, and Father said she had gone to America. She took my sister with her. Susan."
"Tell me about her," she said softly.
She must have heard the wistfulness in his voice—an unintended wistfulness that had taken him by surprise. After all these years, he'd figured he was past feeling pain from old memories.
He took comfort from her fingers laced with his. "Susan was four years older, and my half sister, really—from my mother's previous marriage. The odd thing is, though I missed Mother something fierce, missing Susan hurt even more."
"Sweet heaven." She squeezed his hand. "You must have loved her very much."
"With all my heart. Worshipped her, to tell you the truth," he admitted sheepishly. "She was more a mother to me than my own mother, and I couldn't understand why she would leave me. Now I realize she probably wasn't given a choice."
"Have you ever tried to find her?"
"They both died. Of smallpox. We received a letter a year later. That was when my father became blue deviled and never recovered. It reached the point where he eventually squandered all of his inheritance, endangering the viability of his estate and the people who depended upon it. Who depended upon him."
"You were one of those people."
"I wasn't talking about myself, but yes, I suppose I was." He didn't like to think of himself as a victim. There was nothing to be gained by placing blame; it was better to get on with life. "You see—to get back to your original question—my father loved my mother, and I collect that until he saw that letter, he hadn't given up hoping she might return. But once he learned of her death, he was so convinced love would never happen for him again that he never bothered trying to find it."
"Did you want another mother?"
The sympathy in her tone all but killed him. "Desperately, when I was young—all the other boys had one, after all. But perhaps it's just as well that my wish never came true," he added to make her laugh. "With my luck, she would have turned out to be a mean stepmother like Cinderella's." When she did laugh, his heart warmed. "Do you believe there's only one perfect person for each of us?"
"No," she said in a way that made it clear she'd thought on the subject before. "I've seen many of my family's acquaintances lose spouses and find someone new. Ofttimes they seem happier."
"Maybe the first person wasn't the right one and the second one was."
"Perhaps, in some cases. But I still don't think there's only one
