Dreaming Of The Bones

Stacking plates, Kincaid quipped, “One could say that about a lot of things,” then swore at himself as he saw her wince at the direct barb. “Sorry, Vic. I—” He broke off, unsure what to say. How could he apologize without opening the very can of worms he’d meant to avoid?

Vic took the dishes without comment, then paused with the laden tray in her arms and looked at him steadily for a moment before she spoke. “Sometimes it takes experience to know just how good things are. Or to recognize someone’s worth. I was a fool, but it took me a long time to figure it out.” She smiled and added as Kincaid stood gaping, “Come on, give me a hand getting these things into the kitchen, then I’ll make us some tea. Unless you’d rather have something stronger?”

Taking refuge in the commonplace, Kincaid said, “No, no, that’s all right. Tea’s lovely. I’ve got the drive back to London and the wine will have put me close to the limit.”

He took the tray from her, and as she held the door he maneuvered it into her small kitchen and set it on the worktop. Retreating to the doorway, he watched her as she filled the kettle. Her apology went against all his expectations and he had no idea how to respond.

Gathering cups and a teapot, Vic said matter-of-factly, without looking at him, “You have someone waiting for you.”

“Is that a specific or a general statement?” he asked, grinning. He thought of Gemma, of the precarious balance they’d striven for these past few months, and wondered if her refusal to come with him today reflected more than her desire to spend time with her son. She’d invited him back to her flat tonight, but that didn’t ensure the quality of his reception.

Vic glanced at him, then shut off the kettle as it came to the boil. When she’d filled the pot and set it on the tea tray, she motioned Kincaid to follow her to the sitting room. Over her shoulder, she asked, “Does she appreciate you?”

“I’ll tell her you said nice things about me. A sort of past-user guarantee.”

“Oh, right out of the tabloids, that is. EX-WIFE GIVES ENDORSEMENT. Very effective, I’m sure.”

They settled in the squashy armchairs before the fire, and when Vic had tucked her feet up under the folds of her dress and sipped her tea, she said, “Seriously, Duncan, I’m glad for you. But I haven’t asked you here to pry into your private life, though I have to admit I’m curious.” She smiled at him over the rim of her china cup.

The familiarity of the floral pattern had been nagging at him, and its juxtaposition against her face clicked the memory into place—Vic opening a gift box, lifting out a cup, and holding it aloft for him to inspect. The china had been a wedding present from her parents, a proper set, her mother had called it, as if afraid his own family might offer something unsuitable.

“Curiosity always got Alice into trouble,” he teased. Alice had been his pet name for her, and it had suited her in more than physical resemblance.

“I know,” she said a bit ruefully. “And I’m afraid things haven’t changed all that much. What I wanted to see you about has to do with my work, and it’s a bit difficult. But first I thought I’d get to know you again, see if you’d think I was just some hysterical, bloody female.”

“Oh, come on, Vic. You—hysterical? That’s the last adjective that would have come to mind. You were always the epitome of cool detachment.” As he spoke he thought of the one place she had abandoned reserve, and he flushed uncomfortably.

“Some of the people in my department might use a bit less flattering terms.” She grimaced. “And my choice of subject matter for my book has made me decidedly unpopular in certain quarters.”

“Book?” Kincaid dragged his attention from the photo of Vic’s errant husband. What had she seen in him? McClellan looked tweedy and bearded, handsome in a studiously academic way, and Kincaid could easily imagine him chatting up his students. He supposed he ought to be glad that life had seen fit to make Vic the butt of one of its little retribution jokes—the biter bit—but instead he felt a surge of anger on her behalf.

He had not been blameless in the breakup of their marriage, and they’d both been young, just beginning to discover what they wanted out of life. But he could imagine no excuse for Ian McClellan’s behavior—and what sort of man, he wondered, would go off without a word to his son?

“My biography,” Vic answered. “That’s what I’ve been working on this last year. A biography of Lydia Brooke.” She reached up and switched on the reading lamp beside her chair, casting her face into shadow and illuminating her hands as they clasped the teacup in her lap. “Ian said he’d been displaced, and I suppose in a way it’s true. Men—I don’t like men very much these days. They want you to be brilliant and successful, just as long as it doesn’t take any of your attention away from them and their needs. And as long as your accomplishments don’t outshine theirs, of course.” She looked up at him and smiled.