Page 130 of A Shore Thing

“In case you’re dreaming.” Kit’s lips twitched. So did Nelly’s, and he saw over her shoulder that Lucy’s did too—twitched and held in a tentative smile. Nelly tugged him, and he sat down beside her.

A good thing. His knees were buckling.

“Should we order more coffee?” Gwen’s expression had smoothed, but her color was high, and her Fra Angelico blue eyes had a slight squint—her version of beaming. “The kitchen is flooded, so there’s no food, but the coffee’s rather good.”

“Why are you dressed like a golfer?” Lucy laughed, but tears sparkled on her lashes.

“Cyclist.” Kit glanced down at his jacket. “I’m on a cycling tour. Or I was. It’s a long story.”

Silence fell between them, filled with the hum of other conversations, and the roar of blood in his ears.

It was such a normal occurrence—the four of them gathered around a table—that the awkwardness seemed out of place and extraneous, an irritation they could brush away, like a buzzing insect. Only they couldn’t. That wasn’t how this worked.

He picked up a spoon, to have something to do with his hands.

“How was your exhibition?” he asked Lucy. “At the New Gallery?”

“Oh.” She swiped at a stray curl, gaze skittering sideways. “I hardly know. Critics said some positive things.” She hesitated, looking vacantly toward the corner of the room.

The pause lengthened, excruciating.

“I kept wondering what you would think.” She inhaled, and slowly, she brought back her gaze, until it met his.

“Your show, last winter.” She was going pale, which made her look more freckled, more like the scrawny orphan he’d first met. “I loved it. I didn’t say so.”

He swallowed. No. She’d said other things. He wasn’t sure he could endure their repetition.

As he stared, Lucy’s chin formed its characteristic point, and her gaze turned narrow. She was girding herself for a headlong charge, right here and now.

“I couldn’t believe you’d kept it secret.” She seemed to grow taller, hair bristling. “I couldn’t believe that you hadn’t shown me the pictures first. That you wouldn’t take the credit, for yourself, and for us, and for…”

“Women?” Kit set down the spoon with an acid smile. His ribs felt sharp. If he breathed too hard, they’d slice his lungs.

“I asked myself if you thought the pictures were too daring, and the idea made me furious.” She clasped her hands so tightly her knuckles turned white. “We dare. That’s what we do. It’s why we formed the Sisterhood. To dare together.” Her fury had built anew as she spoke, but it had a beseeching quality, as though she were afraid he’d contradict her.

He didn’t. He didn’t say anything. His palms were damp.

She slumped, fury fading, until her face held only entreaty and wonderment.

“I went back to the gallery,” she said, the heat gone from her voice. “I went back again and again. There was one picture in the Arthurian series—Half Sick of Shadows, you called it. The Lady of Shalott in her tower, and out the window, Sir Lancelot, riding through the barley sheaves on his warhorse. You used the same model for both. The lady and the knight had the same face.” She bit her lip, studying his face. “I kept thinking about the picture. I tried to buy it, but an American collector beat me to the lot. You’re the rage in New York.”

At that last, her eyes lit up with fierce elation. They’d always reveled in each other’s accomplishments. A good review. A good commission. A good sale. Good placement on the wall at the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition.

And yet—impressing a fusty, famous, well-connected Academician never satisfied him as deeply as impressing her. Lucy would give his canvas a certain sharp-eyed look and begin to bounce on the soles of her feet, like excitement was lifting her off the floor, and his heart would lift too. The Sisterhood amplified their efforts as artists, and helped them gain external validation, but in a certain sense, it made external validation unnecessary. Made it clear what audience mattered most. Why they painted, and for whom. He’d muddied all that.

Nothing was clear.

Perhaps Lucy had forgotten for a moment the circumstances of his American debut.

“Kit Griffith is the rage in New York.” He pronounced each syllable with slow deliberateness, and he braced himself. Her eyes were honey-colored, but they could sting.

“That’s what I said.” No sting. Just a glowing gaze. She smiled, a wider, surer smile than before. “You are the rage in New York.”

Suddenly, his heart was in his throat, stopping his words. He felt pressure at the back of his eyes.

“You did dare.” She whispered it. “I didn’t. I was the disloyal coward. I jumped to the most superficial, self-serving conclusions. I preferred to think you’d fabricated Kit Griffith out of thin air, to join the enemy, for your own profit, or as a prank you didn’t let me in on. But that wasn’t it.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t the intent. The effect, maybe.” His heart was sinking fast, and he uttered his prediction hoarsely: “You think that just as inexcusable.”