Page 14 of A Shore Thing

“Perfect studio.” Ponsonby nodded approval. “Wonderful light.”

Kit’s smile slipped.

Ponsonby was craning his neck and didn’t notice. “By God, will you look at that sunset?”

The sun itself had disappeared behind the headland. Cirrus streaks layered the sky with orange and rose, shading into gray.

Kit gave a grunt. “Picturesque.” His fingers were closing again, his hands fists at his sides. “So.” He cleared his throat. “When did you arrive?”

“Yesterday.” Ponsonby lowered his chin with a happy sigh. “I plan to stay a month at least. I’m a guest of the Oatridges.”

The wealthy London family summered in an elegant white villa perched high above the harbor. Kit hadn’t known they were acquainted with Ponsonby, or vice versa.

“I still can’t believe you’re here.” He shook his head. “Of all the days to forget to check the paper.”

The St. Ives Weekly Summary and Visitors List came out every Saturday. It reported on the local artistic community, the artists’ achievements and Show Days, their comings and goings, and their guests. The Visitors List was how Kit knew when to avoid parties and public houses, when to ramble off to Penzance for a week, whatever it took to avoid awkward—or worse than awkward—encounters with people who still called him by another name.

Today he’d been distracted, by another visitor to St. Ives.

Muriel’s face formed again, and he had to blink the image away.

“Well, I checked the paper,” said Ponsonby. “Imagine my surprise when I saw your advertisement. I hollered so loudly Mrs. Oatridge came running with bandages. Apparently, the garden chairs sometimes unsheathe rapier-sharp sprigs of wicker. A previous guest was horribly gored.” He rubbed his flank absently. “I confirmed I wasn’t pouring out my life’s blood, and she confirmed that Kit Griffith the bicycle retailer was also Kit Griffith the painter.”

A little pause drew out.

“I didn’t think you’d mind if I turned up.” Ponsonby was watching him, his exceedingly agreeable face—all freckled mirth—suddenly serious. “You know I’d never…I did call you Holroyd just now. That was a bungle.” He flushed to the roots of his red hair, hesitating.

“Hell’s bells,” he said at last. “I’m a bungler. People say that, and they’re not wrong. But I’d rather die by wicker then let down a friend. I don’t—”

“They are wrong,” Kit interrupted. “You’re not a bungler.”

A clown in his youth, Ponsonby might not have matured into the pragmatic, responsible paragon his eldest brother Cecil, the paterfamilias, wanted him to be. He’d learned to listen, though, and to keep his mouth shut when necessary. He was the sort of drinking companion to whom it was seldom a bad idea to confess your secrets.

Over the Christmas holiday, the winter before last, Kit had meant to tell Lucy about his other life as Mr. Kit Griffith and ended up telling Ponsonby instead, on a night of carousing that had taken them from theater box to tavern bench to gambling table. By the time they’d stumbled to a feeding place to sober up, Ponsonby was slapping Kit’s back and slurring to the lamppost that Griff was his best mate.

“You’re my best mate.” Kit said it experimentally, and Ponsonby made a face.

“Bosh. That’s Coover. By my count, I’m your fourth-best mate. It’s all right.” He batted the air, fending off any potential objections. “You’re my second-best mate, really. What matters is that we’re mates.” His lips twitched now. “I’m not a bungler?”

“No.” Kit tipped his head. “You’re a trump. I trust you with my life. And may a sprig of wicker pierce my heart if it isn’t so.”

“You’re a trump too.” Ponsonby grinned. “But you’re bollocks at hosting. I’ve been standing here for long minutes, coated with the dust of the road, my throat cracking.”

Kit couldn’t help but laugh. “Let’s see if I have a chair that won’t gore you.”

Inside, Kit beelined for the bottle of whiskey on the worktable. There was one glass, clean enough. Kit filled it. When he raised his head, he saw that his friend hadn’t followed.

Ponsonby had stilled just over the threshold, staring at the rack of Rovers.

“I don’t understand.” Ponsonby’s perplexity intensified as he surveyed the room.

Kit looked too, trying to see it the way his friend would. Tires hung from pegs in the wall. Tables and shelves held pedal shafts, oil cans, and wrenches. Cyclometers and lamps. Jars of ball bearings.

He’d purchased extravagantly, investing his earnings from the Grosvenor show in the business.

“This is the shop,” he said. “Living quarters are upstairs.”

“I expected bicycles, but…” Ponsonby raked a hand through his disheveled red hair. In his overlarge tweed suit, he looked achingly familiar. Kit could anticipate his next words.