Page 31 of A Shore Thing

He tilted back his head. A breeze riffled the leaves of the dogwood tree—like the rhododendrons, this particular species was native to the Himalayas. Shadows shifted across his face.

“It does look like rain.”

“It doesn’t.” She inhaled sharply. “Tell me you’d rather not speak of it, and I’ll stop prying. But please don’t pretend not to understand me. You are consumed by some care. It ravages you.”

She realized she could hear the sea, the steady breaking of the waves underlying the more ephemeral sounds: the humming bees, the rustling greenery.

After a long moment, James blew out a breath. “I can speak of it.” A muscle in his jaw ticked. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

They sat in silence, listening to the waves.

Muriel finally said, “I can tell you my latest theory if that’s easier. You can offer corrections.”

“Latest theory?” His glance was both amused and wary. “How many have there been?”

“Several. I’ve been worried.”

“So, you invented stories?”

“They each had their basis in observation. Ready?”

“God help me.”

“Your heart was broken by a faithless rogue. A handsome, poetical dastard who lured you with false promises, then left you without warning. Despite his callous behavior, you have remained under his spell. You pined and pined, eschewing food, company, and the light. This trip is your chance to put all that behind you. My duty is to help you forget him, and to learn how to love again.”

“Are you quite done?”

“Quite.” She clasped her hands. “That’s it, isn’t it? I can see by your eyes.”

“Blast my eyes.” James blinked. “All this pollen. And that’s not it. I don’t need to learn how to love again. I need to live in a different world.”

“There wasn’t a handsome, poetical dastard?”

“No. No, there was a handsome, poetical French chemist named Gilles. He’s hopelessly tender and alarmingly honest, and he didn’t break my heart and I didn’t break his. Both of us knew exactly how long the affair would last. It began last winter when I went to Paris.” He paused, searching her face, then clarified: “As a representative of the commission inquiring into Pasteur’s discovery.”

Muriel nodded encouragement. When James had previously mentioned Louis Pasteur’s treatment for rabies, and his own work publicizing Pasteur’s method in England, he’d done so delicately, giving her abundant opportunity to slow him down or redirect the conversation, offering particulars only in response to specific questions.

Sometimes memories flooded her, and sometimes not.

Now she was fully in the present, with him.

“When did it end?” she asked.

“This spring. He was in England for nearly a month, helping me with my experimental study of—”

Again, a slight hesitation.

“The disease,” said James. “Testing the action of drugs. Preparing recommendations. I’ve told you about my report.”

“Yes.” She nodded again. The report was cause for hope. James believed that rabies could be eradicated in Britain. But she didn’t need to hear more at the moment. “About Gilles, though…”

“He’s brilliant.” James shook his head, a smile curving his lips. “But he can be careless. And the laws are different in France. Men like us have less to fear. I don’t blame him.”

“James.” Muriel felt a rush of cold in her chest. “What happened?”

“It’s still happening.” His smile faded. “Letters I wrote to Gilles ended up in someone else’s hands. Maybe he left them in a drawer in his hotel room. Or—he hated the London weather and bought himself a heavy overcoat. Maybe he didn’t take the coat back to France. Maybe he gave it to a down-at-heel hansom driver, forgetting my letters were in the pocket. Maybe he was robbed of his pocketbook on his way to the train station. I can’t ask him. He was only passing back through Paris. He’s somewhere in the French countryside. Not that I would ask if I could.”

He raked a hand through his hair.