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Iseult, I’ve always thought, was a willowy maiden, one of limpid eyes, dulcet tones and flaxen tresses. Lucia came across as more of an Italian battleship, her breasts making a considerable prow, her manner enough to make anyone lay down their weapons and surrender.

But like I said, I know beans about opera. “She was famous enough to be recorded?”

That smile touched his lips. “It was a small pressing, but she was always proud of it.”

She certainly could sing. Even the deteriorated recording couldn’t hide that fact. Her voice filled my ears to bursting. It was rich and soulful.

I realized that in this piece, Iseult was mourning something too.

I crossed the room, giving Nick some privacy, and picked up a photo from the mantle. It showed Lucia in costume, younger and more slender, though still not a small woman. The blonde wig was a big unrealistic given her dark eyes and brows, and her dress was a romantic medieval fantasy. Here she was dressed for her favorite role. There was a gleam of pride in her eyes, and her expression was exultant. Clearly, she loved what she did.

I finally realized why her make-up was always so extreme—she’d learned to apply it in the theater.

There were a dozen photos of her before the style of photographs abruptly changed. Here she sat on a lawn chair, a more casual setting though her pose was stiff. A young boy laughed on her knee, the style of his clothing hinting at wartime. He had a smile that could warm a room and I was tempted to smile along with him. Lucia smiled in the photo too, but there was a sadness around her eyes that hadn’t been in the earlier photograph.

She looked weary. I touched it with a fingertip and jumped when I realized that Nick must be watching me.

“My father.”

I looked closer and saw some resemblance to Nick and Sean in their father’s features. “He doesn’t favor her.”

“He looked like my grandfather.” Nick came to stand behind me. He handed me a wedding photo, Lucia in all her maidenly glory, a dapper man in a suit by her side.

Again, happiness mingled with resignation in her expression.

I noticed that there were no more opera poses, no shots of Lucia the diva in roles for older women. “Didn’t she keep singing?”

“Only until my father was born. That’s when they moved out here.”

I hadn’t known that. “But she loved singing. You can see it in her face.”

Nick shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the photograph, the one of Lucia in her glory. “Yes. She did.”

I wondered how Lucia had felt, giving up the occupation she clearly loved, and had a pretty good idea. Her voice swelled with anguish, the emotion obvious even though I didn’t understand the words.

There was a lump in my throat.

Maybe she did understand Iseult, that maiden who forced to learn so much about sacrifice to fulfill the schemes of men.

Maybe she had learned to understand her.

There was a photo of an old building, a print so small that I had to squint at it to make out the details. It looked vaguely familiar and I realized with a start what it was. “That’s the movie theater in Rosemount.”

Nick picked up the photo, then put it down again, sparing a brush of his fingertips across the frame. “It used to be a real theater.”

I waited, but he typically didn’t elaborate. “Okay, I give up. Why did she have a picture of it?”

“She owned it.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t for long. She had a grand scheme after my grandfather died to make it into an opera house.”

“When was this?”

“Nineteen seventy-three.”

This was important. I wasn’t sure why, but when Nick is precise, I pay attention. He wasn’t going to tell me, that much was obvious, but maybe I had a chance of figuring it out.

The largest picture on the mantelpiece was in color and it held the place of honor. It was a school photo, the sweaters on the two boys captured there dating it to the seventies. They were obviously brothers, so similar in looks that only their expressions revealed the difference between them. The smaller one grinned at the camera, cocksure, like the man in the wedding photo and the boy on Lucia’s knee.

The larger boy was solemn. Wary.

Nick.

I touched the frame and glanced at him, knowing I didn’t have to utter the question.

“The first year we were here.”

Typically, there were volumes of subtext to his explanation. My gaze was drawn back to the photograph, the vulnerability in his expression tugging my heartstrings.

I never remembered him looking like that. Did my memory play tricks, or had the camera caught him with his guard down? Had Lucia seen that uncertainty when she chose this photo from the proofs?

“When was this?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“Not exactly. You came in primary school.”

“It was nineteen seventy-three.”

I looked back at the picture of the movie house. “Lucia sold it after you came.”

Nick nodded once, then returned to his chair. The shadows claimed his features, though his eyes glittered as he watched me. Or maybe he was looking at the photographs, so tellingly arranged.

“How did your parents die?”

He shrugged, glancing down at the record spinning beside him. “Car accident.”

The recording finished. The record player clicked as the needle lifted, only the sounds of the old house creaking in the wind filling the silence between us. I waited, sensing that he might actually tell me something.

But he slid the record into the sleeve and got to his feet, the album tucked under his arm. “It’s ancient history, Phil. Sorry I didn’t keep to the plan.” He took my elbow, ready to usher me back out of Lucia’s sanctuary.

And away from his precious secrets.

I dug in my heels. “Maybe all this history has something to do with her death.”

“No, it doesn’t. Let’s go.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Yes, I do.”

The man had a gift for just shutting down a conversation. It was as though he slammed a door and threw away the key, leaving you looking at a smooth wood panel that you didn’t even know could be there.

It made me want to spit.

There had been a time when I had thought it terribly romantic that Nick was this walking enigma, a man of mystery just needing the right woman to unravel him.

Ha. Sadly for him, I’d gotten done with that.

“How can you think that you know everything?” I demanded, flinging out my hands. “How can you imagine that you see every possible angle?”

“We both know that Sean is guilty,” he said, the heart and soul or reason. “So, this can’t have anything to do with it.”

“Well, what about just answering a few questions? You expect me to just troop around with you on good faith? I’m curious! And if none of this is important, would it kill you to tell me any of it?”

My breath hitched in my chest and the words that came next weren’t the ones I planned to say. “Why won’t you trust me, Nick?” I actually grabbed his shirt and gave him a shake. “What have I ever done to make you think I can’t be trusted?”

He studied me and I wondered what the heck he was thinking. “I trust you.”

“Wrong. You evade every question I ask you, even the most innocuous things.” To my embarrassment, there were tears blurring my vision and I hoped the bad light hid them from him. “You have got to be the most irritating man I’ve ever known, and I have three brothers to offer serious competition for that honor. That’s it, Nick, that’s
it
.”

I didn’t wait for the sweet talk, just in case there might not be any. I turned and stalked across the room. He didn’t say anything, which might have been the smart choice.

I stormed down the hall, thinking that it would be nice if he at least pretended to give a damn that I was leaving, my blood boiling hotter with every step. But I knew where I stood now. It couldn’t get any more crystal clear than this. When I got opposite the French door to the greenhouse, I just glanced that way.

And I saw Lucia.

At least, I saw her ghost. Dressed in flowing white with her hair unbound and holding a candle aloft. Her feet didn’t seem to be touching the ground, as though she floated there. There was a red gash on her throat and a stain on the otherwise pristine white.

She looked annoyed, for all her ethereal air.

Her ghost took a step closer and lifted one hand as though she would strike me dead on the spot. Or hex me. My mouth opened, but I couldn’t have made a sound to save my life.

I didn’t hang around for a better look. In fact, I ran so wildly that I nearly broke my ankle in the process.

* * *

Phil was right.

As much as he might have preferred otherwise, she had nailed it in one. She had never done anything to make him withhold his trust.

It was just the way he was. Or maybe it was just what he had learned.

He slipped out of the house and clung to the shadows as he rounded the dark side of the building. In the distance, he glimpsed Phil running away, away from him, but he knew she’d never hear him if he yelled. He guessed she wouldn’t stop if she did.

He walked along the lip of the sea, Lucia’s album tucked beneath his arm. Eventually, he found a quiet road and turned back toward the anonymity of the city.

The air stayed crisp, even tainted with the fumes from fast food restaurants, its edge clarifying his thoughts. He followed their line back to the city, the crinkle of Chandra’s recipe in his pocket and the weight of Lucia’s only recording as reassuring as the bite of the wind.

He realized immediately that he had left his pack in Phil’s Beast, but there was nothing critical in it. He had his passport, enough cash to get by, and his wits. There was nothing else he needed, there never had been.

For the first time, he wondered. He’d been so careful about not making any ties, not forging any emotional bonds, not needing anyone or letting them need him. But Lucia had been killed and he missed her, all the same.

Despite his efforts, he was just as lonely as when his parents died. He had to admit that his strategy of living showed some serious weaknesses.

And Phil insisted he had left a mark in her life.

He couldn’t regret that. He squinted into the distance and tried to guess which light might be the glow from Phil’s kitchen window, the one that overflowed with vigorous plants.

She’d probably be washing a stick of celery to eat raw for dinner, or some damn thing. Here he’d tried to apologize to her, to make things better, and he’d just made things worse. He was supposed to erase a footprint, but he’d trampled everything within sight.

He wondered whether he could still pull this one out of the fire.

There was something about Phil Coxwell that drew him like a magnet. There always had been. She was so optimistic, so determined, so good at challenging expectations.

Like today. It had never occurred to him that everyone couldn’t just eat what they wanted, when they wanted. He was awed by her willpower, her determination to make herself into who she wanted to be, to look the way she wanted to look.

That must be why he wanted to help her. Right. A knight in shining armor bearing rice cakes.

Maybe her parents’ meddling pissed him off enough that he wanted to sweep in and make everything easy for her, for a change. Anyone could see that McAllister wasn’t the right kind of guy for Phil.

It was as though they wanted to push her back, to make her into whatever they wanted her to be. Clearly no one cared what Phil wanted, yet what she wanted was so simple.

She just wanted to be herself and make her own choices.

He hadn’t realized until today what a gift Lucia had given him when she insisted he be himself, make his own decisions, follow his own dreams. She’d refused to give advice, she’d compelled him to think things through for himself.

There was more than the oddity of their house that the rest of Rosemount’s families didn’t share.

But then, Phil didn’t seem to need anyone’s protection. She’d gotten this far without him and would probably make her own way further. He thought suddenly of salmon swimming upstream, never accepting failure.

Was that why Phil was so hard to walk away from? Because he had always been one to champion a noble cause, and hers clearly was? Because he liked to back the underdog, to help those with everything set against them? Because if he was going to make a difference, he wanted it to be a lasting and good one?

Or was he lured back to Phil because she credited him with setting her on the course to her own happiness? Because she made him feel welcome? Because she accepted him as he was, even when it infuriated her?

He smiled. And that was when he knew what he had to do.

First things first. He sauntered past his brother’s apartment, saw what he expected to see, made the call he had to make. This time Sean peered into the darkness as he was led away.

Nick waved from the shadows. It was a playful gesture, more showy than was typical of him, but he thought Phil would appreciate it.

By dawn he had made his way to Haymarket. He leaned against a wall, sipping a coffee as traffic on the floor grew. He loved markets, the colors, the smells, the negotiations. The form changed slightly, but the functionality was the same all over the world.

He found them jubilant, practical, reassuring.

Not unlike Phil.

First came the vendors in fingerless gloves and heavy coats, piling their oranges, sorting the radicchio, plunking fresh herbs in water. They shouted at their junior help, who were often their children, a dozen languages filling the air. Trucks were backed up and emptied, then driven away to park. He could smell fresh fish and hear running water as the greens were rinsed to a glisten. Just the sights and smells made him want to cook again.

He’d never taken the time and trouble to invest in a good kitchen, though he’d yearned for one once or twice. It the act of acquiring stuff that stopped him, the fact that he wouldn’t be able to carry it all if he chose to walk away.

But today, he itched to take that step.

Then came the chefs, questioning, fingering, sniffing, choosing with expert assurance. The smell of fresh bread drifted through the chill of the morning. He wrapped his hands around his coffee cup, as though he would stop himself from buying food he had no need for.