Jack picks up a small branch and launches it up the path, and the dogs tear off after it.
“I’ll teach you their training words, but you aren’t going to have any issues with them, I can tell. Romulus isn’t a people person, he fell in love the moment he saw you. Just like I did.”
“Awww. He’s a beauty. His fur is so soft.”
Jack gives me a small kiss, and the dogs come back, dancing merrily around him. He heaves the branch again and off they go.
I glance back down the path, but my view of the pier—and the body—is obscured. I can see the circular top deck of The Hebrides, the helicopter landing pad like a spaceship rising over the trees. The clouds gathering in the distance are ominous, but for the moment, the sun is out, and the birds sing in the trees. Idyllic as a postcard. Except for the old bones.
Jack seems consumed by nervous excitement, hurrying ahead to pick a bright red flower to tuck behind my ear, running back to retrieve the dropped hairclip he knocks loose, throwing the branch for the dogs again and again. I laugh obediently at his antics, but my heart isn’t in it. He is trying to distract me. He’s always been so good at creating distractions.
Or maybe he is distracting himself?
Don’t ascribe your emotions to him, Claire.
I run my hands through my now-freed hair, which has taken on a life of its own in the salt air. I twist it back up in a chignon and secure it with the clip he hands over. A rock has somehow found its way into my shoe. I stand on one foot, balancing with a hand against his shoulder, dump it out and slide back into my Converse.
Every motion feels like a delay. Jack finally stops goofing around and squeezes my hand.
“Darling, what’s wrong? You’re a million miles away.”
“No, I’m not. I’m right here, on this gorgeous, lovely island.”
He pulls me close. “You might be here physically, but you’re distracted. You aren’t worried about the wedding, are you? Getting cold feet?” He’s joking, but I can see the tiny furrow between his brows.
“No cold feet. I guess I’m just a little bothered by the body down at the pier. On top of the break-in. It’s a lot.”
Not exactly true. Not exactly a lie, either.
The horn of the hydrofoil ferry floats up from the base of the path. I’m relieved to hear it. I’d like some of my people around to buffer the Compton grandeur.
“Ah. Good. Some of our guests are arriving,” Jack says.
“So it seems. Should we wait for them?”
“No. Let’s hurry ahead so we can get a few more minutes alone. I want to talk to you for a second.”
He sounds grave and it makes me nervous.
“We’re alone now. Talk.”
“Come on. I’ll race you.” He grins and starts jogging backward, gesturing with both hands for me to follow. I rise to the challenge. I’m pretty quick; I ran track in school and getting out of the blocks fast was my biggest strength. I’m not much of a runner now, I prefer yoga and my bike, but back then, I was a cheetah, built for blisteringly fast but short sprints. I burst into motion and beat Jack to the top of the hill by two whole seconds.
“Take that, Compton.”
He reaches me a heartbeat later, barely out of breath, and kisses me on the nose.
“Look,” he says, and spins me 180 degrees to see the Villa.
7
Villas and Pearls
Up close, the Villa is even more magnificent than I expected. Five stories of imposing wind-worn stone crouch on the side of the hill, holding on to the cliffside for dear life. It wraps around out of my sight. From the water’s view, I know that hidden edge is where it meets up with the walls of the ancient fortress. Plenty of room for us, our guests, Jack’s family, and of course, the staff.
Staff. Something else I’ll have to get accustomed to.
Like the terrace above, overflowing pots of petunias flank the front doors, two massive slabs of weathered wood thrown open in welcome. A wide grass-and-slate courtyard with iron tables shaded by jaunty striped umbrellas waits to our right. Ahead are stairs down to a second courtyard that looks out over the water. The only thing that feels off are the cameras, mounted on every corner. An elaborate, state-of-the-art security system enhances the feeling that we’re standing in front of a fortress.
It is impossible to take it all in, the sheer size and beauty of it. I wander toward the patio, drawn to the water. The gray stone is warming in the sun and two cats—one calico, one tuxedo—nap on the ancient stacked stone wall overlooking the sea. The dogs bark at them, but I can tell it’s a game—the cats ignore them.
The view. The view. Roman kings and explorers and ancient witches had killed to possess this spot, to gaze at the sea, at the jutting knees of volcanic rock ringing the island. These conquerors would stand in this very spot and think themselves safe. They could see their enemies approaching, have days to make preparations. They thought they could never be overthrown.
All things, all people, can be conquered. I’m not silly enough to believe otherwise.
The beach below is raked clear of rocks and seaweed; there are chaise longues and umbrellas, though currently being stacked and lashed to the rocks in preparation for the storms to come. Two stone jetties abut each side of the beach, creating a natural cove. The Hebrides, looking even more imposing and elegant from afar, is back in full view, being serviced by the crew at the pier. The hydrofoil has put in at the other pier and people are wandering off, taking pictures or simply staring up at the Villa, then getting in line for the funicular that will bring those less inclined for a hike to the top of the hill.
It’s such a shame that everyone’s taken a week off to be with us and it’s going to rain most of the time. About as fair as getting your period for the wedding night. Ah, well. Life is cruel.
I scan the people disembarking for familiar faces. Most of our guests are friends Jack has collected over the years, and the Compton family. I’m expecting only my mother and stepfather, my sister Harper, and my best friend Katie. I don’t see any of them.
I’m not the type to surround myself with acquaintances. The curse of the introvert, Jack calls it. I don’t see it as a curse at all. I just don’t play well with others.
“It’s quite grand, isn’t it?” Jack asks.
“What? Oh, the Villa? It’s absolutely beautiful. But what did you want to tell me, Jack?”
He walks me to the stone wall. The calico blinks and yawns, and I run a hand down her silky back. The cat’s eyes slit with pleasure and she stretches two long front legs contentedly, claws unsheathed, purring like an outboard motor.
“That’s Rosa and the tuxedo is Nina. They’re my mother’s cats.”