The young woman smiled. “The Fancy Book Emporium.”
“A play on your name. How clever.”
With a light laugh she affectionately patted her husband’s arm. “Everyone understood that except him. He declared I’d forgotten the apostrophe and S.”
“It’s where we met,” Rosemont explained. “In my defense, I wasn’t quite myself at the time. I didn’t want her to be clever.”
“He was taking a sabbatical from women, didn’t want to be intrigued by me.”
Althea smiled at Rosemont. Had danced with him on occasion. “But you were.”
“I was indeed. Sometimes when life puts us on a path we don’t necessarily want to travel, we discover it was a journey we needed to take in order to secure happiness. Perhaps like me, you’ll find yourself richer because of the rough road you’re now on. Mine led me to the love of my life.”
Fancy snuggled against his side, and his arm went protectively around her. “He can be so poetic at times. It’s only one of the reasons I love him.”
A shrill whistle rent the air. “We’re about to get started,” Aiden yelled.
“Oops! We’d better go.” Fancy took her husband’s hand and began leading him toward a sofa.
Benedict placed his hand on the small of her back. “They’ve not been married long. Still in the first blush of love.”
She looked up at him. “Do you think it’ll fade?”
He shook his head. “No.”
His answer, his belief in the sustainability of love, made her chest tighten as they made their way to a settee and settled into place beside each other. But then how could he not believe when each husband was either holding his wife’s hand or had his arm protectively around her shoulders, when each wife was nestled against her husband?
The furniture was arranged in a horseshoe shape, with Aiden standing in front of what appeared to be an easel. Only its legs were visible because a cloth covered whatever was on it.
“All right,” he announced, “we are to begin.” With a great flourish, he whipped off the draping to reveal a large canvas upon which was written TREWLOVE in what appeared to be pencil, possibly charcoal.
“Not one of your better pieces of artwork,” Benedict said.
“Because it is not yet finished. We have the canvas”—he pointed to it—“the palette with assorted colors”—he held it up—“and the brush.” The last he swiped dashingly through the air as though it was a sword and he upon a stage battling pirates.
“He’s always enjoyed performing,” Benedict said sotto voce, and she wished he was whispering other things, more romantic things, in her ear. He wasn’t holding her hand, but his arm was resting along the back of the settee, a finger lazily tracing a small circle over the flesh just below the sleeve of her gown, and she wondered if he was even aware of the action.
“No disrespect to those who have married into the family,” Aiden continued, “but only those originally named Trewlove will be participating. Each of you, in turn, will come up and paint one of the letters. We shall create a nice display of our name. Mum, you’re up first. Come paint the T.”
“Oh my. I didn’t know I was going to start.” She pushedherself out of her chair and walked over to him. “What if I mess it up?”
“I’ll guide you. If we make a mess, I can fix it.”
“All right, then.”
“What color?”
“My favorite. Blue.”
He dabbed the brush at the palette before handing it to his mother. Then he stepped behind her, wrapped his hand around hers, and helped her to slowly trace the letter. “Perfect,” he said when they were finished.
Mrs. Trewlove was beaming when she returned to the winged chair.
“Now we go in the order in which we arrived. Mick.”
“Orange,” he announced as he crossed over to his brother.
He was done in a tick and headed back to his place beside Aslyn, who smiled at him as though he’d just conquered the world.
