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32
Zeke caughtup with Liv in what many would call a library, but the statues, artwork, and other foreign bric-a-brac occupying every surface suggested the room was much more than a place to kick up one’s heels and read.
The faint scent of incense hung in the air, reminding him of the earthy aromas that always clung to Grams’s hair and clothes.
Liv stood before a pair of tall windows overlooking a distant mountain-scape. The setting sun painted the three tallest peaks in liquid gold while the valley below rested in shadow.
“Every time my parents would return home from one of their trips,” Liv said, not turning around as he entered, “they would add a memento to this room.”
She turned away from the window and moved toward a cream throw that draped one corner of the pinstriped sofa. Her fingers slid over the material as if wiping away dust to reveal one childhood memory at a time.
“They would gather the three of us together and unveil their newest acquisition with a flourish.” She continued moving around the room, touching each surface she passed. “Unlike Nicola St. Martin,” she glanced at him, “my parents brought home items that held personal meaning to them. They weren’t necessarily old or of any particular value.”
“True treasures, then.”
“After the unveiling, my father would spin a tale of how they came into possession of the piece. The tale always included bits about the country, its history, and its people and their customs.”
“Sounds like you’ve been training for your position since childhood.”
“I never thought about that.” Her expression grew even more thoughtful, as if reevaluating those early years. “I suppose you’re right.”
Zeke moved farther into the room, not sure what to make of her mood. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he left the dinner table to track her down, but it wasn’t measured contemplation.
“Once Callie and Pierce hit their tweens,” she continued, “they dreaded, no, make that resented, attending my parents’ recap of their trips. But not me. I gobbled up those precious moments with my family, even though I wished they would’ve taken us all with them.” She paused her circuit to meet his eye. “It wasn’t until I brought my future husband home to meet my parents that I realized my parents had collected no memories of my childhood. None.”
Zeke felt an answering pang in his chest. A bookshelf in the Friary’s Great Room was dedicated to family photo albums. The albums started out thin, but as the family grew, so did the thickness of the albums.
Knowing how tough it was for his mother to be away from her boys while serving in the military, Grams had documented every missed birthday, scraped knee, touchdown, and slippery fish for his mom.
Once Lynette Blackwell retired from service, the albums got thinner again, eventually giving over to cloud storage.
“Your parents probably have a pile of photos hidden away in shoe boxes somewhere,” he said.
“The only photos that track my youth are the obligatory school pictures. Many of which I would prefer to burn than keep.” She crossed her arms over her middle, one hand absently rubbed her bare arm as if chilled by the retelling. “Don’t get me wrong. My parents are good people—just preoccupied by their own pursuits.”
Preoccupied was one word for their treatment. Others might call it neglect.
Although he enjoyed learning more about her, no matter how heart-wrenching, he didn’t understand why she chose this moment to share this bit of her life with him.
His tête-à-tête with Nicola St. Martin had obviously bothered her, but he couldn’t see a connection between the two events. “Why are you telling me this?”
“For years, I sought whatever small morsel of time my parents would give me. I craved it from one adventure to the next, not realizing what I really wanted, what I searched for in their cool smiles, stiff hugs, and feigned interest, was their love.”
She stood before him. Close enough for him to see the vulnerability in her eyes. Far enough away for him to recognize the Do Not Cross Line etched between them.
“What is it you’re searching for?” she asked.
Sinew gripped bone. “What do you mean?”
“Your performance back there. It was more personal than professional.”
“I did what I needed to do to accomplish the mission, which was to get intelligence from the St. Martins.”
“Bravo. She practically drooled an invitation to her fundraiser into your lap.”
“You’re jealous.”
“Irritatingly so.” She crossed her arms. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“There’s nothing to answer. I did my job.”
“Does Nicola have the sword?” she asked in a low voice.
