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The room is set up as an art studio, with an easel by the window, a paint-splattered sheet down protecting the floor, and canvases stacked haphazardly along the wall. It’s a well-loved room, I can feel it as soon as I walk in, and I can just picture Fraser in here, surrounded by the lush green views of the garden, a paintbrush in his hand.
I move closer to the canvases, curious now. They’re a mix of portraits, still lifes, and sketches, all in Fraser’s distinctive style. He was specializing in printmaking when I met him—hence the William Morris waistcoat—but he liked to dabble in other mediums, too.
Now, I can see that he hasn’t abandoned his gift, after all.
They’re stunning. A wild, vivid landscape, capturing the raw flinty shades of the Highlands. A delicate sketch of his niece and nephew playing, capturing their energy and sense of curiosity. There are panels of print, the same familiar thistle design as his tattoo, rendered in an intricate color-blocked style that would be perfect for a fabric pattern or wallpaper, and there’s an oil painting, too, a fresh, spring-hued picture of a woman curled up in an overstuffed armchair. A familiar looking armchair…
I pause, pulling it out from behind another picture to take a closer look.
It’s me.
My jaw drops. Fraser’s painted me, reading in the chair he kept in the corner of his attic room in London. I’m wrapped in the wool blanket he kept at the foot of his bed. My hair is piled on top of my head, bangs wispy in the spring breeze, and I’m smiling, lost in whatever dog-eared paperback novel I have in my hands.
In an instant, I’m right back there, curled in the chair with a view over the rooftops; Fraser smiling at me from his spot at the desk across the room. Did he snap a photograph of me one morning without me realizing, and use it to recreate this scene?
Or did he paint it from memory, the same way a dozen happy mornings are branded on my mind, too?
Someone clears their throat behind me, and I spin around, startled. “Fraser!” I blurt.
He’s leaning in the doorway, watching me.
“I didn’t mean to snoop,” I say quickly, realizing how it looks. “Well, OK, I did. But these paintings, they’re amazing!”
“They’re old,” he says, looking bashful.
“Not these ones,” I insist. “Flora can’t be more than four here. And this one, of your dad…”
Fraser crosses the room and slides them back into the rack. “It’s nothing,” he says again, dismissive. “Just mucking around.”
“Don’t do that.”
He looks over, surprised by the firmness in my voice.
“Don’t act like you don’t care about your art,” I insist. “Not when you put so much of yourself into it. Not with me.”
Fraser holds my gaze for a long moment, and he must see something there, because he sighs. “You talked to Kittie, then?”
“Yes.” I swallow. “She told me what happened. With your mom.Whenit happened.” I pause, searching his face, and when I finally get the question out, my voice is far too vulnerable for my liking. “Is that why you disappeared on me?”
Fraser goes to the window, a dark silhouette looking out at the rain-streaked glass. “I’m so sorry, Jolene.”
His voice is soft, and laced with regret, and when he turns back to face me, I can see the guilt etched deep in his features. “I should have a good explanation by now,” he continues, “Christ knows, I’ve had long enough to think it over. For a while there, I thought of nothing but. What I’d say to you… If I could just pick up the phone. Write you an email. Send a damn carrier pigeon. But I never did,” he adds. “Too much of a damn coward to face you again, after shutting you out like that.”
“You had enough to be dealing with!” I protest. “Fraser, your mom…”
“Is no excuse.” He shakes his head. “But, fuck, everything just fell apart. I came back after term ended on top of the world. I was telling everyone all about you, and the plans we had, and then—to tell the truth, I barely even remember it,” he says, darkly. “That whole summer after it happened was a blur. I was just trying to keep it together here. We all were.”
“Kittie said, your dad didn’t take it well,” I say gently.
Fraser gives a sharp laugh. “That’s an understatement. He shut down, wouldn’t come out of his study. It was as much as I could do to leave a tray by the door and hope he ate. They were together thirty-five years,” he adds, a sadness in his eyes. “Can you even imagine that? Thirty-five years waking up with someone, and then suddenly, they’re just gone. Poor bastard. I couldn’t even hate him for checking out. God knows, I did the same thing, when it came to you.”
I swallow back the tears already stinging in my throat. He was so young. Barely twenty-one, and suddenly responsible for a house full of kids while his dad stayed locked in a room down the hall. “It’s OK,” I tell him. “Really. I understand now.”
But he shakes his head, still guilty. “I blew it, I know I did. All those emails, and messages you left… You told me I was hurting you, and I just… Ignored it. I couldn’t deal. I was a shit to you, Jolene.” He sounds a harsh breath. “And then, by the time I had my head screwed on enough to take a look around… It was too late. No,” he adds, like he’s correcting himself. “It wasn’t too late. I was just too much of a fucking coward to face you. You’d moved on, and I took the easy way out, and just… Let you go.”
My heart aches. “I hadn’t moved on,” I say softly. “Not even close.”
He looks over. “But all those other guys… Your social media was full of them. I must have blocked and unblocked you a hundred times.”
