Mourn not your Dead

lodged under his breastbone. It was all mixed up together—his regret for Lucy, for Claire, even for David Ogilvie.
    And Gemma. The thought of working with her every day, of being so close and yet not close enough, was like rubbing salt in a wound. But the alternative, not seeing her at all... He thought of David Ogilvie’s admonition against bitterness, and knew that for a path he would not allow himself to follow.
    A recklessness possessed him as he thought of the way he’d lived for so long, isolated behind walls of his own making. He wouldn’t give up on Gemma, nor would he go back to what he had been before he took her into his bed.
    As he reached the green, he had a sudden desire to see Madeleine Wade one last time. He passed the Gilberts’ lane and drove through the village, turning into the street that led up the hill to Madeleine’s shop, and past that, the Hurt-wood.
    He saw from the window that Madeleine presided over the shop counter herself, and he felt a pang of disappointment that he would not see her flat again. She looked up as the bell jangled, said, “I’m so sorry.”
    “The news has traveled already, I take it?”
    “Like the proverbial wildfire.”
    “I came to say good-bye.”
    She came around the counter and held out her hand to him. “I wouldn’t worry too much about Lucy. She’s strong, and she’ll manage to be what she wants to be.”
    “I know.” Her fingers felt warm in his grasp. “You could give her a lesson or two.”
    Madeleine smiled. “I might just do that.”
     
    HE DROVE WITH SUCH PRECISION, THOUGHT GEMMA, WATCH-ing his absorbed face in the flickering light of the street lamps. It seemed to her that they were always coming and going together in cars, while their lives remained stuck in a sort of limbo between journeys.
    She’d spent the quiet hours of the afternoon with Claire, sitting at the kitchen table drinking endless cups of weak tea, talking mostly of inconsequential things. Once, though, Claire had looked up from the dregs in her cup and said, “I’ll be charged, too, won’t I, as an accessory after the fact?”
    Gemma nodded. “I’m afraid so. They’ll be sending someone for you from Guildford Station.”
    “I’m glad, really,” Claire had said. “It’s a relief to have it over. Now the truth is out, we can get on with learning to be ourselves.”
    Gemma thought of Will, to whom the truth seemed to come so easily, and of the chaste good-bye she’d bid the disappointed Nick Deveney. She looked at Kincaid again and wondered if she had the courage to face her own truth.
    “Come in for a bit,” she said when he had pulled the car up in front of the flat and killed the engine. Through the screen of leaves in the dark garden she could see a light shining in the nursery window of the big house. Toby was still awake, then, but she was content to postpone seeing him.
    “It’s been a rough day, Gemma, and I know you’re tired,” Kincaid answered, sounding exhausted himself. “Some other—”
    “Please. I’d like you to.” She rummaged in her handbag for the heavy key, and when she got out of the car he followed her obediently.
    Once inside, she dumped her bag and coat on the chest by the door and bustled around the flat, closing blinds and lighting lamps. “There, that’s better,” she said as she glanced around with satisfaction. Hazel must have been in the flat, for it looked swept and brushed, and a vase of deep yellow roses stood on the low table. Hadn’t she read somewhere that yellow was the color of mourning?
    “I’ll get us some wine.” She uncorked a nice bottle of Burgundy she’d been saving, then stood on her tiptoes as she retrieved her best glasses from the kitchen cupboard’s top shelf.
    Kincaid, having positioned himself against the long window counter, safely avoiding her whirlwind of activity, watched without saying a word. Accepting his glass, he said, “Gemma—”
    “I wanted to talk to you.” Her words came out in a rush. “But I don’t know how to begin. What’s happened the last few days... has made me think about a lot of things.” Unable to meet his level gaze, she turned away, reached out, and touched the yellow petal of an opening rosebud. “I want you to understand that my job is very important to me and that I have other obligations, commitments. There’s Toby, and I’ve promised to see Will whenever I can—”
    “Gemma, stop it. You don’t have to apologize to me or make excuses for what