Lost in Love (21 page)

She did—all of it. By the end she was crying in earnest, but surprisingly it felt good, too.

Jackson slumped in a chair he’d pulled up next to her, still holding her hand. “You’re a strong woman, Meredith Daniels. I’d have crumbled if I’d had to deal with everything you have.”

“No you wouldn’t.” She pulled out a tissue from her drawer and wiped her eyes. “You’d have kicked its butt.”

“Yes, but I’d have whimpered a whole lot.” He smiled deprecatingly. Then he sobered. “Quinn doesn’t know.”

“And he’s not going to find out.” She gave him a flat look. “Are we clear?”

He sighed, rubbing her knuckles with his thumb. “The thing is, I’m more scared of Quinn than I am of you. You’re a powder-puff. Quinn could bring down governments. I’m grateful every day that he chooses to use his powers for good.”

She felt a flash of pride. “He’s smart.”

“And scary, and he has a tendency to ferret out secrets.” Jackson squeezed her hand. “Keep that in mind. It’d be better for everyone if you told him yourself.”

She nodded. “Duly warned.”

“You’re not going to do it, are you?”

“No.”

He sighed. “I’ll have Delia look into hiring me a bodyguard then, because when he finds out I know he’ll kick my ass.”

She chuckled, feeling a little lighter than she had. She pressed Jackson’s hand between both hers. “Thank you.”

“For bullying you?”

“For being a good friend.”

Jackson lifted her hand to kiss it, a friendly press of his lips, no ounce of anything sexual to it. As if reading her mind, he said, “We were never good together, were we?”

“Not like that. I think we’re better friends.”

“Thank you for seeing that. Imagine how awful we’d both feel if we were still together. We’d never have found Portia and Quinn, and that’d have been a tragedy.”

“You love Portia?” she asked.

He nodded. “With all my heart.”

But she saw a shadow of something there that didn’t make sense. “You say it like that’s a wrong thing.”

“Only because I’ve kind of fucked up.” He smiled deprecatingly. “I’m sure that doesn’t surprise you.”

“You’ll fix whatever it is,” she said, certain. “You’re a good man, Jackson Waite. Portia knows that.”

“I don’t know that I can fix this the way she’d want, but I’m going to do my best to salvage what I can.” He stood up and turned for the door. But then he paused. “Meredith, tell Quinn, for your own sake. You don’t keep secrets from someone you love.”

She started to say she didn’t love Quinn but she shut her mouth.

“At least you didn’t deny it,” he said. “There’s hope for you yet.”

Meredith got up. “Jackson—”

“People have ups and downs,” he interrupted her. “He’s supposed to be there to help you, regardless. You’d do the same for him, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“There is no but. Stop being an ass.”

She blinked. “That’s it? That’s your advice?”

“I thought it was good advice. Succinct.” He grinned and slung an arm around her shoulder. “You’re going to be fine, kid.”

She put her head on his shoulder. For the first time in weeks, she actually thought maybe he might be right.

Chapter Twenty-nine

“The party has arrived,” Bea said as she entered the study. She set the large bag she carried on the table so she could take off her scarf and layers. “Where is everyone?”

“Rosalind and Gigi are fetching supplies from the kitchen, and Summer had to take a work call.” Portia moved an ottoman to make room in front of the fireplace. “Gigi invited Titania, but she was busy, of course.”

“Vi isn’t here yet?”

Portia shook her head as she spread the blanket on the floor. “She’ll be here shortly.”

“Trouble with that bastard.” Bea shook her head as she kicked her shoes off. “I wish she’d let me handle him.”

“She’s strong enough to deal with it.” Portia understood wanting to do it yourself. She hadn’t realized it before, but there was a sense of accomplishment. Even when you didn’t get what you wanted.

“Yes, but I love her.”

“Who do you love?” Rosalind asked Bea as she entered the room with a tray and Gigi following behind.

“All of you, but Viola in this case.” Bea put the bag she brought on the floor, sat next to it, and began to unpack. “The bastard’s been cheating on her. You’d think he’d be willing to let her go.”

“Men are awful,” Gigi stated as she sat on the blanket.

“Speaking of which”—Rosalind handed Bea a shaker—”how are you doing, Gigi?”

Even Imogen’s shrug had dramatic flair. “As well as can be expected for someone who’s been cooped up in the house. Thank you all for accommodating me, by the way, and having Tuesday night drinks here.”

“Of course, darling,” Bea said as she arranged bottles of liquor in front of her. “The South Street house is as good as the Red Witch.”

“What did I miss?” Summer asked as she hurried into the study.

“Only that we all want to kill Vi’s husband,” Portia replied. “You’re just in time for drinks.”

“Although Bea bought out London’s liquor supply,” Gigi said, her brows raised as she watched their oldest sister unscrew the gin, “so you weren’t in danger of missing drinks.”

“I wanted to make sure everyone had what they needed.” Bea mixed a martini like she’d been doing it all her life and poured it into the glass. She handed it to Gigi and reached for the vodka. “Cosmo, Summer?”

“You can make that?” their new sister asked.

Bea gave her a withering look. “Do you doubt me?”

Reaching for one of the bottles on the blanket, Rosalind laughed. “You brought me pickle juice.”

“Of course she did,” Gigi said, visibly relaxing as she sipped her drink. “Did anyone tell Luca we were meeting here tonight?”

“Oh God.” Bea rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed. “We can do without him for a night, I’m sure.”

“I told him,” Rosalind said, grinning at their oldest sister. “After all, he’s like an eighth Summerhill sibling.”

Bea paused as she poured whiskey and pointed at Rosalind. “He is
not
a sibling.”

Portia and Rosalind exchanged a look but knew better than to say anything about the way Bea flushed at his name. Portia felt a rush of happiness for Luca. Quite frankly, she couldn’t think of anyone who could handle Bea better than the bossy Italian, and he was already part of the family.

“In any case,” Rosalind continued, “he and Nick are having a guy’s night out with a friend of theirs who’s in town.”

“Good,” Bea said, although Portia thought her oldest sister looked a touch disappointed.

Viola hurried into the room, looking harried. “Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re just in time,” Portia said as Bea handed her a glass of Jameson.

“Charles cancelled.” She frowned at them as she tugged her gloves off and tossed them aside. “I know you’re shocked.”

“Where’s Chloe?” Rosalind asked.

Just then the teenager shuffled into the room, not looking particularly thrilled to be there.

“Excellent,” Bea said. “Is she allowed a small cocktail?”

“A weak one.” Vi faced her daughter. “Do not tell your father I permitted alcohol. He’ll call me unfit.”

“It’s just one cocktail,” Gigi said, sipping hers. “There’s nothing wrong with that. We were always allowed a spot of wine with dinner when we were growing up.”

“Yes, but we’re talking about Charles.” Vi gave them a look that stated she didn’t want to discuss this topic any longer.

Portia glanced at Chloe, who stood on the edge of the room looking miserable. She remembered what Luca said and cleared her throat. “Come sit here, Chloe.”

Chloe looked at Portia like she just offered to throw her out a skyscraper window.

But then Gigi scooted over and patted the space between them. “Yes, welcome to your initiation. You’re a Summerhill, after all.”

Franny bustled in, carrying a plate of shortbread. “Here you go, my lambs.”

Gigi took one before the woman could set the platter down. “Franny, you’re a goddess.”

“I know.” The older woman winked. “Leave the dishes. I’ll clear them in the morning.”

“Franny, why don’t you join us?” Rosalind asked, reaching for a cookie.

“Ach, no. You girls enjoy yourselves.” She arched her brow at Portia. “I’m going to have tea with my lover.”

Gigi groaned.

Portia felt her face heat as everyone looked at her with curiosity. “It was an honest mistake.”

“Humph.” Franny shook her head, but her lips curved with humor. As she turned to leave, she said, “Chloe, keep an eye on them so they don’t get in too much trouble.”

“Okay,” Chloe said, but her expression was confused.

Rosalind held out a shortbread to her. “Have a cookie, Chloe, and relax. No one’s getting arrested tonight.”

Chloe took it and held it in her hand. Her shoulders hunched in, like she was trying to become smaller.

Portia realized she was huddled to one side, too, to give the teenager space. She remembered what Luca had said to her, about Chloe being stuck between her parents.

The funny thing was, Portia was torn between her parents, too—still—even though her father was dead.

The revelation made her sit up. How idiotic was it that she couldn’t forge a better relationship with her mother now? Especially since Jacqueline had given her more encouragement than Reginald ever had.

Impulsively she faced Chloe and lowered her voice. “Thank you.”

The teenager recoiled a little, staring at Portia like she’d grown a second head. “For what?” she asked in her usual sullen tone.

“For being an example to me.”

Chloe snorted. “Yeah, whatever.”

“No, I mean it.” She touched her necklace. “I realize that my mother loves me the same way your mother loves you.”

“My mother doesn’t love me,” the girl muttered, hugging herself tight.

Portia looked at Viola, who huddled across the room, her posture so much like her daughter’s. “She does. She could have left you at home to wallow alone, but she brought you here. And even though she doesn’t like your father, she makes sure he has access to you, because it’s important to you.”

Chloe edged away from her. “You don’t know anything.”

“Actually, I do,” Portia said, surprised by the fact herself. “I know exactly how you’re going to feel in twenty years if you don’t do something now to repair whatever rift there is between you and your mum. Viola would do anything for you. Not even you can deny that.”

The teenager crossed her arms and looked away, but there was a little frown wrinkling her brow that told Portia she was thinking over her words.

Bea handed Chloe a reddish cocktail in a martini glass. “A very weak cosmopolitan for your first time, Chloe. Welcome to Tuesday night drinks.”

“Cheers!” Gigi held up her drink and winked at Portia. “To the bonds of sisterhood. Let no man tear them asunder.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Portia said, thinking of her mother, father, and wondering how she was going to take her own advice and fix what she’d let grow apart.

“You were quiet tonight, Portia,” Gigi said as she dried the last glass.

“No, I wasn’t.” She put the dishes back in the cupboard and wiped the counter. Everyone else had gone home, and they’d decided to clean up despite Franny’s orders. She didn’t think she’d be able to sleep anyway. She had a lot on her mind.

“You barely said anything.” Gigi leaned against the counter, her arms folded. “You barely drank either.”

She was planning on visiting The Weasel in the morning and didn’t want to cloud her mind with alcohol before. She still hadn’t formulated a new plan to get him to hire her, but there had to be something else he’d want. She just had to figure out what’d be enticing to him. “I have an early day tomorrow.”

“This responsible side you’re displaying is both impressive and peculiar.” Gigi yawned.

“Go to bed.” Portia took the towel from her. “I’ll finish this.”

“Twist my arm.” Smiling, Gigi kissed her cheek. “Goodnight, Portia.”

She finished cleaning the kitchen in silence, which only magnified her thoughts. Niamh had suggested that she stop looking at the door. If the tiara was the door, what was the window?

She was about to turn the light off when her mother walked in carrying an empty teacup. “You’re still up, Portia?”

“I was about to go to bed.” She held her hand out. “I’ll take that.”

“Thank you.” Her mother smiled at her. “Goodnight, then.”

Nodding, she turned to the sink. But then she whirled around. “Mother—”

“Portia,” her mother said as the same time, facing her. “I’m proud of you.”

She felt her mouth fall open. “You are?”

“Yes.” Her mother took a step forward. “You found your way and are taking control of your life. I just wanted to let you know that I find that admirable, and Catherine Summerhill would have, too.”

Portia watched her mother leave the kitchen, all the things she wanted to say jumbling in her chest. She wanted to tell her mother she was sorry for not knowing her. She wanted to rest her head on her mother’s shoulder and tell her she lost her chance at the museum.

She wanted to confide in her mum that she loved Jackson, only she didn’t know if she could trust him.

Her mother’s words chased her all the way to her room. She
had
taken control—and then she’d given up control. But why? And for what? To work for a weasel who didn’t want her anyway?

As she lay in bed, she pictured what she wanted her life to look like. She knew she didn’t want to live alone in a drafty mansion. Nor did she want to flog herself for someone who didn’t appreciate her.

She wanted passion.

Passion was working with antiques, regardless of the type of position. Passion was Jackson, regardless of what his father had done.

She stared at the ceiling as an idea took shape in the dark.

Chapter Thirty

Jackson held her hand the entire way to her doctor’s appointment, at the office, and all the way back to work. It was nice.

Meredith looked down at his fingers wrapped around hers. It felt the way she thought it’d feel holding your sibling’s hand—reassuring and warm and completely asexual.