digital footprint. All I’ve got to go on at the moment is the name of a town near where he lived when he was growing up.”
“Can I help? The museum’s got some pretty good search options.”
“Sure, have a go at it,” Rachel shrugged. “The more the merrier. After all, we might not have much time.”
“Or we might be entirely too late.”
“True. But I think it would put Esther’s mind at rest—you know, to find out what happened to him. I think she might still love him.”
“Oh, I’m a sucker for a love story,” said Janice, the bracelets on her arm jangling as she bit into her cake again.
* * *
Late that afternoon, as the sun was beginning to set, Rachel walked past the slipway near the pub, feeling a pang as she noticed the mooring where Soleil had once been tied up. She was fretting over her assurance to Dr. Wentworth that she would see the project through, that she would stay on the island for another five years.
“Halloo!”
She looked up to see a now-familiar figure a little way along the causeway.
“Leah, what are you doing here?” she asked when the woman came closer. “I thought you never left Embers?” Rachel’s mind scudded back to her meeting with the art gallery owner in London.
“Never say never,” she said. “Anyway, I thought it was about time I got out and about a bit. Join me for a drink?” They were only a few steps from the Mermaid.
Rachel hid her surprise, both at the sudden appearance of Leah and at her suggestion of a drink. “Sure. In fact, it’s my treat. It’s the least I can do.”
“Tanqueray,” said Leah firmly. “Make it a double.”
It was still fairly early and the pub was quiet when they pushed their way past the heavy door. They settled themselves in a corner and Rachel went to the bar, ordering a gin and tonic for each of them. She decided not to question Leah’s order of a double.
Two drinks later, and Rachel was beginning to feel a warm glow envelop her. Leah too was far more talkative than when they had been at Embers. They had been discussing Rachel’s project, and she had confided her promise to stay on the islands to complete it. “It’s not necessarily a bad thing, you know,” Leah said, her voice slipping on the sibilants. “Stay. Put down some roots. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Rachel realized that she didn’t have an answer to that anymore.
“Anyway,” she said. “You and Jonah—”
“There isn’t a me and Jonah,” Rachel said quickly. “Strictly in the friend zone.”
“Well, you should do something about that; the man’s gorgeous.”
“I think he’s looking for something a bit more serious than I can give him,” she admitted.
“What are you afraid of? Everyone needs someone.”
“Look who’s talking!” said Rachel. “You’ve cut yourself off completely. Tell me, why did you choose such a life?”
“Listen, Rachel, I’ve made mistakes in my past, pushed away people who tried to help, tried to help Tabitha too. Perhaps if I’d acted sooner, things would have been different, but at the time I was so caught up in my own dramas . . . getting established as an artist, painting like a demon, ignorant to what was going on right under my nose. I was far from a perfect mother, and then her father . . . well, that’s another story again.”
“I’m sure you did your best.” Rachel guessed that the alcohol was largely responsible for Leah’s unexpected confidences.
Leah looked at her sadly. “In the end, that’s all we can do.”
“But you still haven’t answered my question,” Rachel persisted.
Leah looked her straight in the eye. “I’m a fraud, Rachel,” she said quietly.
“What?”
“A fraud. As an artist. Oh, I had a bit of talent once, but it didn’t last. After everything that happened with Tabitha I lost it all. Her, and my work. I couldn’t face anyone, none of my friends, certainly not my dealer. I ran away I suppose, first to Scotland and then here. Didn’t feel as though I had a right to the life I’d once led, thought I could hide away and everyone would forget about me. That I could forget about me.”
Rachel went to speak but Leah continued.
“Except it didn’t exactly work out like that. I tried to give up painting completely, but I found my way back to it. Somewhere along the way I stopped caring if I was any good. The act of painting was enough. We’re not so very different,