didn’t she like to travel?” I ask him, recalling parts of our conversations. “It seems so . . . out of character.”
He nods, swallowing a sip of coffee. “Because she was so fearless otherwise?”
“Exactly.”
Sam sets his mug down and reaches up to scratch his jaw. It’s a small movement, such a casual gesture, but it sends a bolt of heat through me anyway. I’d forgotten how easy he is in his body.
“She hated planes,” he tells me. “I think it was probably the one thing that scared her—the idea of flying across an ocean. I remember when Luther and I left, how she tried to look calm and put together, but she was a wreck.”
“Do you think she would have had fun in London?” It’s amazing what context can do, like I can see my past through someone else’s eyes. What I’ve been holding on to was actually about something so much bigger than just me.
The thought blows through me, unsettling: If Sam had asked me, would I have agreed to expose myself to help Luther? The truth is, I had loved Sam enough to say yes. I would have. And the fact that he didn’t even talk to me about it dampens the relieved, floaty feeling I’ve had since yesterday.
I’ve missed half his answer and have to mentally shake myself to catch the rest of it.
“. . . couple days. She liked to keep busy. She wasn’t really one for vacations.” He stops, and his gaze flickers all over my face. “What?” he asks warily.
I’m not sure what he sees in my expression. “What what?”
“Your cheeks are red.” He pauses again, narrowing his eyes, reading me perfectly. “Are you embarrassed about something, or mad at me?”
His comfort with honesty, with gentle confrontation, makes my irritation boil over. “Track change, but I was wondering why you didn’t include me in the decision to go to the Guardian.”
Now I know this question catches him by surprise. He takes in a sharp breath, leans back, and tilts his face up to the ceiling as he thinks about it. “You think you would have agreed?” he asks, finally.
“I think there’s a good chance. I was pretty infatuated with you.”
I see the way this word hits him sharply, that I said infatuated not love. Sam looks back at me. “I didn’t include you because I was panicking.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and staring at the area rug beneath his feet. “It wasn’t exactly a well-laid plan. I wasn’t even sure it was going to work.”
“Tell me how it happened.”
He rubs a hand over his beard, squeezing his eyes closed. “Like I said, I was panicking after talking to Roberta. She told him we had to come home that instant. He fought her a bit, but finally agreed. As soon as Luther went downstairs to settle up our room, I called the paper,” he says, and his voice is so flat, it’s like he’s reading instructions. “I said I had information on Ian Butler’s daughter. They said they’d have a reporter call me back, and I thought it would take a while, but it was like two minutes even though it was three in the morning. I told them they’d have to buy the story. They got some preliminary information from me so they knew I was credible—I think I told them where you lived and the name you went by, so they could look it up. When they wired money to my account, I went down to the lobby and used a pay phone to call them back. I told them everything you’d told me.” He looks at me and winces. “You and Jude walked past me to breakfast while I was talking to them. I nearly threw up. Tucked the phone into my shoulder and turned away. I was worried the reporter hung up, but he hadn’t.” Sam shrugs. “We left for the airport basically as soon as the call was over, I chickened out on saying goodbye, and Luther got his treatment.”
“And then it was just—what?” I ask. “Business as usual? Back to your regular life?”
“I mean, there were a lot of doctor appointments and hospitalizations. It wasn’t exactly regular life, but yeah. I took on more at the farm. Luther was weak for a while, but then he was better.” He licks his lips and takes a deep breath. “I never told Roberta or Luther what I did.”