Page 22 of Echoes of the Sea (Storm Tide #2)
She nodded. “One of many pieces of furniture needing attention.” She turned toward him. It must have been too sudden or too drastic of a turn. Her cane slipped, and she stumbled.
Kip reached out with his free arm and caught her around the waist, keeping her on her feet. “Careful.”
“I am always careful,” she insisted. “That, however, isn’t always enough.”
“But you have to live here, where the ground outside is uneven and wet and treacherous?”
“For another five months.”
“That feels very unfair.”
“Life isn’t often fair.” She adjusted her footing and her cane, then stepped back. He dropped his arm away, but he wished he didn’t have to.
Her gaze shifted to the window. Worry pulled at her brow, and her posture stiffened.
“It’s too dark to see the ocean right now,” Kip reminded her. “You’re spared that until morning.”
“But I can still hear it. The sound of waves is constant.”
“Some people find that tranquil,” Kip said.
“I can’t imagine feeling even the tiniest whisper of peace when I am anywhere near it.”
She needed to get off Guilford Island. Kip had promised her he wouldn’t abandon her. And going to the village to argue for both of them to get transferred wasn’t abandonment. She would understand that, surely.
Deciding to negotiate a change of jobs after only a couple of days wasn’t the enormous betrayal she had made it out to be. Had she grown attached to him that quickly too? Or maybe it was just that someone with a degree of fame situated in her part of the site meant it would get more visitors.
No. He legitimately believed the people on this island he’d encountered didn’t know who he was. It was both humbling and relieving. And confusing.
Amelia motioned to the armoire. “The left door hangs down when it’s opened.”
Kip set the lantern on the small table, then opened the armoire doors. The left one shifted forward and down. A quick inspection revealed a missing hinge pin.
“I think I’ve stumbled on an epidemic.” He eyed the rest of the door, checking for any other problems. “Mick brought me a broken toy that was missing a hinge pin. This door is also missing a hinge pin.”
“Is that something you can replace?” She moved closer and eyed it.
“I’ll see if there’s anything in the outbuilding that will work. If not, I’ll make something.”
“Thank you.” She set her hand on his arm. His pulse responded with an oddly pleasant sort of hiccup. “Thank you for all that you’ve done and are doing. I would be sunk without you.”
“I suspect you are more unsinkable than you think,” he said. “It is a trait I have always admired in people. And even envied.”
“Do you not consider yourself unsinkable?”
He turned to face her. She dropped her hand away, which was a shame.
“I have had a very difficult year,” he said. “I’m beginning to suspect that I’m ‘unsinkable’ in the same way the Titanic was.”
“What is ‘the Titanic ’?” She smiled, but like she was curious, not joking. Genuinely curious. About the Titanic !
“The Titanic ,” he repeated. “You know, the ship. That sank.”
Her brow tugged sharply. “But you said this Titanic was unsinkable.”
“Everyone said it was, but—” He studied her but didn’t see any signs of humor or teasing.
1803.
She was sticking to character. A friendly moment together, one that had felt so real to him, and she was still in character.
“Never mind,” he said, trying to manage a casual smile.
Her attention shifted again to the window, her mouth turning down in a frown. They could hear the waves, but he didn’t think they were overly loud.
“You really are afraid of the ocean?”
She nodded, paler and overly still. That part of her “story” was true. He suspected the beech tree where she’d read books was real, as was her love of gardens. And he did think that she enjoyed his company. So why weave in things that weren’t real?
“What year were you born?” he asked her.
“1778.” Again, she hadn’t hesitated or calculated. She seemed unsure of his reason for asking but not at all unsure of her answer.
She claimed her birth year was 1778. She and Mick had both said the year now was 1803. And neither had needed to think for even the length of a single breath. Both had made the declaration after what would have been normal business hours. And both had said it to him when only he had been around.
“Am I older than you thought?” she asked. “Twenty-five is considered rather ancient for an unmarried lady. Some gentlemen object to spending time with spinsters.”
How was it that she could sound and look so sincerely concerned that her fake birth year made her a candidate for fake spinsterhood in this fake version of reality when she had to have known that wasn’t why he was pressing her about the year?
“I don’t entirely know what to make of you, Amelia Archibald. You are sincere but confusing.”
An easy smile lit her eyes. “And you, Kipling Summerfield, are also confusing.”
Despite his frustration, the corners of his mouth tipped upward. “No compliment first? Something along the lines of, ‘You are handsome and funny and excellent company but confusing.’ Flattery goes a long way.”
“You said yesterday that you like spending time with me.”
“I do.” And that surprised him even more than it had in the moment he’d said it.
“I like spending time with you,” she said. “That is a rare but very real compliment from me. Most people make me far too nervous.”
“I don’t make you nervous?”
She shook her head. “There’s kindness in your eyes, and I appreciate that.”
They wandered around the house a moment longer, with Amelia pointing out a few things he might consider of interest. And through it all, he very much felt he was seeing the real Amelia but through the lens of a historical character.
Confusing, as he’d said. And yet he felt an undeniable pull to her. What he didn’t truly understand was why.