Island of Glass
Page 21
“After a beer.”
“Can’t argue with it.”
The fact was Doyle found it hard to argue with Sawyer about anything. The man was affable, canny as a fox, unbreakably loyal, and could shoot the eye out of a gnat at twenty yards.
They went in through the mudroom, into the kitchen that smelled temptingly of whatever Sasha stirred in the pot on the stove as Riley looked on.
“Wow.” As he had an interest in cooking as well as eating, Sawyer went over to her. “What is it?”
“Guinness stew. I found a couple recipes online, and I’ve been playing with them. I think it’s going to work.”
“Looks awesome. We’re after a beer. Want some wine?”
“I think it’s just about that time, thanks. I’ve been dealing with this, sketching. I think the cooking’s more successful than . . .”
She turned, saw Doyle had picked up her sketch pad.
“It’s hard to be sure I’m even close, considering I’m going on more or less general descriptions.”
When he said nothing, she moved to him, studied, as he did, one of her sketches of Arianrhod. “I can’t know if I made her beautiful because the journalist found her beautiful. I don’t know the shape of her face, or the length and style of her hair, shape of her eyes. I just went on instinct, I guess.”
“This is your instinct?”
The rawness in his voice had her looking up at him in alarm. She saw that same rawness in his eyes.
“Yes. What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Dude.” Sawyer stepped over, put a hand on Doyle’s arm. “You all right?”
“I read the way she was described myself. It’s from my reading Riley took the notes for you. And this is how you’ve drawn the goddess?”
“Arianrhod, yes. It’s as close as I can imagine. It’s—it’s just how I saw her from the notes. Why?”
“Because . . . you’ve drawn my mother. This is my mother’s face you’ve drawn in your book.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Bittersweet. That was the term used, wasn’t it? Doyle thought as he stared at the sketch. Those opposing sensations twisting and twining together until they merged into one shaky emotion.
He’d never understood it quite so well until now.
When he forced himself to look away, look up, he saw they’d surrounded him. Sawyer at his back, the women on both sides.
He had to fight the instinct to pull away.
“I won’t ask if you’re sure,” Riley said carefully, “because it’s clear you are. Sasha’s sketched your mother from the description of Arianrhod.”
Another internal battle—to hold Riley’s gaze, to keep everything steady. “My mother might have sat for this.”
“There are others.” Reaching down, Sasha turned pages in her sketchbook. Profiles, full face, full body.
He made himself take the book, flip through as if it meant nothing . . . personal. But Jesus, even the half smile in this sketch here, the one that said: I know you’ve been up to something.
His mother to the life.
“She never dressed so . . . elaborately, and would usually have her hair braided back or put up, but these might have been drawn of her when she was young.”
“Could Sasha have, you know, picked up on Doyle’s memories? Not on purpose,” Sawyer said quickly. “But just felt them?”
“I don’t think so. I really don’t. Doyle wasn’t around when I worked on these, and I used Riley’s notes.”
“I’ve got a theory.”
Doyle glanced over at Riley. “Naturally.”
Before she could speak, Annika came in with Bran, leading with her laugh.
“I like helping make magick. I’d like to— Oh, hello.” Her quick smile faded when she focused in on the faces of her friends. “Something’s wrong. Do we have to fight?”
“No, not now, but it’s good we’re all here. We can go over all this at once.” Sasha held out a hand to Bran. “Let’s sit over in the lounge by the fire.”
“If there’s a pint involved, I’m ready for that.” As he took her hand, Bran glanced down at her sketches. “What’s this now? Did you dig out some old photos?”
“What? No, I—”
“This is my grandmother—my mother’s mother—to the life. Well, when she was twenty or so.” As he reached for the sketchbook, he caught Doyle’s hard stare. “What is it?”
“It’s the sound of my theory ringing the damn bell,” Riley said. “Your grandmother, Doyle’s mother.” Riley slapped a finger on the sketch. “Arianrhod.”
“I see.” Nodding slowly, Bran looked back at the sketch. “I feel I’ve missed a great deal.”
“She’s so beautiful.” Annika angled around for a better look. “Is Doyle’s mother Bran’s grandmother, and also a goddess? I don’t understand how this could be.”
“I don’t think so.” Sawyer slid an arm around Annika’s waist. “Let’s get you some wine, and catch everybody up.”
When they settled in the lounge, the fire snapping, drinks at hand, Riley remained standing. She rarely taught, and more rarely lectured—formally in any case—but when she did, she knew how to punch her points.
“I’m going to sum up, but first, Bran, you’ve read your ancestor’s journal, the one you gave me.”
“Can’t argue with it.”
The fact was Doyle found it hard to argue with Sawyer about anything. The man was affable, canny as a fox, unbreakably loyal, and could shoot the eye out of a gnat at twenty yards.
They went in through the mudroom, into the kitchen that smelled temptingly of whatever Sasha stirred in the pot on the stove as Riley looked on.
“Wow.” As he had an interest in cooking as well as eating, Sawyer went over to her. “What is it?”
“Guinness stew. I found a couple recipes online, and I’ve been playing with them. I think it’s going to work.”
“Looks awesome. We’re after a beer. Want some wine?”
“I think it’s just about that time, thanks. I’ve been dealing with this, sketching. I think the cooking’s more successful than . . .”
She turned, saw Doyle had picked up her sketch pad.
“It’s hard to be sure I’m even close, considering I’m going on more or less general descriptions.”
When he said nothing, she moved to him, studied, as he did, one of her sketches of Arianrhod. “I can’t know if I made her beautiful because the journalist found her beautiful. I don’t know the shape of her face, or the length and style of her hair, shape of her eyes. I just went on instinct, I guess.”
“This is your instinct?”
The rawness in his voice had her looking up at him in alarm. She saw that same rawness in his eyes.
“Yes. What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Dude.” Sawyer stepped over, put a hand on Doyle’s arm. “You all right?”
“I read the way she was described myself. It’s from my reading Riley took the notes for you. And this is how you’ve drawn the goddess?”
“Arianrhod, yes. It’s as close as I can imagine. It’s—it’s just how I saw her from the notes. Why?”
“Because . . . you’ve drawn my mother. This is my mother’s face you’ve drawn in your book.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Bittersweet. That was the term used, wasn’t it? Doyle thought as he stared at the sketch. Those opposing sensations twisting and twining together until they merged into one shaky emotion.
He’d never understood it quite so well until now.
When he forced himself to look away, look up, he saw they’d surrounded him. Sawyer at his back, the women on both sides.
He had to fight the instinct to pull away.
“I won’t ask if you’re sure,” Riley said carefully, “because it’s clear you are. Sasha’s sketched your mother from the description of Arianrhod.”
Another internal battle—to hold Riley’s gaze, to keep everything steady. “My mother might have sat for this.”
“There are others.” Reaching down, Sasha turned pages in her sketchbook. Profiles, full face, full body.
He made himself take the book, flip through as if it meant nothing . . . personal. But Jesus, even the half smile in this sketch here, the one that said: I know you’ve been up to something.
His mother to the life.
“She never dressed so . . . elaborately, and would usually have her hair braided back or put up, but these might have been drawn of her when she was young.”
“Could Sasha have, you know, picked up on Doyle’s memories? Not on purpose,” Sawyer said quickly. “But just felt them?”
“I don’t think so. I really don’t. Doyle wasn’t around when I worked on these, and I used Riley’s notes.”
“I’ve got a theory.”
Doyle glanced over at Riley. “Naturally.”
Before she could speak, Annika came in with Bran, leading with her laugh.
“I like helping make magick. I’d like to— Oh, hello.” Her quick smile faded when she focused in on the faces of her friends. “Something’s wrong. Do we have to fight?”
“No, not now, but it’s good we’re all here. We can go over all this at once.” Sasha held out a hand to Bran. “Let’s sit over in the lounge by the fire.”
“If there’s a pint involved, I’m ready for that.” As he took her hand, Bran glanced down at her sketches. “What’s this now? Did you dig out some old photos?”
“What? No, I—”
“This is my grandmother—my mother’s mother—to the life. Well, when she was twenty or so.” As he reached for the sketchbook, he caught Doyle’s hard stare. “What is it?”
“It’s the sound of my theory ringing the damn bell,” Riley said. “Your grandmother, Doyle’s mother.” Riley slapped a finger on the sketch. “Arianrhod.”
“I see.” Nodding slowly, Bran looked back at the sketch. “I feel I’ve missed a great deal.”
“She’s so beautiful.” Annika angled around for a better look. “Is Doyle’s mother Bran’s grandmother, and also a goddess? I don’t understand how this could be.”
“I don’t think so.” Sawyer slid an arm around Annika’s waist. “Let’s get you some wine, and catch everybody up.”
When they settled in the lounge, the fire snapping, drinks at hand, Riley remained standing. She rarely taught, and more rarely lectured—formally in any case—but when she did, she knew how to punch her points.
“I’m going to sum up, but first, Bran, you’ve read your ancestor’s journal, the one you gave me.”
