Page 99 of Boiling Point
“Livid?” She shook her head. “Not really. Caught off guard, maybe. But…”
“But what?”
She retook her seat and took a measured sip. “Talk to him, Cal.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Since when are you so cryptic, Isabel?”
Whatever retort she had planned vanished when Gabrielle appeared in the doorway, tentative and wide-eyed. Her gaze swept the room, as if unsure she’d stepped into the right place. But when her eyes found me, they softened with relief.
I sprang up, crossing to her in a few quick strides. She shifted instinctively into my side, and I slipped a protective arm around her waist, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“There you are,” I said softly, guiding her in, letting the warmth of her presence melt away my tension. I turned to Isabel, whose eyes shone with interest. “Isabel, meet my Gabrielle.”
Gabrielle extended a hand, her smile careful but genuine. “It’s so nice to meet you in person.”
Isabel took Gabrielle’s hand in both of hers, warm and gracious. “Likewise. Cal talks of little else.”
Gabrielle’s cheeks colored, her eyes flicking to mine. I squeezed her waist gently and felt the faint tremor of nerves beneath the fabric of her blouse.
“Please, sit,” Isabel said, gesturing to the sofas with a graceful sweep. “Cal, get the poor girl a drink.”
I crossed over to the drinks tray. “Sherry before lunch, darling?”
Gabrielle shrugged as she perched on the edge of the sofa. “If that’s the protocol.”
I smiled as I poured a modest measure and brought it to her.
She lifted the glass and took a careful, controlled sip. The liquid glowed amber in the early afternoon light, catching the faint tremble in her hand before she politely set it down on a side table, trying with valiant effort to mask a grimace.
“Not to your liking?” I asked.
“Not really, no. I hope that’s not wrong.”
I reached over, took the glass, and finished it in one swallow. “More for me, then.”
She flashed me a smile, then turned her attention back to my sister. “How are the last-minute wedding details coming along? I hope the chaos hasn’t consumed you.”
“Not yet, but it’s doing its best. The florist is a menace—keeps trying to sneak in lilies, which I detest. And the caterer—” She let out a theatrical sigh. “Don’t get me started.”
Gabrielle’s laugh was soft, an attempt at finding her ease. “Sounds like a nightmare.”
“It’s a bloody circus,” Isabel said, though more amused than frazzled. Her eyes flicked to me. “And don’t you dare smirk. Your turn will come soon enough.”
The last of the scones sat half-eaten on my plate, its sugared crust crumbling slightly where I’d broken it open. Not too sweet. Still warm. Proper. I’d spent years insisting you could get a decent one in the States, but sitting here now, I knew better. You could replicate the recipe, perhaps. But not the taste. Not the texture. Not the memory baked into it.
Late-afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, gilding the edge of the china and casting long shadows across the library rug. Teatime. A pause in the day that served no urgent purpose—except perhaps to remind us that life needn’t always be rushed. The Americans, for all their strengths, had never quite grasped the value of a ritual built around slowing down. For all I’d cast off…this, I had missed.
I eased back into the cushions and wrapped an arm around Gabrielle’s shoulder. She leaned into me, easy and unselfconscious. Mother pressed her lips into the faintest line but offered no comment. The library air was steeped in the scent of tea and the low, smoky trace of my father’s tobacco still lingering in the wood. He hadn’t smoked in here for years, not since Mother had drawn the line. But the room hadn’t forgotten.
I brushed my thumb along Gabrielle’s arm, tracing the soft wool of her jumper and the grounding weight of her closeness. Across from us, Isabel and Mother exchanged a glance—a wordless flicker—then both turned toward us with a well-practiced sort of interest. I shifted, the old upholstery creaking beneath me, and set my empty cup down on the table.
“Do you have everything you need?” Mother asked Gabrielle.
“Oh yes, thank you,” Gabrielle replied.
“Dinner is served at eight. We usually gather in the drawing room at half seven.”
Gabrielle glanced at me, confusion on her face, though she desperately tried to hide it.
