Dreaming of the Bones

was civil, but you could tell she couldn’t bear it. That was one of the worst days of my life.”
    ”Worse than the day you heard she’d slit her wrists?” said Gemma, remembering what Kincaid had told her about Lydia’s first suicide attempt.
    ”Yes,” Francesca said without hesitation. Then she added musingly, ”It’s very odd, but that ax had been poised over our heads for so long that it was almost a relief when it fell. It seemed the worst had happened and not been as bad as we’d feared.”
    ”And when she died, five years ago?”
    Francesca stared at the window overlooking the front garden and absently pinched a fold of fabric between her fingers. ”I don’t know. We were shocked at first, I suppose, and after that we felt a sort of release. I thought he could heal then, let it go.” She seemed to bring her gaze back to Gemma with an effort, and in the strong north light the lines of weariness in her pleasant face were deeply etched. ”Then we learned she’d left him the house.”
    ”Why did she leave Morgan the house?” asked Gemma. ”It seems a bit odd if she hadn’t seen him for years, and they’d parted so bitterly.”
    ”I think she meant it as an act of reconciliation,” said Francesca slowly. ”A closing of the books.”
    ”And Morgan?”
    Francesca met her eyes reluctantly. ”Morgan saw it as a deliberate attempt at torture. To reach out for him from beyond the grave. It’s got all twisted inside him over the years—his guilt and his love for her. Morgan thought he could anchor her, but he wasn’t strong enough, and he’s never forgiven himself.”
    ”And now you try to anchor Morgan?” guessed Gemma. ”Oh.” Francesca’s eyes widened with surprise. ”I suppose it might seem that way. But it’s more of a balancing act, most of the time.”
    ”Surely an uneven one because of Lydia ?”
    ”Not really,” said Francesca with a certainty Gemma hadn’t expected. ”Morgan loves me, probably more than he ever imagined he would. He says the peace and security I provide make life bearable for him. And he gives me such—”
    A door slammed in the back of the house. A man’s voice called, ”Fran! Whose car’s in the drive?”
    Francesca frowned at Gemma and gave a sharp shake of her head. ”Let me handle this,” she mouthed as the footsteps came down the hall.
    Tensing instinctively, Gemma sat forwards and gathered her handbag a bit closer to her body.
    ”Hullo, darling.” Francesca smiled at her husband as he entered the room. ”This is Gemma James. She’s come about the studio.”
    Gemma stopped gaping at Morgan Ashby long enough to stammer a greeting and shake the hand he held out to her. She didn’t remember seeing a photo of him among Vic’s papers, and certainly nothing else had prepared her. Even scowling suspiciously at her, the man was a stunner, drop-dead good-looking with a presence Heathcliff might have envied. Tall and well built, he had a head of dark, wavy, unkempt hair, a long straight nose, and dark gray eyes that made Gemma’s bones feel hollow.
    Francesca was speaking and the words suddenly clicked into focus in Gemma’s mind. ”...having a look round to see if it would do for her. She’s a...” Francesca cast a quick look of appeal at Gemma.
    ”Potter.” Gemma said the first thing that flew into her mind, then gulped. She could barely tell a vase from a chamber pot. At least she was wearing the long skirt and jumper she’d worn to Vic’s on Sunday, and thought she must look suitably artistic.
    ”A potter,” Francesca repeated. ”And she’s a bit concerned about the kiln space. She does production work, you see.”
    ”Really?” asked Morgan as he sat on the arm of the sofa and rested a casual hand on his wife’s shoulder. He’d relaxed as soon as Francesca had mentioned the studio. ”Of course if you’re really keen, the foundation might be persuaded to fund a new kiln for the compound.” When he smiled at Gemma, the creases round his eyes gave an indication of his age, but made him no less attractive.
    Gemma struggled to collect herself, but before she could blurt out something inane, Morgan misinterpreted her blankness. ”Has Fran not explained how we operate? We have a group of benefactors who are committed to providing low-cost studio space for talented artists. This is strictly work space, though—you do understand that?” When Gemma nodded, he went on, ”We don’t sell anyone’s work here at the center. The