A Finer End

“That’s not in the cards,” Kincaid said, more sharply than he’d intended. Gemma had made that quite clear, and he’d done his best to be content with what they had. Neither of them, after all, had made a success of marriage the first time round, and now that Gemma had separated herself from him so deliberately, he felt even less certainty about their future.

But what had got into Kit? Their relationship as father and son was still a touchy subject, and this was the first time he’d heard Kit directly acknowledge that they were—or could possibly be—family. “Is something going on with Ian, Kit?” he asked, studying the boy’s averted face. Kit spent the week with the man he had known for almost twelve years as his father, Ian McClellan, and most weekends with Kincaid.

Kit chewed his lip, his eyes half shielded by the wayward lock of hair that fell across his forehead. “I’m not supposed to know. But I saw the letter, and I’ve heard him talking on the phone.”

“What letter?”

“The one from the university in Quebec. Offering him a job. ‘… his academic career, more opportunities, blah, blah …’ What they mean is more money.”

“And you think Ian means to accept?”

“He’s been dropping little hints. ‘Wouldn’t you like to learn to ski, Kit? How’s your French coming, Kit?’ ”

Kincaid felt a rush of panic. After everything that had happened, all that they had been through, he would not lose Kit now. As calmly as he could, he said, “You don’t want to go?”

Kit glanced at him, then away, with studied nonchalance that didn’t quite come off. “I want to stay here. With you.”

“It would mean leaving Grantchester and living here in London.”

“I know. Would the Major mind Tess having a run in the garden sometimes?”

Kincaid smiled. “I think you might persuade him.” Trust Kit to think of the ragamuffin terrier first, rather than new schools, friends, and all the other logistics that boggled the mind. And nothing, of course, would be possible without Ian’s consent; he was still Kit’s legal guardian.

Ian McClellan’s behavior had never been predictable. First he had left Kit’s mother to run off to France with a graduate student; after Vic’s death he’d refused to take any responsibility for Kit. Then, a few months ago he had come back from France, determined to make amends, and moved Kit back into the cottage in Grantchester. Now it seemed the man was itching to be off again. How would Ian feel about leaving Kit behind?

For that matter, how would he fare as a single parent? It would further complicate things with Gemma, he could see that, but he knew Kit had to come first.

“Would you … You wouldn’t mind, would you? If I came to stay with you.” This time Kit met Kincaid’s eyes.

“There is nothing,” Kincaid answered truthfully, “that I would like more.”

Winnie made it a point to have lunch with Fiona Allen at least once a month, sometimes at the Vicarage in Compton Grenville, sometimes at Fiona’s home on Bulwarks Lane, below the Tor. Today they’d chosen Fiona’s house, due to Winnie’s commitments in Glastonbury, and Fiona had set out a salad Niçoise in her pale Scandinavian kitchen.

“I hate August in Somerset,” groaned Winnie, sliding into a chair and pulling her sticky blouse away from her damp skin. “It’s like living in soup.”

“You can’t fuss as long as you insist on riding that bike,” admonished Fiona as she laid plates on the table.

“You sound just like Jack. At least I get a breeze on the bike. The car’s a traveling oven.”

“You’re incorrigible.” Fiona shook her head, smiling. “How is the supposedly delicious Jack? I’m beginning to think you’re conspiring to keep me from meeting him, so that I can’t judge for myself.”

“I’ll give a dinner party. Soon, I promise. It’s just that all our spare time seems to vanish these days.”

“The automatic writing? How is that going?” Fiona was the one person outside the group in whom Winnie had confided.

“It’s fascinating—the material itself, I mean.”

“This can’t be comfortable for you.”

“Ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night?” Winnie teased in a fair parody of Fiona’s Scottish brogue. Then she continued more soberly. “You know, it’s odd, but somehow Edmund seems too real to be a ghost. Too human. And I suppose I’ve got used to it.”

Fiona raised an eyebrow. “Then what’s giving you the pip?”

“Too much experience with committees gone sour, I suppose,” Winnie said with a sigh. “The group dynamics seem to be changing, and that doesn’t bode well.”

“I thought it was all sweetness and light and save-the-world enthusiasm.”

“It was, in the beginning. But we’ve not had any luck finding out just what it is that Edmund wants, so all that energy is finding other outlets. Nick—the young man from the bookshop—is besotted with Faith—”

“Your pregnant teenager.”