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No way around it, then. His latest mistake had already been made.
He couldn’t pursue Muriel. He’d ruined himself for that life.
“You’re better off without me.” He said it with too much force, then tried to temper his tone. “I’ll look forward to hearing all about it.”
“At dinner?” Muriel tipped her head. “We could meet at the Criterion. Their curry cook is destined for a knighthood.”
“Not tonight.” Christ. He sounded a perfect ass. “I suspect I’ll be occupied most of the evening with that shipment.” He cleared his throat. “We’ll see each other at your lecture on Saturday. We’ll have dinner after that.” He glanced at Alan. “You’re invited, of course.”
“Of course,” Alan echoed, brows raised.
“And I’ll ask Hitchens to come along.”
“Why not Bidmead too?” Alan’s mouth quirked. “We’ll make a party of it.”
Neal glared, but Alan was bending to pick a sprig of lavender.
After a moment, Muriel shrugged. “All right, then.”
She didn’t look terribly put out. But as they all three walked together toward the house, she sighed.
“It doesn’t seem we’re ever going to get a moment alone,” she said. “But I don’t mind speaking in front of the both of you. Neal.”
No more smile. Her expression had become steely with determination.
Neal’s collar grew tighter. Suddenly, he found it difficult to swallow. Alan slowed his pace, and he fought the urge to clutch his friend’s sleeve, to prevent his dropping back.
“Neal. The answer is yes.” The air whooshed out of her. “I appreciate that you haven’t pressured me, that you invited me to Cornwall, showed me Truro, that you were never impatient. That you let me arrive at my own conclusion.”
A bird twittered. No, not a bird. Alan had started to whistle. Everything made sense, and nothing made sense.
What was she saying?
The sunlight, Alan’s jaunty whistle, the green hedge, the exemplary woman beside him—the perfect pieces all fit together jaggedly. The gorgeous day was cracked with horror, visible only to him.
What had he done?
As Neal looked down at Muriel’s face, a resplendent smile spread across it.
“It feels wonderful, doesn’t it?” She sighed, this time with satisfaction. “When you’ve made up your mind?”
Not a word occurred to him.
At the house, it was she who pressed his hand. “I’m not worried about the details. But I needed to tell you. Once I knew myself, I was going mad holding it in.”
They stood gazing at each other. He didn’t know what to say, how to clear up the marvelous confusion he’d generated, and so he said nothing, letting the moment lengthen, until he realized that the script called for a kiss.
God above. Was he engaged?
Her chin tilted up.
“Muriel.” How to let her down gently? “Muriel, I hold you in the—”
“Onward to Otis & Boyd?”
She was looking over his shoulder, at Alan. Neal turned, thrusting his hands into his pockets.
“Onward.” Alan flourished his walking stick. “Or the doughty Otis, hardest-working editor in London, languishing for want of new talent, may retire early to his club.”
