Simply Blair: A Jet City Novel

by Gina Robinson

  As always along the coast, a breeze was blowing. I brushed a lock of hair out of my face as she pulled me into a hug.

  She pulled back, smiling with what appeared to be genuine delight as she studied me. "You're the image of a Marrak."

  "Am I?" I smiled back at her. I'd always thought I looked more like my mom. But then, that had been Beth's impression and observation, and she was biased in favor of me looking like her sister.

  The woman nodded. "The eyes. You have the Marrak eyes. They're very distinctive. I'm Chesten, Santo's granddaughter, in case you're wondering. Come in. Come in. Tas-gwynn, Grandfather, is eager to meet you. He's in the sitting room."

  She turned and led the way before I got a chance to study her eyes and see if she was a true Marrak, too.

  "It's a beautiful day out," she said. "You should really take a walk along the cliffs before you go. There are some nice footpaths. We'd sit outside, but Tas-gwynn chills easily these days."

  I looked around the croft as we followed her. "This is a lovely home. Very cozy and welcoming. Do you live here?"

  She shook her head. "I live up the road a bit. I clean and cook for Tas-gwynn several days a week."

  We arrived in a sitting room with a view of the ocean through a small window. A thin, wiry old man sat in a chair by the window, a hand-knitted afghan over his knees. He didn't stand to great us. But he extended his hand enthusiastically and leaned his cheek toward me for a kiss. I took his hand and gave him the kiss, letting him study me. "I'm Blair."

  "And a Marrak through and through," he said, as Chesten had. "It's in the eyes. Always in the eyes."

  I glanced at Chesten. "That's what Chesten said."

  "Well, she has better eyes than I do," he said. "If she sees it too, then it must be true. Have a seat, the both of you."

  Nigel introduced himself. We both sat.

  "This is really a pleasure meeting you—" I paused. "What should I call you?"

  "Uncle Santo, if you must be formal and exact about things. Or Tas-gwynn, which means grandfather in Cornish and what everyone around here calls me," he said.

  I liked him very much already. And I liked the idea of having a grandfather figure just as much or more. People who've grown up with grandparents and extended family can't imagine what having even a pseudo-grandfather means to a person like me. A great-uncle was a fine substitute.

  "Tas-gwynn it is." I gave him my brightest smile. "You can't know what a big deal this is to me to meet more family," I said to both him and Chesten. "My parents died when I was young. Well, why am I telling you? You're aware, I'm sure." I choked up. "My Aunt Beth, who I call Mom, is the only family I've ever known. I've never had an uncle, or a grandpa, before."

  Santo's answering grin was like a wizened apple doll's, but it warmed my heart. "Welcome to the family, then, cheel." He turned to his granddaughter. "Chesten, where's that tea?"

  She jumped up.

  I opened my mouth to say it wasn't necessary. Nigel's gentle hand on my arm shut me up. Instead I smiled at her as she jumped up to get it. "Tea sounds lovely." I turned to Santo. "You remember my dad?"

  "I can see why you're eager to hear about him," Santo said. "He died a long time ago. You must have been a very young cheel."

  I nodded. "Five." I shuddered. "I was in the car. My memories of the accident are few."

  A sudden shiver ran down my back. Damn, I'd never recovered those memories. Not that I wanted to remember the accident. Did wanting have anything to do with it? The permanent loss was suddenly less comforting and more ominous in its implications. If I could block that accident out, could I remember this most recent one and everything that had come before it?

  "My memories of the accident are very sketchy," I said. "And, sadly, I was young enough that I don't remember much about my parents from before it."

  Santo reached out and patted my hand. "I'll tell you what I can. It isn't much. I'm an old man and only remember Kenver when he was a boy, and then again when he brought his American bride the one time to meet the family.

  "They met at Avebury. That much I do remember. Kenver made a big deal out of their meeting. That must be why it sticks in my mind. Kenver said it was destiny that he met your mamm there in that mysterious, spiritual place." Santo laughed. "Your tas had a romantic streak. Believed in things like fate. Maybe it was his enthusiasm that sticks in my mind. He was always a romantic boy."

  "Kenver," I said softly. "I've never heard Dad called that. He is always Ken or Kenneth when Beth talks about him."

  Santo made a sound deep in his throat that almost sounded like clearing phlegm, but was certainly distaste. "Kenver. That's what he was christened at birth. Or so they told us. After our tas, a good old Cornish name. I'm not surprised they Anglicized it and didn't let on to our side of the family. My sister's husband was very English. Didn't like the Cornish ways."

  "Dad was a romantic, you say?" I knew that, though, didn't I? From the way Beth talked about Dad meeting Mom in Avebury and knowing it was fate. But hearing it from Santo verified that he was really remembering and not making things up. And gave me more insight into my father.

  "Always. Since he was a boy." Santo waved his hand. "The younger generation. They like to believe in soul mates and other impracticalities. Think they need to scour the world for the one love of their lives. Not satisfied with the girl next door. No, not them." He sounded completely sure of himself, and completely cynical about this topic.

  I stared at Santo, picturing my dad going against the practical nature of his mom's side of the family. Growing up a romantic almost as a rebellion against their ways. "You don't believe in soul mates?"

  Santo shook his head. "And why would I? I married the girl who lived in the next croft over, didn't I? Had my choice of two local girls, maybe three if you count hard. Chose the one with a good, practical head on her shoulders and good birthing hips. Knew how to work and keep a house. Knew her role in life. Blessed me with plenty of children. Love." He nearly spat the word out. "It grows, doesn't it? When you build a life with someone?"

  As adamant as he was, it was hard to argue with him without sounding like an ungracious guest. But I was definitely in Dad's camp about love.

  "She's been gone twenty years, but I still miss that woman." Santo's expression betrayed at least a bit of romantic sentiment, or so I chose to believe. Maybe that was my nature.

  "She was a good Cornish woman. Knew our ways." Santo began spinning a tale of growing up Cornish almost a century ago, of the loss of the language, and the efforts to revive it, of the English ways taking over.

  Unfortunately, there was very little else he could add about Dad. He hadn't known him well. Dad had grown up mostly in London with only the occasional visit to Cornwall. Santo despised the big city and had refused to go to London more than a very few times in his life. As a consequence, Santo hadn't known his nephew well. Which explained the reason he hadn't been in touch with me before.

  He told me about his sister, my grandma, little stories that made me smile and brought her to life. But his mind soon wandered. His stories turned to other people who were more immediate to him.

  I listened politely, but the people in his stories were just names to me. Beside me, Nigel was spellbound.

  These are more his people than mine, I thought, though I was sure Nigel had meant to prove the opposite—that these were my people and family. My history.

  Chesten returned with a tray laden with tea, scones, and biscuits.

  She poured us each a cup. "Is Tas-gwynn boring you with his defense of the Cornish ways? You're very much a nationalist, aren't you, Tas-gwynn?"

  The old man cackled. "And why shouldn't I be? This is a fine land with a rich history. Home of Merlin and the Arthurian legend. We're a proud people." He helped himself to a biscuit and began talking about the mines and the mining history of the area, which was an obvious passion of his. He'd been a volunteer at the local mining museum until he was ninety-three.

  Nigel became even mor
e attentive. Suddenly, he was asking questions about specific people and mine owners. Specific mines. It became clear to me that Nigel's real agenda in coming had been as much to learn more about his ancestors and history as to impress me with mine.

  He and Santo were soon so deep in conversation that Chesten and I may as well have been invisible. We made small talk while the men talked about old times. Nigel was adept at drawing Santo out. Clearly, he'd had a lot of practice talking to older people about the past. But I was losing interest.

  Chesten sensed my mood and got out an old photo album from a nearby bookcase. It was sweetly obvious she, or Santo, had it at the ready to show me. She and I leafed through it together. She pointed out people, naming them, and giving their relationship to me and her.

  I was fascinated when she showed me a couple of aged black-and-white shots of Dad as a toddler with my grandma. The few photos had been shot on the same day. These were treasures. My dad had left me very few pictures from his youth. Those Marrak eyes suddenly became apparent, even to me, though I still thought mine were muted.

  Chesten saw the desire in my eyes. She interrupted her grandfather to ask if she could give me a few pictures of my father and grandmother.

  Santo took the album and pulled a few snapshots from it, including one of himself as a strong, smiling young man. He motioned toward the bookcase. "Chesten, get me that silver frame, will you?"

  Chesten jumped up again, grabbed the antique frame, and helped Santo put a photo into it.

  He handed it to me. "For you, cheel. To remember us all by."

  I blinked back tears. Little things brought them out. "Thank you. This is lovely."

  He nodded. "I won't have use for things much longer." He went back to his conversation with Nigel about eighteenth-century mining techniques.

  We stayed another pleasant hour. I completely enjoyed myself while talking with Chesten. She taught me a few Cornish phrases, including, My a'th kar. I love you.

  "You'll want to use that, I'm sure." She nodded subtly toward Nigel. "He's a fine Cornish man."

  Would I? My newfound family certainly approved of Nigel with his Cornish surname and interest in the land. But was I as enthralled with him?

  "You'll come back and see this old man again?" Santo said when I hugged him goodbye.

  "I promise to try."

  Nigel was pleased with himself when we left. "So? What do you think?"

  I had to admit, he'd given me a priceless gift. It was hard not to feel warm and soft toward him.

  "Santo is an old character." I took Nigel's arm and leaned my head on his shoulder. "I'm glad I met him. Thank you."

  Nigel smiled in his subdued—but supremely pleased—way. "Are you up for a walk along the cliffs?"

  "If you propel me along, I think I'm up for a short one."

  "I have enough energy for both of us." He led me the short distance to the footpath that Chesten had suggested.

  "The scenery is gorgeous," I said as we stopped to take it in.

  Nigel stared into my eyes and took my chin in his hand. "It certainly is."

  I should have been flattered, but as he leaned in to kiss me, I pulled back. "Do I have the Marrak eyes like Santo and Chesten? They very clearly have a family look."

  I had effectively killed the moment. And I wasn't sure I hadn't done it on purpose, at least subconsciously.

  Nigel dropped my chin and studied me. "I'd say you do. There's a similarity. Does that please you?"

  Once again, he seemed eager to make me happy. I forced a smile. "Of course it does. I'm part of a larger family, a clan."

  He frowned at my use of the word "clan." It had been surprisingly automatic. And maybe too Scottish for him. And not like me. I wasn't Scottish, either. Even my love for Jamie didn't explain it.

  After our short stroll, we spent the rest of the day touring the country, driving past the deserted mines, and puttering through a mining museum he was particularly excited about. His family had apparently owned the mine at one point. He had prearranged to examine the old employment, payroll, and log books. He examined the yellowing, dusty books with acute interest while I sat next to him and began flagging. I excused myself to get a bite in the café, where the view was better and the seats were more comfortable, while he conducted his research.

  When he found me in the café, his eyes were shining as he took a seat next to me. "They let me take a picture of the logbook pages I wanted. I think I found several of your relatives." He showed me the photo and pointed their names out.

  The handwriting was old-fashioned and precise. The names weren't hard to make out. Marrak. Quite a few of them.

  I nodded, polite, but tired.

  "Look at the dates. Do you know what this proves?" His eyes were full of excitement and his voice was pitched high with it.

  I shook my head, too tired to think clearly. Well, with that and the healing head injury. "Sorry."

  "Think about it, Blair." He seemed impatient. "My family owned the mine during this time period. Your relatives were working in it. Your ancestors were working for mine!" He grabbed my hand and squeezed it.

  I wasn't sure why that was so important to him. Was I supposed to be impressed? Like hundreds of years later the miner's great-something granddaughter was dating the mine owner's great-something grandson?

  "Scandalous," I said, "that the two classes should meet."

  He looked perplexed. Maybe I wasn't making sense. I didn't know these days.

  "Don't you see, darling?" he said. "It's fate. Like Avebury was to your parents. We're meant to be together and keep our Cornish ancestry alive."

  There it was again. But I still didn't see his point. Maybe I was too tired to. To me it seemed more like he was pointing out his superiority. "You mean we're supposed to unite two great families with a mining tradition?"

  "Precisely!"

  "And elevate my family in the process, presumably." It was hard not to sound at least a little insulted.

  Fortunately, Nigel didn't seem to notice. He was too excited by his discovery.

  We returned to the cottage in the late evening. I was exhausted after the long day out. The physician in me warned that I was overdoing it. What was worse, some of the pain was coming back. I'd wrenched things a little more than I'd thought when I'd been thrown in the air by that car. I excused myself immediately to go to bed. Nigel's expectations and disappointment were very thinly veiled.

  I didn't know what he'd expected—that I should fall into bed with him because he'd discovered my ancestors worked for his? Because he'd given me the gift of distant relatives? For which I was grateful, and it gave me soft, cuddly feelings toward him. But two days out of the hospital wasn't enough healing time for the trauma I'd been through. My head was pounding. My bruised body ached.

  I would have to make a decision about Nigel and act soon. I couldn't put him off forever. Each day I grew stronger, Nigel's expectations that we would resume our physical relationship increased. I loved him, right? So why was I hesitating?

  I was still sore, bruised, and tired. I wasn't faking any of that. I was deeply moved and grateful for what Nigel had done in finding my family and arranging for me to meet them. The picture Santo had given me along with the heirloom silver frame was a treasure.

  Despite those tender feelings I had for Nigel, my sexual appetite hadn't yet returned. Where was the passion? Was I only tired, or was there more to it than that? And when would I remember?

  Chapter 10

  Sunday

  Austin

  I was head down, lost in thought, when Lazer walked into the private meeting room where I was waiting for him. Security had alerted me he was on his way.

  "You look like shit," he said by way of greeting.

  I looked up and stood to give him a quick hug and pat on the back. "Nice to see you too, man."

  He looked immaculate, as always. Perfectly groomed and dressed. And smelled like his expensive cologne. It was easy to see why the women fell for him. That colog
ne alone was enough to do the trick. Lazer claimed it was a custom blend designed to enhance his sexual chemistry. Very pricey. Wouldn't work on anyone else. Maybe I should get the name of his cologne guy now that I could afford it. My sexual chemistry could sure as hell use a boost.

  Lazer studied me. "I'm not kidding. You look terrible. Are you eating right? Are you eating at all? You're thin."

  "The food here sucks. And who the hell has time to eat?" I said. "All I do is work."

  "Slave government labor." Lazer's eyes narrowed. "Seriously. Have you looked in a mirror lately? You could be a prisoner of war." He made a circle in the air around my face. "Dark circles and bags around your eyes. Did they confiscate your razor? When was the last time you shaved?" He shook his head. "Crap. I sound like your mother."

  I laughed. "It's just nice to know you care."

  "Yeah." He took a seat in the better of the two chairs in the room. I plopped onto the sofa.

  "You smell like this place, too," Lazer said, wrinkling his nose. "And I have to tell you, it's not a turn-on." He was teasing. But he was serious about the smell.

  "Why the hell would I be trying to turn you on?" I grinned at him. It was good to see him. "It's hard to smell like anyplace, or anything, else when I'm in here twenty-four/seven."

  He laughed. "I'm playing Blair's role here. Trying to see you through her eyes, as if for the first time. I'm not impressed. Keep yourself up, Aus. For her sake. You're in enough trouble with her as it is. Remind me to bring you an industrial-sized bottle of cologne next time. For everyone's sake."

  "As long as you put a file in it."

  He laughed. "I hope you've been working out, at least."

  I raised an eyebrow and wiggled the fingers of both hands. "I've been coding like a maniac." I tapped my temple. "And keeping my brain sharp."

  "That's something, I guess," Lazer said.

  "Enough bullshitting. Did you get the new phone and send the texts to Blair that I asked you to?"

  Lazer had had to relate Cam's conversation with Blair to me. It was only marginally reassuring that she was waiting for her memory to return before making any decisions. But she was with Nigel.