But Flynn smiled sympathetically and said, “For what it’s worth, I rather think that real love between two people is, by its very nature, quite devastating. And I rather suspect that when it’s time to face that long good night, if one hasn’t felt love’s devastation in one form or another, then perhaps one hasn’t known true love at all. That’s the payoff, I suppose.”
The profundity of that statement and the elegance with which he had said it astounded her. Rachel swallowed back any tears. “That was beautiful,” she said sincerely. “And you’re right.”
He flashed that lopsided grin at her.
“It sounds as if you speak from personal experience,” she added, which was the wrong thing to say, apparently, because a strange look clouded Flynn’s face. His smile faded as he looked at her, and it almost seemed as if he was seeing someone else altogether.
“Actually, no,” he said, after an awkward moment. “I’ve certainly had my share of love affairs, I suppose, but I can honestly say I’ve never been devastated.” He sat back, seemed to consider that a moment more.
She thought she’d just leave that alone for the time being. “What about your folks? Are they well?” she asked before sipping her wine.
“Oh, quite,” he said with a chuckle. “They operate a small bed and breakfast in Butler Cropwell. A Scottish B and B, mind you.”
“Scottish?”
“Mmm. It’s all the rage, you know. Mum has a sign hanging out front—Cead mile failte—”
“A hundred thousand welcomes,” Rachel said.
Flynn blinked. “You knew that, did you?”
“Let’s just say I’ve been to the U.K. a few times.”
“An Anglophile, eh? Then perhaps you’d like my parents’ little B and B. Glen Farley, it’s called, yet another name fabricated for the Scots-loving Americans. In fact,” he said, his eyes shining with amusement, “I should take you there to test their theory—to see if you, by sole virtue of being American, are so charmed that you actually believe yourself to be in Scotland, and therefore are so filled with delight that you dance a jig. Scottish jigs are performed Thursday evenings. Uncle Harry dabbles in bagpipes, and my father fancies himself quite the dancer—or jig artist, as he prefers.”
“You’re joking!” Rachel exclaimed gleefully.
“Why in God’s name would I joke about something as very painful as that?” he deadpanned, and casually sipped his wine.
With a laugh, Rachel asked, “What of your siblings? Where are they?”
“Ah, My siblings,” he said, and told her about his family as they dined on shrimp-stuffed mushrooms for their first course. His sister was married and had two “perfectly horrid” children. His brother was a banker, which, Flynn said, his parents considered a proper occupation.
“Don’t they consider a computer programmer to be a proper occupation?”
Flynn smiled enigmatically. “It’s not quite as grand as they had hoped. In truth, I always wanted to be a homicide investigator, the sort portrayed in the old Humphrey Bogart movies. But alas, that was not on my parents’ list of suitable occupations and I was steered in another direction.”
“So what would they consider a suitable occupation?”
“Prince consort,” he said. “And what about your family?”
Rachel gave him the usual, well-rehearsed rundown. Her father and mother had been together since they were teens, but were currently in marriage therapy as they tried to sort through years of stuff.
“Sounds rather awful,” Flynn said as the waiter cleared the appetizers.
“You cannot begin to even imagine,” Rachel quipped with a roll of her eyes, and explained to Flynn how her father was a self-made man, had built a fortune in freight, but how that fortune came with a price for their family.
Flynn listened intently, nodding thoughtfully as she spoke, offering insights here and there, but without sounding superior or patronizing.
“Siblings?” he asked as the main course of mahi-mahi was served.
“Two older sisters.” She told him about Robin and Rebecca, and a little about their lives, but leaving out, at least for the time being, the part about them being beautiful and successful and nothing at all like their baby sister, Miss Fortune.
They talked easily, Rachel thought, like a couple of old friends. They had both traveled a good deal. And they were both prolific readers and had, on their bookshelves, some of the same authors, although Flynn liked thrillers and Rachel had a definite taste for character literature.