“Neither of us will ever be good enough for you. At least, not while we’re trying to be.”
Clark thought he had learned the mistake of making his dad his hero after Alfie had let him assist on a summer dig in northern France. They’d faced miserable weather for days—rain and hail and winds so sharp they stole the breath from their lungs—and his dad wouldn’t sleep. The project fell behind, and Alfie didn’t trust anyone else to manage the troubleshooting. He kept the crew out in unsafe conditions, but even when they mutinied, seeking shelter, his dad stayed in the dirt, furious and focused.
Clark had stayed too, even though he couldn’t appease his father, could barely hold a trowel with the way his hands shook from cold, exhaustion, and fear. He remembered the harrowing moment of looking into his dad’s wild eyes and realizing Alfie Edgeware was flawed—as human as anyone else.
A decade later, Clark could finally see the wounds behind those flaws. See the boy who wanted so desperately to earn the rank and renown he’d stumbled into. Who didn’t trust that he was worthy or even truly wanted. A crushing sort of helplessness came with the knowledge that Clark couldn’t fix his dad.
But he could fix the way he responded to him.
Could make sure that whatever next choice he made—in occupation or partner or haircut—he did for himself.
“I suppose this new bullishness is the work of that girl.” His father folded his arms. “The one you thought was magic.”
Not a denial, but Clark hadn’t expected one, wouldn’t have wanted it.
He couldn’t help it, he smiled at the description. It sounded so innocent in ways Riley wasn’t—painting a picture of someone who chased shooting stars and tossed coins in a fountain. But digging into the etymology of the word, magic meant transformative. And in that way, the adjective fit perfectly.
“Some of it’s her fault,” Clark said finally. Whatever Riley was, whatever she did, she’d changed him. “But I don’t think we should give her all the credit.”
By falling in love with her, in striving to be worthy of her love, Clark had grown to see himself differently.
“You always do this.” Alfie shook his head. “You find a way to follow the person with the worst idea.”
Clark magnanimously translated that in his head to: I wish the people you trusted took a bit more care.
His father frowned, making the lines on his face more pronounced. “I’m afraid she’ll hurt you.”
The comment might have fallen with a note of irony, considering the source, but loving Riley had helped Clark understand his family a little better.
Somewhere on that cliffside in Torridon, he’d accepted the fact that he adored—senselessly—complicated, extraordinary people. People who were exceptionally hard on everyone, but most of all themselves.
He liked the striving in their mistakes, the messiness of their attention, the unvarnished surprises revealed by the way they approached everyday life.
Clark loved the fierce way they loved him: like they wanted to protect him even when they couldn’t.
“We all hurt the ones we love,” he said, softly, pointedly. “It’s why we must learn to make amends.”
A joke about Riley breaking both curses and hearts came to mind, but Alfie wouldn’t appreciate it, so instead Clark said, “I’m made of tougher stuff than you think.”
His dad was many things: proud and gruff, charismatic, yes, and even caring, in his own way.
“I love you,” Clark told him. “I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me.”
His father, sensing more to come, seemed to brace himself.
“But I don’t owe you a career you admire or a partner you approve of. I need you to hear me, really hear me, when I say that I’m through having my life measured and weighed against your ambition.” He took a breath in and let it out slowly. “And if you can’t accept that—and don’t change how you treat me—I’m done.”
Color rose in his father’s cheeks. Clark expected another outburst, like the one they saw in Skye. Though he expected this time his father would order him out instead of leaving, since this was his hotel room, after all.
“It’s your choice. Accept your sons, warts and all, or lose us both.”
The sunlight from the window cut across Alfie’s face, making him look somehow both older and younger than his sixty-five years.
“All right,” he said finally, and then leaning forward, grasped the teapot, offering to top off Clark’s cooling cup.
It was more concession than Clark had ever had from him, more than he’d seen him give to anyone personally or professionally.
All right. The love in that single phrase beat like bird wings in the space between them, steady and climbing, soft but hopeful.
“I hear you.” He set down the teapot and sat back in his chair. “We’ll call Patrick.”
“All right,” Clark echoed, thinking it just might be, after all. Alfie Edgeware had a history of making good on slim odds.
If the last few months had taught him anything, it was that just because something hurt didn’t mean it wasn’t healing.
Chapter Twenty-Six
After hanging up with her mom, Riley decided, for the first time since she’d arrived in Torridon, to take a night off from curse breaking. Both she and Clark had already battled professional setbacks and difficult family conversations today. They deserved a little R&R.
After treating herself to a long bath and a face mask, she swung by the local grocery store before it closed and picked up supplies for a romantic dinner. Well, her idea of romantic anyway—since it was red wine and mac and cheese. Each in boxed form, as was her preference.
She did also, virtuously, pick up a few heads of broccoli, thinking of Clark’s affinity for fiber. The desire to care for a man might be new, but Riley was pretty sure she was killing it.
Even if she secretly hoped Clark would make a comment about boxed wine being lowbrow so she could whip out all her favorite facts about how many high-end vintners had embraced the model to optimize both sustainability and production costs. If instigating opportunities for harmless, heated banter with her boyfriend was wrong, she didn’t want to be right.
When she arrived at the camper, she found Clark sitting at his desk with his laptop open in front of him.
“Hey.” He’d changed into a faded long-sleeved T-shirt and gray sweatpants—so at least they were on the same page about the leisurely direction of the evening.
“Prepare yourself for a culinary feast,” she told him, dramatically displaying the cloth bag of groceries hanging over her shoulder like Vanna White.
“Not sure there’s another kind . . .” he teased.
“Don’t be fresh,” Riley warned, even though she loved the haughty twist of his mouth, “or I won’t show you all four of the ingredients I purchased.”
“Wow,” he said when she’d finished laying them out on the coffee table. “Thank you. I’d make a joke about how there’s no dessert, but I think we both know what I’ll be doing with my mouth after dinner.” He folded his hands in his lap primly.