From London With Love

25 | epilogue

Ophelia breathed in the salty air.

It was a beautiful afternoon in Cornwall; the June sky was as fragile as a robin's egg, and the sea unfurled before them, a glittering azure banner. Frank was perched in his wheelchair at the edge of the water, his face tipped up towards the sunshine. She watched as Jane draped a quilt over her husband's shoulders, leaning down to kiss his head.

"He looks happy," Andrew murmured. "Doesn't he?"

"Yes."

"I have you to thank for that."

Ophelia flushed. "I didn't do that much."

She had managed to track down a Mobi-Mat online, but that was about it. Andrew had been the one to pay for the polyester mat, and Jane was the one to carefully unfurl it over the sand, pushing Frank's wheelchair over the mat and straight to the water.

Still.

Looking at Frank's face, she was pleased to have contributed.

Andrew leaned over, brushing his thumb over her cheek. "Sunscreen," he murmured. "You always forget to rub it in."

"I'll be fine."

"You said that last time, too," Andrew sighed. "And you burnt to a crisp." He produced a large straw hat from a beach bag, plopping it unceremoniously on top of her head. "There," he said, satisfied. "Much better."

She scowled. "I feel stupid."

"You look adorable."

He tipped up her hat, bopping her on the nose. Ophelia tried her best to look intimidating, but it must have failed, because Andrew chuckled.

"You see?" He shook his head. "Absolutely bloody adorable."

Andrew turned back to his painting. He had only done the outline so far — a hazy pencil sketch of gulls and his father's strong shoulders — but she could already hear him muttering over paints, examining swatches of lilac and lemon.

Ophelia leaned back on her elbows, propping her book up. She had opted for a biography of a famous chef on Henry's suggestion. Unsurprisingly, most of the third chapter was dedicated to describing juicy pork chops and tarragon mashed potatoes in great detail. She pulled out her phone, texting a picture to Digby.

You at this part yet?

He replied two minutes later.

Making pork chops as we speak. x

Ophelia smiled, setting the phone down. Things weren't entirely comfortable between them yet, but they were steadily improving; just last week, the boys had taken her out to shoot clay pigeons at Argyll Estate, on her request.

Digby had patiently showed her how to hold the butt of her gun against her shoulder. "It'll kick back," he warned her. "So absorb the shock with your body."

"Right."

"And ground your feet."

"Got it."

"Don't be discouraged if you miss," he added. "The first time is always the hardest."

Ophelia smirked. "Is that an innuendo?"

Unfortunately, Ophelia realized that it may have been too soon to make jokes like that, because Digby went a terrible, blotchy red color. Andrew winked at her.

"Good luck, darling." He leaned over to kiss her cheek, dropping his voice to murmur in her ear. "Don't make it look too easy."

Ophelia had hit three clay disks in a row. Digby, thoroughly rattled, had gone next; he missed all of the disks and then slipped in the mud on the way back to the Estate, ruining his best pair of navy chinos.