In the face of his anger, she merely shrugged. “I had to get you here some way. I’ve been so worried about you. You’re becoming a hermit.”

She wasn’t wrong. After Babcock’s death, Cal had been apathetic, listless. He sat on the beach, staring at the water all day, and nursed a beer on the veranda every night. He’d gotten himself into a rut, and he couldn’t seem to shake the grief that had left him numb.

Now Pixie stabbed a blueberry with her fork. “I’ve apologized for lying, Calum, but I’d do it all over again.”

Cal narrowed his eyes against the sun. “Oh, I know you would. Whatever’s most convenient, that’s your route.”

Mags’s glance darted between the two of them. “Trevor says you’ve been using his garage, dearest, which I hope means you’re staying in town for a while?”

“I have no idea.” Why the hell did everyone keep asking about his plans? Damned annoying of them. When Cal figured it out, he’d send them all a group text.

“Come along, Nigel,” Mags said, “we should go. Cal, I hope to see you again very soon.”

Nigel glanced down at his plate. “I haven’t finished my kippers. What’s the hurry?”

Mags stood and tugged at her tight blue dress. Then she whisked Nigel’s plate from the table. “It’s kippers on the go this morning. Spit spot. Ciao, Paolo.”

Nigel pushed back his chair. “All right, woman. I’m coming.” He turned to Cal. “Good to see you. If you change your mind about a round or two, do let me know.” He trailed Mags up to the house.

Pix pursed her lips and angled her head toward the tennis court. “That was rather rude of you.”

When the little dog began to whine, Paolo stood and swept it under his arm, then he leaned down to kiss Pixie’s cheek. “Play nice.” He shot Cal one last glance before taking the sunglasses from the top of his head and slipping them on. With a swagger, Paolo walked with the tiny dog past the pool and down the hill.

“He’s a man of few words.”

Pixie smiled. “He says all he needs to with his body.”

“Oh God. Spare me the details.” Cal’s eyes wandered to Pixie’s throat, lined with fine wrinkles. It betrayed her true age. Silence stretched between them until Cal said, “She asked for you, at the end.”

Pix straightened her shoulders. She remained quiet for a few minutes, then she turned to look at him. “I miss her every day, darling.”

“Do you?”

Clearing her throat, she shook her head. “Don’t do this to me, Cal. Please.”

He slouched back in his chair, draping his hands over the armrests. Cal could continue to pick at her, but he’d only feel worse, and it wouldn’t change anything. Searching for some topic to fill the space, Cal said, “Jules called this morning.”

Pixie’s face brightened as she grabbed onto the subject like a conversational life jacket. “Oh, lovely Juliette! How is she? She must be what, fourteen by now?”

“She’ll be twenty-one in a few months. And she was just arrested for drink-driving.”

“I can’t believe she’s that old. Where has the time gone?”

“That’s what you’re fixated on—her age—and not the fact that she was snockered and trying to drive?”

Pixie threw her hands into the air. “I can’t say anything without you jumping down my throat. Honestly, Calum.”

“Sorry.” Sitting up, he leaned his elbows on the table. “Why didn’t you leave me with him—after the divorce, I mean?”

“Who?” Pixie’s dark green eyes widened. “Your father? What does it matter?”

“I don’t know.” Since he’d first learned of Babcock’s illness, Cal had become introspective and out of sorts. The only time he’d felt himself in months was with Monica Campbell. Which was ludicrous, because she was quite obviously going through her own identity crisis. “It just does.”

“Darling, men like your father live small lives.” Pixie placed her hand on his arm. At least two million pounds’ worth of diamonds glittered on her fingers. “You would have withered under all of his rules.”

“If he was so bloody horrible, why did you marry him?”

“I thought it was time to settle down. Your aunt Mags was married, and she seemed happy.”

“Aunt Mags is always happy. Until she isn’t.”

“Your father was mad about me. Unfortunately, that wore off rather quickly, and we wound up rowing constantly. One day, I just couldn’t take it anymore. You were only six and so terribly unhappy. So was I. If you’d stayed, you would have been miserable. I wanted better things for you.”

“What better things?” Like drifting from one place to the next, never fitting in? Feeling like a ghost in a world full of real people? Where was this coming from? Cal liked new places, new people. Australia had skewed his worldview, and he wasn’t sure how to regain his old perspective. “Why the constant moving around?”

“I get antsy. You’re the same way. Staying in one place for too long, it made me irritable, like I was bursting out of my skin. There was always a new adventure to be had.”

A new adventure. That’s what she’d always said to him when he was a boy, but it was simply code for Pix is bored now.

Cal stared out at the mountains, the only thing breaking up the skyline. He couldn’t fault Pix, because he’d done the same thing—traveled from place to place, staying put in London only when he had a car to obsess over. Now Cal didn’t know what he wanted. One place was pretty much like another. Different beach, different country. Same sky.

His life was a carousel, going round and round, but never heading anywhere. At thirty-two, Cal felt weary.

“Would you have preferred being stuck in some dreary boarding school?” Pix asked. “I don’t think so. We have good memories, Cal. Remember that little tavern in Minsk?” Pix quirked her head to one side. With her pointed chin and delicate features, she really did look like a sprite. “That pretty waitress made such a fuss over you, and you were only thirteen. Every time she pinched your cheeks, you turned bright red. Or the time we watched the fireworks on Bastille Day from a boat on the Seine?”

She was right. He’d have been bored to bits at school, and he wouldn’t have done well anyway. Cal liked working with his hands. He probably never would have known that if Pix hadn’t had an affair with Yurgi. That Russian had more classic cars than ex-wives.

“Darling, what is this about?”

Cal raised one shoulder. “I was curious, that’s all. Babcock had no family. No one. Not a cousin or an uncle tucked away somewhere. Terrible, that. Not having anyone.”

“Calum, you have someone. We have each other.”

He looked into her eyes then, saw a hint of desperation there. She needed him to let this go, let go of the hurt and disappointment he’d been hanging onto. But he couldn’t. He simply wasn’t capable of forgiving her.

He stood and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I need to dash. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Calum.”

“I’m sorry.” Pixie’s eyes shimmered with tears, which she quickly blinked back. She was hurting in her own way, and he was a shit for causing it. But he didn’t know what to do, how to fix this rift between them, if it was indeed reparable. “I’ll call you next week, Mum.”

Cal jogged up the stairs and strode through the house. Hopefully the hired car would be waiting for him. His skin felt tight, and he was edgy. He hated arguing with Pix. It rarely happened. She’d always been the good cop. Babs was the one who’d forced him to do his maths and eat his vegetables. Pix let him do whatever the hell he wanted.

When he walked out the front door, the car wasn’t there, but Paolo was. He leaned against a yellow Lamborghini. He pushed off it and straightened when he saw Cal.

“What’s up?” Cal asked.

Paolo thrust his hands into his pockets and nodded toward the house. “Make up with Pix. She misses you.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“You are not alone. She is sad about Bab too.”

Cal’s mood went from introspective to angry faster than that Lamborghini went from zero to sixty. “If she’s so fucking grieved, she should have gone to Australia when she had the chance. And it’s Babcock or Babs, if you must. She was probably the best person I’ve ever known, so get the name right, will you?” This rage blindsided him. He’d been a zombie for months, and suddenly he was lashing out, making Pix cry, yelling at Paolo. What the bloody hell was wrong with him?