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Harold have been fighting?”
    “That doesn’t mean they’re getting a divorce,” Liam said, gently, because Morag was angry in proportion to how badly she hurt, and lately she’d been very angry.
    “You’ve not been married for a long time, Liam,” Morag said. “There’s fighting and there’s fighting. Henry doesn’t sleep through the night yet, and nobody fights fair when they’re exhausted. What’s the latest American like?”
    The latest American was tall, pretty, and had a weakness for Scottish vowels of the male persuasion. She would like Liam’s back porch, and probably like Helen, too.
    “Seems a sensible sort, but then, lawyers often are. Thanks for kitting out the pot shop.”
    “If she wants more than the basics, send her to me. We’ll throw mud together. Jeannie says to tell you Miss Cameron has been to art school.”
    “Bugger what Jeannie says.” Bugger all of Liam’s interfering relations, rooting about in his life like Helen on the scent of a rabbit. “Just because a woman has taken a class in throwing pots doesn’t mean she’ll fancy a fellow who’s fascinated by brush work in Low Country Renaissance masters.”
    Though Miss Cameron—
Louise
—also liked cats. A fine quality in any woman.
    “Jeannie wants to see you happy, Liam.” Morag’s scold was all the more effective for being uncharacteristically gentle.
    “For the next two weeks, I’ll burn up a fortune in gas, see all the sights we were dragged to repeatedly as children, and pretend yet another loch is the most beautiful scenery on earth.” Moreover, Liam would be
cheerful
for those two weeks, because Jeannie had asked this of him. “Enough about my non-holidays. How are you, Morag?”
    Liam could do a credible version of the older-cousin inquisition with Morag because he
was
older, and because she’d been away at university for most of the year following Karen’s death.
    “I’m fine.”
    Liam could picture the exact “I’m fine” smile Morag wore. Helen growled through such a smile when confronted with a small, male dog intent on taking liberties.
    “Jeannie says you’ve lost weight, Morag.”
    A pause ensued, during which Morag might have been taking the phone to a more private location—or counting to ten.
    “Jeannie is a mother,” Morag said. “Their vision changes when they give birth, so everybody looks in need of a meal or three. I think she’s fallen asleep with the little rotter, Liam.”
    Morag was asking a question, as best Morag knew how to ask anything of anybody.
    “Don’t let her sleep in the same bed as the baby, but before you kidnap Henry off to his crib, tell me how you’re doing, Morag Colleen Cromarty.”
    “I hate you, you know.”
    “That well?”
    “I’m goddamned lonely, Liam. I’m glad to be free of Dean, but I’m lonely. He was at least somebody to resent, and now…” Her voice dropped. “Jeannie said you went a little crazy when Karen died. I can’t imagine being this lonely and grieving too. How did you stand it?”
    Not well. Not well at all.
    “Your vision becomes impaired,” he said, as Helen’s pale, plumed tail waved among the bracken like a flag of surrender. “You learn not to see very far behind you or in front of you. You do the next necessary thing, and time and pride eventually pull you up out of the ditch.”
    “I’m making the ugliest gnomes you’ve ever seen. Nasty little fellows that ought to bring exorbitant sums.”
    They were probably merry, fat, and cute. “Watch the drinking, love.”
    “No worries. Can’t throw a decent pot when I’m blutered.”
    Then thank God for Morag’s pottery wheel. “Tell Jeannie the American is fine, and I’ll take good care of her.”
    “I’ll tell her the American is a right terror, and this will be the longest two weeks of your life.”
    “Save me a gnome. Love you, More.”
    The line went dead.
    Liam was something of a thorn in his family’s side because he
told
them he loved them. Said the words