“So, you just arrived?” She deposited several bills on the counter, scooped up a sackful of the lovely smelling rolls and motioned for him to carry the cold drinks.
The chilled cans were comforting against the painful gashes on his palms and the pads of his fingers. Barrett realized he was lucky it was not his throat that was left slashed and bleeding after his insane balancing act on the edge of Traitor’s Gate. His out-of-character behavior only one night earlier was proof that family pressure and fickle women could send any man to the brink of disaster.
“Get away from that ledge, Westbrook, you fool!” Sigmond cried out. “You’ll slip and break your aristocratic neck!”
Captivated by the Atlantic crashing on ancient rocks three hundred meters below, Barrett ignored the needless warning of his old chum. To voluntarily leap from this site known for brutal executions, a man would have to be a fool. And on a rational day, he would never qualify. But just as the ruined remains of King Arthur’s Tintagel lay in heaps of rubble around him, the life Barrett had carefully crafted was also reduced to a wasteland.
Nine generations of Westbrook men had succeeded in every facet of the legal profession and, according to his mum, Barrett’s inability to find his fit was becoming “something of an embarrassment” to the family.
“And what would it matter if I broke my neck? I am on the brink of forty with absolutely nothing to show for myself,” Barrett called above the stinging wind, repeating the words his brother had passed on courtesy of their father.
“Nothing, indeed!” Sig made no effort to hide his sarcasm. “Let’s examine the facts together, shall we, my friend? First, the Westbrooks’ share of wealth and respect is second only to the royal family in this country. Next, you bear the dreadful misfortune of being a ringer for that rascal Hugh Grant. How you manage to bear up under the female notice is a source of amazement.” He laughed, amusing only himself.
“Then there is the lovely Caroline at your side on the rare occasion when you venture forth from your Chelsea apartment for a social affair.”
Barrett clenched his eyes against the stinging wind and the biting remark.
Unbeknownst to Sig, the woman had ended their relationship two days prior. Dumped Barrett via text message for a Frenchman a half-dozen years her junior. And simply because the young scoundrel had declared himself to be in love with her. A step Barrett was not even the least bit inclined to take.
“Westbrook! Are you listening to me? Step away from that cliff or I shall drag you back by the collar and put you on the plane to America myself. In fact, some time out of your comfy chair is just what you need.”
Barrett spun about-face and took several unsteady strides toward Sig to see if he was joking. The squint of the man’s eyes was kind, calm, but quite serious.
“A change of scenery might do you good.”
“A change of scenery is a drive up to the Lake District, not hard time in the Colonies,” Barrett complained.
Sig tipped his head back, his loud laughter angled at the dark clouds. “Oh, do get over your prejudice of the Yanks. It’s actually called the United States now—there are fifty of them at last count and most have paved roads and indoor plumbing. You may even enjoy yourself.”
“I might agree if this assignment were in New York or California. But at the lowest point in my life my family is packing me off to Texas, of all uncivilized places!”
Again Sigmund’s laughter rang out. He was enjoying this far too much. “Mate, Texas is hardly the Wild West anymore. The Indians are no longer hostile and the best-known cowboys are a football team in Dallas. And you’re going to investigate an investment opportunity, not negotiate a peace settlement.”
His old friend was correct, as always. Barrett had failed to identify his calling within the multifaceted practice, and now he was down to his last chance with their financial division. His test would be to review an international opportunity for one of the firm’s most valued clients. His report would determine the future of the partnership. To protect his own future he had no option but to make a trek to the States.
Scratch States. Make that Texas.
“Come along before the rain starts chucking it down. We’ll get curry takeaway and have a talk while you pack.”
Barrett’s shoulders sagged as he accepted the finality of the situation.
“Give me a minute, Sig?”
“Of course.”
Barrett lifted his face to the dark, heavy clouds that hung low, blocking Tintagel from the midday sun and the splendor of the heavens. He stood in the increasing drizzle, waiting on a sign. He began to pray aloud, without a care for Sigmund, who’d discreetly turned aside.
“Lord, You’ve blessed me with every advantage, yet I’m a failure at all I’ve attempted. I’m prepared to do anything necessary to make my parents proud while I find Your will for me, but must I leave the land I love to discover those things?”
The declaration was sucked from his mouth and flung into the ocean before him. A gale-force wind roared across the black currents, scooped up icy sea-water by the bucketful and swept up the steep cliff. A torrent of stinging ocean spray splashed Barrett hard, soaking him to the marrow and dissolving the last of his doubt.
The drizzle turned to a drenching rain. A fresh blast of wind hit him full in the chest, knocking him off balance. He struggled to keep to his feet, the leather soles of his shoes slipping on the wet ground. He pitched backward, his arms thrown out in a useless effort as he tumbled hard to the seat of his trousers.
An uncontrollable slide toward the sheer cliffs caused Barrett to cast about with his hands, grasping for jutting chunks of stone that slashed his palms as he inched toward Traitor’s Gate. He dug his heels into the earth, pushing with all his might. A gush of water coursed beneath him in its rush to blend with the sea. It picked up speed, swept down the slope, whooshed over Barrett and pulled at his sodden clothes, sucking him toward the ledge. Having spent countless days sailing the always-freezing water, there was no terror in Barrett at the thought of falling, of drowning. There was no fear of death, only wry irony that life could end on the cliffs of this magical place, never having found his own Camelot.
Barrett shuddered at yesterday’s memory. The Heavenly Father had never taken His eyes away and neither had his friend, Sig. If ever a man had wanted a sign, that was most surely it.
The humid air of Galveston, Texas, was a warm and welcome change.
“Let’s sit over here in the shade while you answer my question.” Casey lifted first one heavy boot and then the other across a wooden bench, sat and motioned for him to do the same.
Having lost the thread of the conversation, he simply followed her example. “I’m sorry, what question was that?”
“I asked if you just arrived this morning.” She busied herself with the contents of the sack, laying out napkins and plastic ware.
“Oh, yes. My flight from Gatwick landed in Houston just after daybreak. I rented a car and drove straight down, Miss Hardy.” They exchanged smiles. He fancied hers. It was a lovely distraction from the memory he planned to bury forever once the telltale signs were gone from his hands. “It was my intention
