He thought he knew most of her French exclamations but this was a new one. “What piss?”
She smiled. “Not piss, tant pis. I’m resigned to this, it’s inevitable even though I don’t like it. On that note, here.” She placed a folded piece of paper in his hand.
“What’s this?”
“The address for Squirrel’s flight school. Olivia wasn’t sure you’d remember it from Jake’s bachelor party. You know, given how hungover you all were.”
He snorted at that and tucked the paper into his pocket.
Then he stole one more kiss before he jogged across the meadow toward the barn. When he reached the rise, he turned to wave goodbye, but she was gone.
Fourteen
Marielle returned to the cottage as soon as Omar set out across the field. She couldn’t bear to watch him walk away. Besides, she had work to do.
She turned over the recorder she’d borrowed from Omar’s backpack, tested the battery, and rehearsed her approach. Gentle but direct. Professional but compassionate. She would make Hanna comfortable enough to finally unburden herself and tell her story.
But when she walked into the living room, Hanna was crashed out on the couch, her breathing deep and even, and a glass of Sancerre dangling precariously from her hand.
Marielle’s shoulders fell as her anticipation drained away. She set the recorder on the side table, gently removed the glass from Hanna’s hand, and placed it beside a water-stained coaster. Then she retrieved the soft throw blanket draped over the chair and covered Hanna, tucking it carefully around her shoulders.
The woman had earned her rest.
Tomorrow would have to do.
She stood watching Hanna sleep. Her face was soft and peaceful. She’d never seen Hanna relaxed. Not on the yacht while under Idris’s thumb, and certainly not in the whirlwind of danger since they’d pulled her off The Fakhar.
She turned off the lamp and left her there.
She found Olivia in the kitchen, pulling a third bottle from the wine cellar. A second Beaujolais Réserve.
“Hanna’s out,” Marielle said.
Olivia glanced up from wrestling with the corkscrew. “She should be. She killed half the bottle of white in twenty minutes.”
“Can’t blame her.”
“Not even a little bit.”
The cork came free with a soft pop. Olivia grabbed two glasses and tilted her head toward the fireplace tucked into the corner. “Fire?”
Marielle built a fire to ward off the spring chill trapped in the stonewalls. She crumpled newspaper, arranged kindling in a careful teepee, and stacked larger logs stacked on top. She struck a match and the flames caught quickly, crackling as they warmed the room.
They settled into the chairs beside the hearth. For a moment they sat in companionable silence, both thinking about the men they’d sent into danger.
Marielle spoke first. “He’ll be fine, right?”
Olivia took a slow sip before answering. “Jake and Trent are the best. Omar, too. They’ll get the team out.”
She sounded as unconvinced as Marielle felt.
Marielle stared into the fire. “I keep thinking about all the things that could go wrong.”
“Don’t.”
“I can’t help it.”
Olivia leaned back. “Think about all the things that could go right. They’re smart. They’re trained. They know what they’re doing.”