“Aye, you do. Now tell me what’s going on,” Hamish ordered, proving that a man never grew out of his role as the elder brother.
Duncan let out a sigh. “I’m having some problems.”
There was silence, and then, “Are they of a suicidal nature?”
“What? No!”
There was a sigh. “Thank the Lord for that. I’m not equipped for that kind of crap. I was going to wake Shelley and have her deal with you.”
“You thought a high school teacher would be better equipped to deal with a suicidal man?”
“Dunc, if that woman can deal with hundreds of hormonal teenagers every day, she can sort out your sorry arse.”
He shook his head to clear that weird reasoning from it. “I’m not depressed. Well, not now anyway. I have a problem with...”
How did he explain his dilemma without sounding like a complete arse? He was talking about his housekeeper after all. He was in a position of authority over the woman, and even though he’d been living in his head the past few years, he’d hadn’t missed that there was a whole movement going on to put men who abused their power in their rightful place—on their arses with two black eyes.
“Is this a guessing game?” Hamish said. “Tell me when I hit the right one. You have a problem with...alcohol? Pornography addiction? Opioid abuse? Inappropriate thoughts about nuns?”
“Stop!” He wasn’t sure whether he should be insulted or laugh until he cried. “I have a problem with guilt.”
“So, it’s the nuns then?” Hamish said, but there was laughter in his voice.
Duncan let his head rest on the wall behind him, and he stared up at the pristine white ceiling. At some point in the past couple of years, there must have been a paint crew in here to give it another coat. Donna again. She was everywhere he turned.
“I’m having inappropriate thoughts, but not about nuns, you numpty, about my housekeeper.”
“Mrs Granger? Holy shit, man, that’s just wrong.”
Duncan burst out laughing again. Mrs Granger had been the housekeeper he’d fired before hiring Donna. She’d been old enough to be his mother, had a permanent frown, thought grey was a prime colour, and reminded him of a jar of pickles.
He wiped his eyes as he calmed down. Man, it felt good to laugh again. “Not Granger, I fired her in a drunken fit two years ago. It’s her replacement, Donna Sinclair.”
“Please tell me Donna is young and gorgeous?”
He looked at the canvases he’d covered with her image. “Aye,” was all he could say.
Hamish let out a heavy and clearly relieved sigh. “About time, brother.”
“No, not about time. I made promises to Fiona. Vows before God.”
“Ah, I see the problem.” His brother’s voice softened. “You feel like you’re betraying your wife. Like you’re cheating on her, maybe?”
“Aye.”
“I can understand that. The promises we make before God are serious business. But remember, you also only vowed to keep them until death did you part.”
He sucked in a breath, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut. “Damn.”
“Aye.”
He stared at the paintings of Fiona and Donna, sitting side by side in his studio, while his brother waited patiently for him to talk.
“How do you let go?” he asked, almost to himself.
“I honestly don’t know. I’ve never been in your shoes, and I have no idea how I would cope if ever I was. Only you know how to move on from Fiona. I could give you all the clichéd advice we give people like you—that she wouldn’t want you to pine after her, that she wanted you to be happy, that you should live your life and not waste it. There’s truth in all of that, but I’m sure it rings bloody hollow when you’re the one going through it. I hate to say it, but you need to figure this out for yourself. Just know that I’m only a phone call away if you need me. And if things get desperate, I can hop a plane with the family and come sort you out in person.”
Duncan closed his eyes. “What if Donna doesn’t want me?”