She wasn’t some stupid woman whose problems were solved by the touch of a man, but maybe this was what everyone talked about, sang about, and wrote books about—love? At the very least perhaps it was the magic of a close relationship.

Thomas massaged her shoulders, his strong fingers seeking out and easing away all the knots and tension that existed there. Isabelle opened her eyes and let a smile play on her lips. Whatever it was, it was good.

He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “You okay?”

She shook her head. “Not really, but I’m better now.”

“Your mom is fascinating. I think a shrink would have a good time with her.”

She snorted. “She’s not really my mom. She’s just the woman who gave birth to me.” Isabelle didn’t want to believe that, though. The words felt too harsh in her mouth.

Thomas pulled her back against him and enveloped her in his arms. She nestled into his chest, inhaling the scent of him and enjoying the warmth of his body. “I think Catalina is starting to understand what she missed in you and Angela.”

Tears pricked her eyes. “Do you think she’s capable of that? Truly?”

Thomas went silent for a long moment. “Yes.”

A sob of grief bubbled up from somewhere deep inside her, like a pocket of sorrow that had been stored in the depths of her soul had suddenly been popped. “I miss my sister, Thomas.”

She hadn’t cried once since she’d found Angela, not really, but now it seemed like all the tears she’d stored up rushed forth in a torrent.

Thomas eased her down to the bridge and sat, holding her in his lap, and let it happen. He made soft sounds at her and brushed his fingers through her hair, seeming to understand as well as she did that she needed this release.

Memories flooded her mind. Playing jacks with Angela on the front steps of the brownstone where they’d lived for a time in Chicago. Running down to the pond in France where they’d watched the other kids race toy sailboats. Isabelle remembered her first date and how her older sister had given her a small amount of advice based on her own limited experience. She’d helped her do her hair and then sat up with her when she’d returned home crying because the boy hadn’t been all she’d hoped.

Lord and Lady, she missed Angela.

Isabelle cried until her eyes were dry, her makeup was nonexistent, her nose ran, and her head pounded. Despite all that, at the end, she felt better than she had in a long time. She felt emptied of the heaviness she’d been carrying around since her sister’s death.