Ophelia breathed in the salty air.

It was a beautiful afternoon in Cornwall; the June sky was as fragile as a robin's egg, and the sea unfurled before them, a glittering azure banner. Frank was perched in his wheelchair at the edge of the water, his face tipped up towards the sunshine. She watched as Jane draped a quilt over her husband's shoulders, leaning down to kiss his head.

"He looks happy," Andrew murmured. "Doesn't he?"

"Yes."

"I have you to thank for that."

Ophelia flushed. "I didn't do that much."

She had managed to track down a Mobi-Mat online, but that was about it. Andrew had been the one to pay for the polyester mat, and Jane was the one to carefully unfurl it over the sand, pushing Frank's wheelchair over the mat and straight to the water.

Still.

Looking at Frank's face, she was pleased to have contributed.

Andrew leaned over, brushing his thumb over her cheek. "Sunscreen," he murmured. "You always forget to rub it in."

"I'll be fine."

"You said that last time, too," Andrew sighed. "And you burnt to a crisp." He produced a large straw hat from a beach bag, plopping it unceremoniously on top of her head. "There," he said, satisfied. "Much better."

She scowled. "I feel stupid."

"You look adorable."

He tipped up her hat, bopping her on the nose. Ophelia tried her best to look intimidating, but it must have failed, because Andrew chuckled.

"You see?" He shook his head. "Absolutely bloody adorable."

Andrew turned back to his painting. He had only done the outline so far — a hazy pencil sketch of gulls and his father's strong shoulders — but she could already hear him muttering over paints, examining swatches of lilac and lemon.

Ophelia leaned back on her elbows, propping her book up. She had opted for a biography of a famous chef on Henry's suggestion. Unsurprisingly, most of the third chapter was dedicated to describing juicy pork chops and tarragon mashed potatoes in great detail. She pulled out her phone, texting a picture to Digby.

You at this part yet?

He replied two minutes later.

Making pork chops as we speak. x

Ophelia smiled, setting the phone down. Things weren't entirely comfortable between them yet, but they were steadily improving; just last week, the boys had taken her out to shoot clay pigeons at Argyll Estate, on her request.

Digby had patiently showed her how to hold the butt of her gun against her shoulder. "It'll kick back," he warned her. "So absorb the shock with your body."

"Right."

"And ground your feet."

"Got it."

"Don't be discouraged if you miss," he added. "The first time is always the hardest."

Ophelia smirked. "Is that an innuendo?"

Unfortunately, Ophelia realized that it may have been too soon to make jokes like that, because Digby went a terrible, blotchy red color. Andrew winked at her.

"Good luck, darling." He leaned over to kiss her cheek, dropping his voice to murmur in her ear. "Don't make it look too easy."

Ophelia had hit three clay disks in a row. Digby, thoroughly rattled, had gone next; he missed all of the disks and then slipped in the mud on the way back to the Estate, ruining his best pair of navy chinos.

All in all, it was a good day. And it had only been made better by an article in Tatler, announcing Eleanora's engagement to Lord Bennett Banbury, an investment banker in London. Ophelia had felt a temporary flash of fear that Andrew might be upset by it, but he had merely rested his chin on her shoulder, taken one look at the article, and snorted.

"Banbury is a notorious gambler," Andrew told her. "He might be wealthy now, but he won't be for long." He had shaken his head. "I hope Eleanora loves him, because they'll be living in a one-bedroom flat in Leeds by next year."

Ophelia tried to feel sorry for Eleanora, but then she thought of her book burning to ashes at Argyll Estate and felt that — in this case — she could be allowed a pass. And maybe even a tiny bit of smugness.

Now, Ophelia set her book down, pulling out a bottle of lemonade. She shouted Jane's name, holding up the drink in a silent question, but the older woman shook her head. "You go ahead, my dear," she called. "We'll be there in a moment."

Ophelia pulled out two plastic cups — one for her, and one for Andrew — and poured two healthy servings. She was just setting the bottle back in the bag when her eyes fell on Andrew's sketchbook. Curiosity got the better of her.

"Can I look at this?"

She waggled it. Andrew frowned, tilting his head as he studied his canvas.

"Andrew?"

"Hmmm?"

"Can I look at your sketchbook?"

He stuck out his tongue in concentration, adding a dab of purple to the sky. Ophelia sighed. Well. She'd take that as a yes, then. She flipped open the sketchbook to the first page and then froze.

Hang on.

That was her.

Ophelia flipped through the pages, her incredulity growing. It was her, splashing in the waves. Her, blowing on a dandelion, her cheeks flushed pink. Her, dangling upside down on a bed. Her, walking in the garden, her red ponytail blowing in the breeze. There had to be ten drawings of her. More, maybe.

"Andrew, love," she murmured.

"Hmm?"

"These are all of me."

Andrew's head snapped up. Finally, he took in the sketchbook in her hands, and his mouth quirked. "You haven't worked it out yet, have you?"

"What?"

"They're all of you," Andrew said simply. "Every painting I've done this year, it's been of you." He set his paintbrush down. "The papers at the coffee shop, the canvas in my bedroom..." He shook his head. "I could never get it quite right, though."

She stared at him. "All of them?"

He smiled. "Why do you think I wanted you to model for me so damn badly?"

She felt suddenly breathless. Even now, Andrew was a mystery to her. He was an Agatha Christie novel without an ending, and Ophelia suspected that she would spend her entire life happily trying to work it out. Speaking of which.

"You know," she said, winding their hands together, "I've been thinking a lot about happy endings lately."

Andrew raised their hands to his lips, kissing the three black dots tattooed on her finger. "And what have you discovered, my love?"

Ophelia sighed. "Well, all of the greatest love stories end tragically. Romeo and Juliet, Great Expectations..." She looked up at him. "What does that say about us? Are we doomed?"

Andrew looked at her for a long moment. His eyes really were very blue, she thought; they had flecks of gold in them too, like stars floating in a sea. He tucked a stray lock of red hair behind her ear, and she shivered as his warm fingers brushed her skin.

"It says that we're lucky," Andrew murmured. "It says that I'm one of the few people in this world that gets the best sort of love story. The kind where I get to love you for the rest of my life without incident. The remarkably unremarkable." He kissed her forehead. "And anyways, our story isn't over yet, is it?"

"No." She smiled. "No, you're right; it's only just beginning."

Ophelia leaned her head on his shoulder. Andrew half-pulled her into his lap, and she could hear his heart pumping in a private orchestra. Down by the water, a pair of squealing children chased each other in the waves, their arms stretched upwards. And above them all, the burning sun dissolved, melting into the butterscotch sky...