by Hilary Boyd
Now she sat on the deck in the warmth of the early evening sun and looked at the photos Chanty had emailed of Ellie and Becca. Even in the three weeks they’d been away, the baby had changed so much.
Ray’s tanned face popped up from below. ‘Drink?’
The last three months had been amongst the strangest of her life, but also the most uncomplicated. Being with Ray was like coming home.
Chanty had at first maintained a silence on the subject which, while not exactly hostile, carried no welcome or acceptance of Ray. Then two weeks before their trip – persuaded apparently by Alex that it was not going to get easier with the passing of time – she had asked Jeanie and Ray to supper. And it went well enough. Chanty gradually relaxed under Ray’s easy charm and his clear lack of desire to ingratiate himself with Jeanie’s family. By the end of the evening Jeanie had witnessed the edges of her daughter’s disapproval worn down just a little.
The timing, and Chanty’s tentative olive branch, were triggered, Jeanie was certain, by the news from her father.
‘Sally is spending more time up at the house,’ he’d announced to his daughter one day. And when Chanty failed to comment on what appeared to be merely the unimportant minutiae of his life, and George realized she hadn’t picked up on his coded message, he had begun again, this time with emphasis.
‘We are spending more time together, Sally-from-the-village and me.’
‘You and Sally?’ Chanty still didn’t cotton on. ‘That’s nice. What do you mean, Dad?’
George had replied, ‘Well, she’s . . . staying for supper . . . and things.’
Chanty had repeated this conversation to Jeanie in amazement, but Jeanie wasn’t surprised. Sally would care for George, asking no questions, knowing no history. She was a strong, understanding woman with an infectious sense of humour who might offer George the tranquillity that Jeanie had ceased to provide. She was happy for him. Everyone always worried about George’s vulnerability, but as Rita had so often said, he knew how to get what he wanted.
‘Poor Chanty,’ Jeanie had commented to Ray. ‘If she thought about it at all, she’d probably have taken it for granted that her parents would enjoy a decorous retirement pottering amongst the garden centres of the West Country.’
‘Jeanie . . . Jeanie.’ Ray was nudging her awake. The cabin was barely light.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing, nothing at all, don’t look so worried.’ He smiled down at her. ‘But you have to get up, the sun is about to rise and it is so spectacularly beautiful.’
Jeanie was up in a flash, pulling on her shorts and tee shirt and following Ray up the steps on to the deck. They had anchored after dark the night before, in a small cove north of Rogoznica. As she reached the deck, the first rays of sun were coming up over the hills, laying a pale shimmering-gold trail across the water, while leaving the rocks that fell steeply to the sea – bleached white by day – still shadowed purple. It was cool and still on deck, the wood smooth beneath her bare feet, the only sound the gentle lapping of the water against the sides of the boat, and the crying of the seabirds.
Ray put his arm around her, held her close. As the warm sun fell on them, he turned to her, lifting his hand to run his finger gently down the length of her cheek, his gaze clear and intense in the morning light.
‘The last time I was here I was in hell. I thought I would never see you again. This paradise seemed to mock me.’
As she watched, his beautiful grey eyes filled with tears.
‘But it’s never about place, is it?’ He spoke softly.
Jeanie said nothing, just reached up and kissed him, tasting the salt on his lips, feeling the strength of his body against her own. And looking up to the sky, she blew an imaginary kiss across the sparkling sea. Thank you, Ellie. Thank you, Dylan, she whispered.