by Lily Graham
It was a surprise to her how little she’d accumulated in the past four years. Little more than three boxes full of things. ‘This is it?’ asked Dot in surprise.
She nodded. ‘I suppose, looking at it now, I see how temporary this all was,’ she said, looking around the small flat. ‘It’s funny what you don’t see sometimes.’
‘That’s true,’ said Evie.
The boxes were driven back in Aggie’s van, which she used to cart around all her large paintings, and were placed in a corner of the Hope Cottage kitchen.
‘Sandro said he’s probably moving out soon,’ Evie said.
Emma’s mouth opened in surprise. ‘He is?’
‘Yes, well, they’re mostly done with the renovations – it still needs work but now that there’s a kitchen and a bathroom he says he can live in it while the rest is being done.’
‘When is he moving?’ she asked.
‘Next few days, I should imagine.’
Emma frowned. ‘But that’s such short notice – I mean, surely it should be at least a month’s notice, shouldn’t it?’
Evie laughed. ‘Not between friends. Anyway he’s already paid me far too much as it is – he’s so generous.’
‘But, he can’t leave.’
Evie touched her hand. ‘We’ll still see him, don’t worry.’
Emma blinked. What was she going to do at Hope Cottage without Sandro? ‘Maybe I can convince him to stay… I mean, if the farmhouse isn’t completely ready, why move? It’s like you said, we don’t need the money.’
Evie and Aggie shared a look. ‘Love,’ Evie started, ‘I think with you dating Jack now, well—’
‘What’s that got to do with anything? Sandro doesn’t need to leave just because of that.’
Aggie touched her arm. ‘I think Sandro feels differently.’
She frowned. What did that mean? He’d had enough of them – of her – perhaps? Maybe he was sick of feeling so needed. God knows, she’d relied upon him enough in the past, but she didn’t think he’d minded… unless she’d been cramping his style. All those nights when he was at home with her making her laugh, Pennywort snoring in his lap while they listened to that silly, funny book, maybe he’d just been trying to be nice when he really wanted to be out with Holly, or Sarah, or whichever one it was that week.
* * *
By the third week in December, Emma could be found spending her mornings in the greenhouse working on her column and the afternoons working on her weekly show for the Whistling radio station. She’d got better at typing with her injured hand, though it played up in the cold. She’d got in contact with some of her old freelance clients and was starting to take on some more work there as well.
The greenhouse was quiet, filled with the scent of soil and rosemary and the aroma of fresh coffee. She swivelled her mouse and opened up a blank page, took a sip, and for a second she thought of a pair of dark eyes, waiting for her to announce her topic.
She bit her lip, tried to shake the image out of her mind; perhaps he’d find it amusing that whenever she wrote a column now, she imagined what he’d say, though she wondered if he even read them. He’d been busy of late, and she’d barely seen him. The last time he’d come past, Jack had been sitting at the table and he’d popped in for less than the time it took for him to change his shirt and leave again, with a slightly terse, ‘Adios’, no dimpled grin; no ‘Hola, Pajarita’ either. Even Pennywort looked despondent.
Now he had officially moved out, the house was so much emptier.
When she finished for the day, she flexed the muscles in her hand. They were tight and sore. She didn’t mind the pain, not really; it was a reminder of how far she’d come.
An early night was just about the only thing on her mind when she closed her laptop and made for the warmth of the cottage, thinking of a nice warm bath as her feet sank into the snow-covered grass.
When she neared the back door however, she saw Jack waiting for her outside.
He looked slightly frazzled, his hazel eyes haunted, beneath an olive-green beanie.
‘You okay?’ she asked, opening the door.
‘Yeah, no, fine,’ he said, running a hand through his hair and giving her a kiss.
He took a seat at the table, not bothering to take off his coat. His eyes fell upon The Book, and for a second she saw a scowl darken his eyes.
‘Jack?’ she asked.
His eyes snapped to hers. He didn’t say anything for a while, then he frowned, then half-jokingly he asked, ‘I’d know if I were bewitched – right?’
Emma blinked. ‘What?’
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘It was Stella, she came past my place earlier…’ His eye fell on The Book again and he gave a short laugh, though she could tell he wasn’t really joking. ‘It’s not like you made one for me, did you?’
‘Of course not,’ she said, taken aback.
He nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah, of course,’ he said, with a shaky kind of grin. ‘I mean it’s not like they really work… that’s what I told her – I told her you don’t believe in any of this.’ He pulled a slightly mocking face as he waved a hand around the cottage.
Emma frowned.
He looked up at her, his eyes widening with disbelief. ‘You don’t, do you?’
She stared at him for a while, and then frowned. ‘And if I do?’
He gave a half-grin. ‘What are you saying?’
She sighed. ‘I’m saying that I’ve seen too much to not believe, you know?’
He blinked, his face blanching a little. ‘So, the things you gave me… the strange things people have said that have happened to people who have eaten the things you made, like people getting back together with their exes—’
‘And you think that’s what happened to you, do you?’ she asked, folding her arms.
He looked at her. She could see the circles under his eyes. He looked tired, and unsure.
‘Well, Jack. You know what I remember?’
He shook his head.
‘That you were the one knocking on my door the first week I got back, and how in the weeks since then you’ve been here, bringing me things to eat, coming to see how I was, coming to sit next to me in that teashop with Gretchen, getting my number from Maggie… running into me, texting me, oh, and then – yes – you walked me home one night from the Tapas Hut, and we sat right here, in this kitchen and you kissed me. And yes, somewhere between the time you brought me home and the time you decided to kiss me you had one of the buns I’d made. So yeah, I guess it must all fucking be because of that.’
‘Emma—’
‘Goodnight Jack,’ she said, standing up and opening the door.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah, so am I,’ she said, closing the door behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
For the first time in their lives, it was Emma telling Jack that she wouldn’t be seeing him for a while.
The truth was, she didn’t know what she felt any more. She’d thought for so long that their biggest problem had always been that he hadn’t fought for her, not the way she wished he would; but she realised now that perhaps it was deeper than that. Perhaps he’d never really accepted her, and so, in many ways, she’d never really accepted herself. The trouble was, she was beginning to. She was starting to like the parts of herself that were odd, and different and perhaps a little inexplicable, and she didn’t know if she could be with someone who couldn’t accept who she was.
* * *
She spent a lot of time walking, often finding herself at the Tapas Hut. With the cold deepening and icy-cold winds blowing across the moorland, the clear plastic of the Bedouin tent protected Sandro’s customers from the worst of the inclement weather, along with the gas heaters and blankets. From inside this warm, festive bubble, which was full of the scent of ginger, and nutmeg, and soft Christmas music, she could still see the snow-covered moors stretching down the valley and the castle down the hill.
The hut was a haven away from the rumours and
stares, though most of them had died down anyway once people stopped seeing the two of them together.
Jack didn’t want to accept that it was over.
‘I was an idiot,’ he said, the week before Christmas, catching up with her on the high street. She’d been having a cuppa and a chat with Maggie after she finished work.
‘Come on Ems, are you going to punish me for ever, just because I gave in for a second to the stupid rumours? I mean, can you blame me?’
She sighed. ‘No, I can’t.’
He looked relieved. His face split into a grin.
‘But Jack – even so, I can’t be with someone who is always going to want me to be someone else, someone he can change.’
His eyes widened. ‘I don’t want you to change!’
‘You don’t wish I didn’t have the family I do?’
He frowned. ‘Yeah, but no one’s family is perfect, and I mean it’s not personal, it’s just all that crap they believe in and how this place can get a bit nuts about it. C’mon, the mumbo-jumbo that comes with your grandmother and her sisters, that silly book of theirs, I mean… that’s them, it’s not you.’
Emma shook her head, wondering if he’d ever really seen her properly. ‘It is me, Jack.’
* * *
She was sitting with Aggie, having a glass of mulled wine, the first time she heard Sandro play the guitar. It was a few nights later. The Tapas Hut was bathed in warm firelight, and it was warm in the tent despite the snow falling softly outside. The tables had small live miniature Christmas trees with silver bells on them and the air was scented with cinnamon and ginger.
There was a rowdy group near the front, who started calling for him to play.
Emma saw him from across the room. His dark eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned, bowed to the pressure and took a seat by the fire with his guitar, the flames casting reddish lights in his dark hair.
The sound was mellow and rhythmic, slightly hypnotic. While he played, his face was solemn, deep in concentration.
‘He’s really beautiful.’
Aggie raised a brow.
‘I mean, his playing is beautiful.’
Though he was too.
Afterwards he came and sat next to her. ‘Pajarita,’ he said, touching her hand. ‘There’s something I have to—’
He was interrupted by a woman with long blonde hair and a pretty smile, ‘Sandy, oh my goodness, you’re just so talented. I could listen to you all day.’
‘Thanks, Holly.’
Emma looked away. So that was Holly. When she looked up she saw him staring at her. ‘I think, you know, I’m going to call it a night. Bye, Sandy.’
* * *
‘Hey, Pajarita, wait up.’
She stopped, turned in surprise to see Sandro behind her.
‘Thought I’d walk you home.’
‘Why?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, I don’t want to drag you away from anyone, Sandy.’
He snorted. ‘Holly is just a friend.’
She frowned. ‘Okay,’ she said, slightly sarcastically.
He cocked his head to the side, staring at her as they walked. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing,’ she said.
He was still staring at her, so she shrugged. ‘Just that, well, you seem to have a lot of friends, you know?’
‘So?’
She scoffed. ‘Well, I suppose it is a free country – and you are the good-looking foreigner, why not take advantage?’
‘Is that what you think?’
She looked at him. ‘Sorry – I mean, it’s just I’ve seen some of the people who call, all the Hollys and Sarahs, and well, Dot’s told me some stories.’
He shook his head. ‘Dot – despite popular opinion – is not an authority on everything, eh, Pajarita.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, that sometimes she misses things that are fairly obvious to just about everyone else.’
She frowned. ‘Like what?’
His face looked suddenly angry. ‘Like that Jack Allen doesn’t deserve you – and he never has. Maybe that’s a rumour she should have thought to spread around.’
‘What?’ said Emma. His face was inches from hers. She felt her heart start to pound. ‘Emma—’ he started.
‘So that’s how it is,’ said a voice from behind.
She turned, sharply. ‘Jack?’
His face was screwed up in anger. His gaze glassy in the streetlight. A strong scent of beer was coming off him, and he looked slightly scruffy, his blond head uncovered and messy, his dark coat open, as if he couldn’t feel the biting cold.
‘Just be careful mate – she pretends to give a shit, like you’re the most important thing in her life, then one day, poof, like magic – you’re out and Spanish boy is in.’
Emma’s eyes widened. ‘It’s not like that, Jack.’
Sandro took a step away from her, a frown between his eyes. ‘Right. I think I’d better go,’ he said, his face tightening.
‘Yeah, I think you should,’ spat Jack.
‘Oh really?’ said Sandro, his eyes going suddenly cold.
‘Stop it!’ said Emma. ‘Jack, the only one who should go is you, you’re drunk. We’ll talk when you’re sober, all right?’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Evie’s face looked sad and anxious when she woke Emma the next morning with the news.
‘What is it?’ asked Emma, feeling her heart lurch in sudden fear at the look in her eyes.
‘It’s Jack. I’m so sorry, love, but there’s been an accident.’
Emma felt the air leave her lungs. There were tears in Evie’s eyes. ‘Seems he got hit by a drink driver last night, Stevie Galway, apparently he didn’t see Jack on the road, and…’
Emma gasped. ‘Is-is he…’ She couldn’t find the words.
‘He’s alive, but they’re not sure if he’s going to make it.’
Tears streamed down Emma’s face, into her neck. ‘Oh my God.’
After he’d confronted her and Sandro, the two had looked ready to kill each other. So she’d pushed Sandro back towards the Hut, and Jack in the opposite direction, and only when she was sure that they’d both walked away had she gone home. She only wished now that she’d seen Jack safely home.
* * *
Mrs Allen didn’t tell her to leave the hospital; she watched her approach with sad, lost eyes.
Stella Lea was sitting a little back from her, like she was an island, an island of grief and despair. Her eyes were sad, like something inside her had broken.
Emma swallowed. A tear slipped down her cheek as she neared them. ‘Mrs Allen…’ She hesitated. ‘I know we have our differences, but I care about Jack – and I just need to know how he’s—’ She took a shuddery breath. ‘How he’s doing,’ she finished.
Janet Allen’s face crumpled. For a second, Emma thought she wouldn’t speak to her, but then she took a deep breath and looked at her. Perhaps it was the first time she’d ever really looked.
‘H-he’s in a critical condition,’ she said, her eyes pooling with tears.
Behind them Stella was quietly sobbing.
Emma felt her knees wobble as she lowered herself into the seat in the waiting room next to Mrs Allen.
Her hands started to shake. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ she asked. ‘Donate blood, get you something – tea, maybe?’
Mrs Allen blinked. ‘N-no.’ A second passed, then she said, ‘But thank you, Emma.’
She closed her eyes. ‘You know you look like him, a little – your dad. Liam… he was my brother’s best friend, I didn’t know if you knew that. He was a wonderful man.’
Emma eyes filled with tears. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
* * *
‘The doctors have told us to prepare ourselves,’ said Mrs Allen, dissolving into tears.
Emma felt herself go into shock. Sitting in that hard plastic chair, she watched as Mrs Allen left to be at Jack’s side, where she
, as a non-family member, wasn’t allowed to be.
Sitting staring at the speckled blue and white tiles, she realised that this wasn’t helping anyone, but that there was something she could do.
Back at the cottage, she felt numb and worn out, but determined. She switched on the light and went to the dresser, scanning the shelves until she found it. An old black notebook that had once belonged to her mother.
Perhaps, deep down, somehow, she had known it was there all along. At last she found it, near the back of the notebook and folded in half, a two-hundred-year-old recipe about changing fortunes called Fortune’s Promise. She’d guessed that if Margaret had been anything like her she couldn’t have burned it.
Emma closed her eyes, prayed that it would work, then she took the notebook, one of the only things she had from her mother – her only real connection with her – and buried it beneath the frozen ground in the vegetable garden.
She’d just lit the old range and coaxed it into life when there was an insistent knock on the door. When she opened it, her mouth fell open in surprise. Janet Allen and Stella Lea were standing outside; they both shared the same, desperate, look.
Emma motioned them in, her eyes wide.
She told them to take a seat, frowning in disbelief at the same time. She knew why they were here, but still, she couldn’t believe it somehow. ‘I-well…’ began Janet, taking a deep breath. ‘You told me earlier, if there was anything I needed…’ her mouth wobbled. ‘There’s only one thing, really, and I’m at my wits’ end now, I’d do just about anything, even—’ She broke off, then looked at the floor.
‘Come to us?’
She nodded. A big fat tear rolled off the end of Stella’s nose. She didn’t have to say anything. Emma guessed she felt the same way.
‘I’m going to try something,’ she said. ‘Something that will hopefully put things right – as far as it can.’
Janet breathed out. She hadn’t asked if Emma would help; she knew, no matter their differences, Emma would do anything to help Jack.