Mrs. Hedley looked as impressed as I was, but the ice maiden didn’t care. She was too busy scrutinizing my morning outfit.
“Everyone was asking after you last night, Ciaran. And your face. That’s going to go down well in the boardroom.”
“I’m sure everyone enjoyed themselves nonetheless,” he replied, eyes narrowing again.
“Ciaran, people don’t attend an Argyll birthday at an Argyll location and expect there to be no Argyll. I didn’t know what to tell them.”
“And that’s okay, Penny. If you were my personal assistant, you would need to know these things, but as it is, you only need to be familiar with Fergal’s diary.”
Penny’s eyes tightened, too. “I did offer to take care of your diary, Ciaran,” she said, preening herself. “Now your father keeps my hands full.” She smiled. She had the smile of an asp and I was fast starting to think there might be nothing I could ever like about this woman.
Dave ambled over, his massive round head fixed on the killer legs he hadn’t smelled before.
Penny stiffened. “If that touches me, you’ll be getting the dry-cleaning bill.”
Dave did touch her, but only just grazing her skirt with one slobbery globule. He could tell she was mean, and saved his affections for elsewhere. I didn’t see a need to alert her to the trail of goo he’d left for her to find later, but I would absolutely be giving him a treat for it.
“Cora, thank you for such an interesting morning,” Ciaran said, planting a welcome kiss on Mrs Hedley’s cheek.
The ice maiden had her elbows in her hands, glaring at me as though I’d been sick in her hair last night.
Ciaran came to stand between us, and the asp was at least out of view. “And thank you, Holly, for such an interesting night.”
I’d been too transfixed by his mouth as he spoke to notice the hand slipping its way over my hip. I did my best not to react how Mrs Hedley had as I felt the delicate press of his lips just centimetres from my own.
“I’ll return the clothes,” he called, serious once more.
I tried not to watch him as he stepped into her car. We both watched as they rolled off down the track.
With Ciaran gone, I turned my talent for avoiding eye contact on Mrs Hedley, hoping she’d return to her own door and not mine. The dust pluming over the track made its way closer to the road. I half watched the pickup driver leave, too, before trudging back for more coffee.
It tasted like consolatory coffee. I didn’t know why, but it did.
“I’ll have two sugars in mine,” Mrs Hedley said, settling back at the table.
I’d never been questioned by the police, but as Mrs Hedley poured milk into both of our cups, taking a sip before she started getting down to business, the only thing missing was a swinging light bulb and a tape deck.
“You never got to meet George, did you?” she said, settling into her chair.
Mrs. Hedley had never spoken about her husband other than when his name was dropped into a recollection, and on those few occasions, she always referred to him as Mr Hedley.
“Um, no. I didn’t.”
“You must have seen him, though, before he died? It was only a month or so after you moved your things in, but he was always out on the field feeding the geese, right up until that blasted stroke of his.”
“Oh, you mean the gentleman from the farm over the reservoir?” I asked, realising my mistake. “Didn’t he come by one afternoon with some lovely tulips for you, Mrs Hedley?”
“Yes, that was George, the old rascal. He knew I loved tulips, but I prefer them growing in the ground, not cut off in their prime.”
“Sounds like you had an admirer, Mrs Hedley, or do you prefer Cora?” I was teasing, on both counts, but she didn’t seem to pick up on it.
“George was often bringing me things, little offerings or gifts if you want to call them that. He’d been a widower for longer than I’d been a widow. We’d met at church once or twice, and he was always kind enough to share his service sheet with me. Over the years, we became friends. Good friends, I’d have said. He’d come over with a basketful of shirts for me to press for him, and I’d get to have my pick of his allotment for my trouble.”
“Ah, that sounds lovely, Mrs Hedley. It must have been a nice friendship for you both.”
“Oh, it was. And I was happy with how things were that way, with a chat on Sundays and a nice visit in the week. He was lovely company, George. He was a cheeky old bugger, but kind... Took good care of his farm and his animals. A real winner. He should have found himself another woman to love him.”
Mrs. Hedley had popped in for chats many times in the last two years, but we’d never strayed outside the parameters of polite conversation.
“So why didn’t he find a wife? Sounds like he was a catch,” I said.
“He was. He’d have made any woman a good husband. You see, Holly, George was accepting of his circumstances. He could see that there was more happiness to find before his time was up. It was a terrible shame when he died, with no one to comfort him in that big house of his.”
I could see the house Mrs Hedley was speaking of from the window. It seemed to stir something in her to look at it now.
“Are you all right, Mrs Hedley?” I asked, taken aback by the softness in her face.
“Poor old George. I do miss our talks. I should have been there with him, to take care of him. Instead of being a coward. But, I couldn’t leave the house, you see.”
“What do you mean, Mrs Hedley? You sound like you were a good friend.”
Mrs. Hedley’s grey eyes warmed with whatever emotion they were holding on to. Her white hair fell around her face as she shook her head to herself.
“And I couldn’t face the thought of George coming to live with me. Not with Mr Hedley’s things all around me. This was his home, too. It wasn’t right. And I couldn’t just leave him to go and live over the water. You see, George, he got this idea that we might become man and wife, you see. Live out our days together feeding the animals and eating our meals at the same table. He took it quite badly when I told him I couldn’t be his wife. I just couldn’t. I thought it was an impossibility.”
When she looked at me then, the loss in her was like a blow to my stomach. If she felt this way, why hadn’t she accepted his offer? Instead of living so many years alone?
“But why? Why was it an impossibility?” I asked her, trying to offer her the comfort of my hand on hers.
“For the same reasons you’re going to find for keeping that nice young man from coming back here again.” Her other hand found its way on top of mine. She held me with eyes that knew the pain of love, the unrelenting weight of its cost around your neck.
I swallowed past the lump forming in my throat. “I don’t know what you mean, Mrs Hedley. Last night wasn’t what you think. He was only here be—”
“He was here for one reason, girl. Because he wanted to be here. And in some small way that you probably won’t agree to, you wanted him to be here, too.”
It wasn’t true. Last night wasn’t planned; it was just coincidence. Knowing that a man is attractive doesn’t give them an open door into your life. It...it just doesn’t.
Wrinkled hands clasped down harder around mine and for the umpteenth time in weeks I felt my neck beginning to flush. I bet she thought I didn’t love Charlie—that I’d forgotten him as soon as some flash chap with money to burn had looked my way.
“Really, Mrs Hedley. You have the completely wrong idea.”
“No, I had the completely wrong idea when George brought me those tulips. I thought that they were enough. More than a silly old woman like me should even hope for. But those tulips were like the moments I shared with him—a lovely burst of colour in my day, but they were always temporary, girl. That man would have done anything for me, and I watched
him live out his days from that window, because I was too much the coward to let life take me on another adventure.”
“But, Mrs Hedley, George died.”
And there it was.
Mrs. Hedley got up from her chair and stepped quietly to the window overlooking the little white farm on the hillside.
“When I lost Albert I thought that was the very worst thing that could happen to a person. To lose the one they loved more than anything. More than themselves. But when George didn’t go out to the geese one morning, and I realised, there was a different grief came to seek me out. The very worst kind because it could have been avoided.” Mrs Hedley’s chest rose with one heaving breath before she sighed at the windowpane. “I’d have grieved for George either way, but I’d have never regretted it. Not like now. Don’t be a fool, girl. Don’t be afraid of unexpected joy. Don’t find yourself grieving for an opportunity wasted, because no matter how much you love the ghosts, they don’t keep you warm.”
I could feel the burn again of tears about to run over, unsure of who it was I wanted to cry for. She was wrong. There was no worse kind of grief—there couldn’t be. Not even aching regret would make me accept that.
“That boy likes you, girl. He didn’t think I saw how he watched you this morning, the way he kept looking at your feet because he knew they were cold. All right, so he’s a brawler. I didn’t buy that cock and bull—but, Holly, think of it this way. All the pain Charlie left you with, all the unbearably long nights waiting for the dawn to chase the nightmares away, all the looks that made you want to curl up and die, the clinging on by the nails to a world that doesn’t know what to do with you, just to try and see if the next day holds any more hope—even after all that Charlie left you to deal with, you wouldn’t go back and not marry him, would you? If you had the chance to meet someone else, and save your poor heart, would you take it?”
A hot stream fell over my cheek, and I knew it would be seconds before the other followed suit. I shook my head to answer her.
“That’s the difference, girl. Of having no regret.”
chapter 20
“The baby’s coming! The baby’s coming!” Rob shrieked from the earpiece.
“Okay, I’m on my way. I’m coming now!” I stammered through the thick black dark pressing out against the walls of my bedroom.
“Okay, we’re just getting parked. We’ll see you here soon. And don’t forget the aromatherapy pack!” Rob hung up, leaving me confronted with the double-pronged enigma of how long it was before dawn, and why the hell hadn’t I bought the aromatherapy set I was supposed to have. Within twenty minutes I was out of bed, teeth brushed, and wrapped up against the cold waiting for me inside the van.
Martha was going to kick my ass for not providing the essential oils. I hadn’t been given many responsibilities as the second ranking “birthing partner”—namely don’t forget the oils and don’t faint. I wasn’t off to a good start. Luckily for me, two chaotic hours later and a grovelling text to Jess asking that he cover for me while I recouped a few hours’ sleep, and I was back at home with a second chance to buy the oils.
The orange light of dawn was bleeding across the sky when Mrs Hedley opened her door to greet me. There was something different about her this morning, some small indecipherable change I hadn’t seen before. Perhaps it was that she hadn’t piled her hair neatly up onto the back of her head yet, or the prettiness of the delicate flowers patterned on her shirt not yet hidden beneath the green quilted waistcoat she always wore. Most likely, though, it was the subtle smile she was wearing as she held out the parcel for me.
There was nothing exceptional about the brown papered item Mrs Hedley passed to me, other than the fact that there was no address on it and so someone had taken the trouble to deliver it all the way out here by hand.
No address, just Holly written in black ink.
Mrs. Hedley gave nothing away as I examined my delivery. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon. I assumed you’d been called out for the little ’un’s arrival,” she said, rubbing the chill from her arms.
“False alarm.” I smiled. “Something called Braxton Hicks?”
“Well, it won’t be long, then. She’ll be getting impatient, I expect?”
Impatient wasn’t the word for it. Three days overdue and the baby was not following Martha’s schedule. After catching a glimpse of the words serene and drug-free in her birth plans, I tried to ignore what other oversights Martha might have in store. I didn’t know that much about childbirth, but I knew enough that Martha couldn’t have read the same texts I had on the subject. I’d had a book once on the whole shebang, a comedy wedding gift from one of Charlie’s lads.
After moving from conception to the labour and delivery section, and seeing nothing that even remotely made me think serene or drug-free, Charlie said the book was more like a contraceptive device than a field guide. It was one of the few things I’d had no problem throwing out in the early days. I didn’t like to look at it before, and couldn’t bear to look at it after. I didn’t begrudge Martha her impatience. She knew what a luxury it was.
“You could say that, Mrs Hedley. So who brought this?” I said, weighing the soft package in my hand.
“Ciaran.” Another twist in my stomach. “He dropped it off for you, about half an hour ago. He said he was on his way to work.”
“Oh. On his way to work?”
“He didn’t stay long. I just happened to catch him as he was leaving it on your doorstep.”
Yep. That figured. He could have just mailed it back to me. He probably wanted to make sure there was no room for error, no reason for me to turn up one day looking for the shirt that hadn’t arrived in the post.
He wanted to tie up any loose ends he might think there were between us. No one wanted loose ends with a widow, especially not when the particular widow in question was both a bumbling mess when sober and a rambling mess when drunk. He probably couldn’t get Charlie’s shirt back to me quickly enough. And I couldn’t blame him for it.
Mrs. Hedley was already closing her door behind her.
* * *
I was slumped on my bed, the package still in my hand. I knew what was inside, but found a few moments’ interest in inspecting the handwriting I took to be his. Five letters spelt a world of difference between Ciaran’s school days and Charlie’s. I wondered if Ciaran had ever had the burden of heavy secrets, like the inability to read without stammering, or writing his letters the correct way around. Charlie could have achieved so much with the right opportunities. If he’d had a powerhouse like Argyll Inc. behind him, he’d have had a forest school set up in every county. Even without that kind of backing, he’d have fought for it until they gave in.
Now the forest was slipping from all our fingers, soon to be the next site of two-bed starter homes and streets named nostalgically after the woodlands they usurped.
Stiff paper crinkled scratchily under my hands and soft blue cotton ironed to perfection slipped from its wrapping. It was going to look out of place next to its dusty brothers, neatly folded and smelling of someone else’s washing powder. A slip of white paper peeped from inside the spent packaging.
Holly,
Thank you for your hospitality this weekend, and for your enlightening geographical views. I enjoyed our conversations, but your geography needs work.
I was hoping we could discuss this further sometime soon, over coffee, or red wine if you prefer?
You’re busy, so I’ll call you in the week when you’ve had chance to check your schedule.
Yours,
Ciaran
P.S. The eye hurts like hell.
The letters were raised against the paper, the mark of a fountain pen with not a blemish of ink out of place. I ran my finger over them again.
Hoping. Soon. Yours.
The sensation
of someone tasering me scared me half to death. I dug around in my jean pocket for the frenzied buzz of my phone.
“Hello?”
“I wanted to catch you before you went back to bed or showered or... Can you talk?”
Looking at his writing and hearing his voice all at the same time threw me.
“I passed you on your way out of Hunterstone. You’re hard to miss, Holly.”
“Erm...”
“Were you singing? You looked like you were singing.”
“Er...”
“Did you get my note?”
“Er...no! Erm...no...I...er...” Damn it, Holly! Pull yourself together!
“Oh. I was just wondering if you’d like to come for lunch with me this week? I thought we could finish our conversation maybe, over a bite?”
“What conversation?” He’s asking you to dinner. Who cares!
“The conversation we were enjoying Saturday night, just before you fell off your stool.”
I closed my eyes at the image he’d just painted. “Oh, I did, did I? I must have forgotten about that.” Really cool, Hol.
“Yes. You did. And then I picked you up, and asked your permission to carry you to bed, which I did, and then you said—”
“Lunch sounds nice!” I blurted, cutting him off. It seemed the best measure to stop him from relaying whatever cringe-inducing one-liner I might have said to him in my drunken stupor.
“Great. I was thinking tomorrow, around one-thirty?”
I hadn’t expected him to keep coming with more propositions I needed responses for.
“Tomorrow? I, er...I have to work. All week actually.”
“But you leave early some days. Is that right?”
“Yes, but not one-thirty early.” This was so weird, it was like haggling with one of the suppliers.
“Okay, well, you tell me a time that’s good for you, then.” The supplier had just asked me to name a price. I was notoriously bad at this kind of conversation.
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