Colin lifted a hand from the stream, and, turning slightly, touched his wet fingers to her forehead, then pressed his wet palm to her cheek. The slightest of touches, only lasting a moment, a kind of benediction. A blessing.
“The spirit of the wood and water be in you,” he said, leaning close.
She was unsure what he meant by that, either, but it was comforting. She closed her eyes and listened for the spirit of wood and water. The sound was mesmerizing. She felt her breathing deepen; she felt larger, expanding into a surprising and beautiful universe.
Slowly he stood and held out a hand. She took it, and he helped her up. He slipped his arm around her, almost without seeming to think, and they leaned together, watching the water rush past them to the falls.
“His name was Richard,” she said at last.
Colin nodded.
“He died.”
“Six years ago.”
Gwynn nodded gently. She kept her eyes on the water, trying to let it wash the unhappiness away—but then she realized that what she was feeling wasn’t as sharp as unhappiness, but rather, sorrow. A softer feeling. With its sharp edges worn away, as if by the water. Or time.
He didn’t ask anything further, though Gwynn waited. Most people were curious. Most people wanted more. Most of the time she didn’t give it to them, because she couldn’t. But, as she stood at the edge of the falls with Colin’s arm around her, she felt the hum of him on the air: he didn’t need to ask. He would accept what she needed to offer, and not demand more. She let out a sigh and found herself leaning against him; it was comfortable. It was comforting.
“He took his own life,” she said.
Colin nodded. “He must have been a very unhappy man.”
Gwynn weighed his words carefully. Sometimes there was judgment: what role had she played in Richard’s unhappiness? She didn’t feel that here. Colin’s words were all about Richard. There wasn’t even a question.
“He couldn’t see his way at the end. And I couldn’t help him. Sometimes I think I failed him, because”—and she stumbled, still unused to saying the words aloud—“I wanted to leave him. So many times I wanted to leave him.”
She felt Colin’s slight shift beside her, but she did not take her gaze from the roiling water.
“But you didn’t.”
“I didn’t. But in the end it didn’t matter. Richard took his own life when I stayed. He might have taken his own life had I gone.”
“How long did it take you to figure that out?”
“A long time.” Gwynn pushed her damp hair back from her face and felt the slight touch of a breeze on her cheek. “Sometimes I think I’m still figuring it out. Intellectually, I understand it. But there are other levels, other than intellectual. And that’s where my relationship with Richard lives, on those other levels. That’s where I have to deal with it.”
Gwynn was surprised at her own words and stopped. She was so unused to admission, so unused to speaking the ideas she’d lived with for six years.
“Six years is a long time to feel guilt,” was all Colin said.
THEY LEFT THE truck in the carpark and entered the pub in the falling darkness. The tide down on the strand roared gently; the windows glowed with a soft welcoming light. The dining room looked out over the cliffs at the incoming tide. Candles burned in hurricane lanterns on the tabletops. They ordered the Sunday carvery, and, after the waitress had brought their pints, Gwynn took a long drink and sank back into her chair.
She couldn’t bring herself to look at Colin. Instead she looked down on the night on the Celtic Sea. In the early evening darkness, the reflection from the dining room on the glass grew more defined, and after a few moments, she saw that he was watching her. That odd half-smile curving his mouth.
Gwynn felt the heat rush into her cheeks, and she ducked her head quickly to her drink once more.
“Steady on,” Colin advised.
She set the pint glass down on the table with a click. “I’m not like this. I don’t—”
He looked quietly amused. “I know.”
She threw up both hands. “You don’t know. You can’t. You’ve known me for a couple of weeks.”
“I know what you told me.”
“I could have lied.”
“But you didn’t, did you?”
The waitress came with their steaming plates and set them on the table before whisking herself silently away.
“Six years,” she said in a small voice.
“I know.” He touched a finger to the back of her hand. “Eat your dinner.” He took up his own knife and fork.
COLIN CLOSED THE door behind them and slid the bolt, and Gwynn found she was shaking.
He had only turned on a single light. The room was in shadow as he came to her and took her in his arms.
“Don’t be frightened,” he whispered into her hair.
With warm fingers he pushed aside the hair at her temple and pressed his lips to the sticking plaster beneath it.
“I won’t hurt you, Gwynn,” he said.
She nodded dumbly, sudden tears pricking behind her eyelids. Then his mouth found hers again, and her hands moved under his shirt, and she forgot to try to remember how this all worked.
23
COLIN WALKED HER to the front door, took the key from her, and let them both in. He shoved the door closed behind them with his hip.
“Wish I didn’t have some jobs,” he said, running a hand along her chin.
“Wish you didn’t. I’d like to be your job.” Gwynn’s skin felt electric, as though she had been turned inside out, and the very air shocked her. She put her own shaky hand to his unshaven jaw. Skin, she thought, surprised. Remembering.
That small half-smile. “I’ll be your handyman,” he sang, quietly.
He leaned forward to kiss her.
From the kitchen doorway, Mary cleared her throat, the feather duster held before her like a weapon.
Gwynn would have leapt away from Colin, but he held her tight.
“Out all night, have we been?” Mary’s voice was arch.
“Don’t know about you, ol’ Molly,” Colin said, “but I have been.”
“Damned kids.”
Gwynn buried her hot face in Colin’s shoulder. She felt like laughing. Maybe singing.
“Hope to God you at least took your clothes off this time,” Mary said.
At this Colin laughed, full-throated, and attractive—and happy—sound. He released Gwynn and bounded to Mary. He took her stiff body in his arms and kissed her soundly on the cheek. “Oh, and you’re just jealous. I’ll talk to your old man for you, if you like.”
“Damned kids,” she repeated, pushing him away with both hands. “I’ve got my work to do.” And she disappeared back into the kitchen with a sniff, waving the feather duster before her.
The kiss before he slipped back out into the street was thorough.
“I’ll call you,” he whispered against her mouth.
She raised her eyebrows. “Don’t say that. People always say that.”
He smiled. “All right. I won’t call you.” He stepped outside. “I’ll just show up.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Gwynn leaned against the door frame, watching his retreating back as he made his way down to the road where the truck was idling. Before sliding in, he took a hand from his pocket and raised it, slightly, palm out, his level eyes on her.
24
GWYNN ENTERED THE stores from the garden entrance, her cloth bag over her arm. She passed through the low-ceilinged rooms holding shelves of aprons, of wash buckets, of boxed matches—which made her think of Giles Trevelyan. On impulse, she picked up two small boxes; she never knew when she might need some, but she always knew when Giles would. A new package of tapers for the candle holders on the shelf, in case she wanted to throw an intimate dinner party: the idea was rather pleasant. A bit further toward the front of the shop was a shelf full of emergency oil lanterns. There hadn’t been a power cut since sh
e’d been in the cottage, but it was now November, and that was the Atlantic Ocean at the end of the village, and the forecast for this evening had been especially grim.
“How are you settling in, then?” Leah at the counter asked as Gwynn set her lantern, tapers, and matches down. Leah’s look was kind, concerned. Again Gwynn thought how motherly she seemed. “A bit lonely in that old cottage, I should think.”
Gwynn looked up, surprised at the tone. “It’s all right,” she said quickly. “Mary Tennant comes in every other morning, you know. Like she did for my great-aunt.”
Leah nodded. “Ah, that’s so. A good woman, Mary. Keeps you company, like? Someone to talk to.”
“Yes.” Despite the oddness of the conversation, Gwynn didn’t want to appear unfriendly. “Everyone’s been kind. Mary’s taken me to meet her father, up to his cottage. I’d need some batteries for the flashlights, too, I think. And have you any wax buttons, for the candleholders?”
“I think we might still have a package or two,” Leah said thoughtfully. She frowned for a moment. “Had a bit of a run on them lately.”
It was difficult to imagine there being a run on anything in this shop—in this village. Except, in the summer months, on postcards and ice cream cones and sunscreen. But the season was long over, summer visitors having left the village to the residents and to its own devices. Gwynn followed Leah through a wide doorway, ducking her head under the low lintel as the hand-lettered sign above warned her to. Leah turned to the right, still frowning, pausing to hand off a couple of packages of batteries, and led the way to a heavy oak dresser, the shelves of which held tea towels and sponges. She opened one of the deep drawers in the lower half and smiled.
“Here they are,” she said triumphantly. She pulled out a pair of cellophane wrapped packages and held them up. “How many do you need? Fifteen buttons each package.”
“I’d better take them both. It’s always nice to have candles on the dinner table, isn’t it?” Gwynn smiled brightly at Leah. Probably she wouldn’t use that many buttons in a year, but then again, who could tell? Candle-lit dinners for one, Leah probably thought, unless Mary wanted to bring her father over to keep her company, like. In her lonely old cottage. Gwynn breathed a sigh of relief that no one knew about Colin—though they probably would before long in a village this size.
At the counter once more, Leah totted up the purchases on the block. Gwynn handed her a note and took her change. She tucked the purchases into her cloth bag and said her thanks. She turned to go.“You’re welcome to come on down here any time, if you’d like someone to talk to,” Leah called after her. “We could have tea, like. You know. Another woman to talk to when you’re feeling a bit down?”
“Thanks,” Gwynn said, puzzled. “That would be nice.”
25
THE WIND PICKED up while she was shopping, and as soon as she let herself into the cottage, the rain spattered against the front windows. Her timing was perfect.
Gwynn put the kettle on for tea; the tray, as always, was already set—Mary had left it out as her last act before leaving that morning. There were ginger biscuits, too, but Gwynn decided to leave them for afters. She moved one of the small boxes of matches from her cloth bag to her purse, in case she ran into Giles Trevelyan with his unlit pipe. She slid the emergency candles and the extra flashlight batteries into the drawer beside the sink, then unwrapped a pair of tall green candles and the wax buttons, and pulled the brass sconces from the shelf beside the garden door. She warmed a couple of buttons between her fingers, rolling them about until they were soft and pliable, then dropped them into the holders—polished and gleaming, no doubt under Mary’s ministrations—and jammed the tapers in after them. Then she stood back and examined her handiwork: neither of the candles listed drunkenly. Pleased, she brought them out to the low table in the sitting room.
The rain had picked up and now thrashed violently against the windows. Gwynn turned on the lights and drew the front draperies against the encroaching storm. A gust of wind rattled the glass in the casements as she did this, a protest at being shut out of the light and warmth. That reminded her, and she opened the door on the stove and examined the embers, which still glowed red. She laid a few scraps of kindling over the coals and blew on them gently, urging them to flare up and catch. Satisfied, she fed the fire a small split and closed the door.
Gwynn had bought a steak and some mushrooms at the market, and dug a potato out of the darkness under the sink. There was a half-bottle of red wine left over from the previous evening, and as she cooked her dinner, she drank some from a balloon glass she’d found in the back of the cupboard. She flicked through the music on her iPad and called up Never Stop Moving by John Jones; her little Bluetooth speaker on the bookshelf put out just enough sound, and she found herself swaying lightly, singing along to “Ferryman.” Laughing, she twirled. For the first time in a long time she felt like dancing.
It was like dancing, wasn’t it? Sex, done right. She laughed again.
She mashed the potato with butter and garlic, then dumped a bit of the red wine into the steak pan, to deglaze it. Then she poured the result over the meat and potato both. After taking her dinner through to the sitting room, she lit the tapers. She adjusted the volume of John Jones’ voice, and then, because it seemed the thing to do, she flicked off the lights, leaving only the candles’ wavering flames to illuminate her romantic dinner for one. There, Leah. A dinner date with myself. And John Jones. Who needed anything else?
Well, maybe one thing.
Gwynn paused, fork in midair, imagining Colin’s tanned face, his watchful gray eyes, his narrow hips. Then she scolded herself. He had a life. She had a life. He was off with Pig Iron. Where would he sit, anyway? She’d have to rearrange everything again, clear off her work on the dining room table, perhaps even pull that table away from the window to allow two to sit there comfortably. It seemed, here, with the draperies closed against the storm and the fire burning cheerfully in the stove behind her, to be far too much trouble. She lifted her wine glass, took another sip, and raised it in toast to herself.
She wasn’t lonely. She didn’t really know why Leah at the shop would have thought so. Perhaps Leah was thinking about Gwynn Chelton, living up here in Gull Cottage on Eyewell Lane for nearly all her adult life, nearly all of it alone. Still, from the sounds of things, the old woman had been quite capable of living with herself. Gwynn toasted to that and took another drink as the last of John Jones’ songs faded out.
AS GWYNN SET down her glass, she heard a sudden wild pass of wind along the narrow street outside the front window, and with a half-hearted flicker, the electricity cut out. At almost the same moment there was a crash from the kitchen, and a sudden blast of air through the cottage snuffed the candles. She was surrounded by total blackness.
After her first small shriek—surprise, she told herself, not fear—Gwynn pulled herself to her feet and looked around the small room. The fire in the stove still blazed through the glass window, throwing a small red shape on the floor before it. As she stared, trying to gain reassurance from it, it darkened and disappeared, then reappeared again, in a wave, much as though someone had passed between it and her.
She felt the hair on her arms stand up.
“Who’s there?” she demanded sharply.
There was no answer. She fumbled on the table for the matches and knocked the box to the floor. She knelt to find it, struck her kneecap on the table, and the silverware clanked against the plate. She swore, straightening up with the box in her shaking hand; several matches fell out before she was able to grip one and strike it against the side. The flame flared up and she touched it quickly to one wick and then the other. She grabbed one of the candle holders and turned, holding it aloft like a weapon.
She was alone in the room.
For a moment she merely stood there, candle in hand, her other palm pressed to her chest where her heart pounded against her ribs. Calm yourself. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly t
hrough her mouth, then took another.
At the window she pulled the curtain aside. All of Eyewell Lane was dark and indistinct beyond the rain-streaked glass. Another wave of air bent the candle flame sideways, and she quickly turned to the kitchen.
The door to the garden had blown open, and rain hurled itself in on the wind, puddling across the kitchen floor. Gwynn cupped her hand around the candle flame and hurried to slam the door against the storm. She had to lean into it, and then, at last, she threw the bolt.
Hadn’t she thrown the bolt already?
Gwynn set the candle on the countertop, then pulled tea towels from the top drawer to throw onto the floor. Then, for good measure, she took the flashlight from the cupboard and flicked it on. The beam was sickly yellow—she’d forgotten. She dug out the new batteries—thank God for foresight—and hurriedly changed the old for new.
Then she looked over her shoulder at the door. She hadn’t opened it today, hadn’t had the heart to look out on the thorns. Had she locked it yesterday? Had she checked the bolt before going to bed? Perhaps Mary had unlocked the door when she had been in this morning. Perhaps. That had to be the answer. Had to be. Repeating this mantra to herself, she retrieved the dirty dishes from the sitting room and piled them in the sink. No electric, no water. Mary would sniff in the morning, but a power cut was hardly Gwynn’s fault.
She took the flashlight and one of the candles upstairs with her.
HER CELL PHONE rang as she was finishing an awkward brush of her teeth with a dry brush. She still couldn’t recognize the jumble of numbers that showed themselves on the lighted screen, but, needing to hear another human voice, she answered anyway.
“Gwynn.”
The human voice she wanted to hear.
“Power cut up there?”
“It is,” she said.
“You’re all right?”
“I am.” Despite her earlier fright, she had to laugh at the monosyllabic conversation. What was it about that man that turned her so laconic in speech? It wasn’t just Colin, though; Mary spoke in the same short declaratives as well. Nearly everyone she’d spoken to in the village did. Perhaps it was just in conversing with her, the woman from off. Perhaps they were more forthcoming with one another? She had no way of knowing.
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