With the lenses buffed, she held the glasses up to the window and gave them a final inspection. One of the nosepieces had worked loose – most likely the reason Logan had given up on them. It didn’t require a lot of pressure to snap the pad into position, but more than he could manage.
He was an expert at pressuring Evie, however. Twenty-four-seven. Evie, whose plan to return to work once Dylan was at pre-school was scrapped; Evie, who carried on regardless of sickness or incapacity; Evie, whose marriage had suffered such intense strain she was certain it was no longer bent, but snapped in two.
There had to be a better way to live life than this. For all of them.
Having made the tea, she returned to the living room and handed Logan his mug and glasses. Her reward was an irritable sigh and a begrudging thanks.
‘Perhaps we could trial the care companies,’ she said, taking a seat on the sofa. ‘I could come in at the same time and observe. Just until we’ve trained the person up.’ She endeavoured to smile, but Logan’s tut stunted its growth.
‘What good will that do?’ he said. ‘They won’t fall out of line with you spying on them.’
‘That’s the point.’ It sounded to Evie as if Logan wanted the carer to foul up. ‘I promise I won’t leave you with anyone who makes you feel uncomfortable. There are excellent firms out there, with honest, caring workers. If it takes another month, we’ll find someone you can get along with. Someone you can trust.’
What was another month to Evie – another month living apart from her husband, another month withholding the truth from him, another month of watching him move beyond her reach, when to Logan it was potentially the difference between life and death?
Given time, understanding and infinite forgiveness, most things could be fixed. A person’s demise wasn’t one of them.
Evie put her mug on the floor and leaned forward. ‘I know this is difficult for you.’
‘But?’
There was no but.
‘Logan, I love you as I did my own father—’
‘Did you pay someone off to look after him?’ Logan’s hand wobbled with the force of his words and a teardrop of tea worked its way down the outside of his mug.
‘No.’ Rather than attending to the spillage, Evie stared at the stain the hot liquid had left behind. ‘That was hurtful.’ She lowered her gaze to the ground. ‘You know I lost him when I was young.’ Swiping her cup into her hand, she leapt to her feet and forced herself to count to five, remembering Logan was in pain and how it affected him. ‘I don’t feel good about any of this,’ she said. ‘I just can’t manage it any more.’
‘You’ll manage,’ he said, struggling to wave his mug at her. ‘And I don’t want any of this.’ He brushed the care company brochure onto the floor. ‘This is your idea. My way is much simpler, and since I’m such a liability to you and your family, I suggest you reconsider my proposal.’ He closed his eyes and turned his head; his way of bringing the conversation to an end.
Undeterred, Evie set her mug on the table, retrieved the book and reinstated it on Logan’s lap. His obstinacy would be the death of him. With that disquieting thought triggering a sequence of images in her mind, ending in Logan, cold and grey, with an empty pill bottle fixed in one hand and a cloudy brandy glass in the other, Evie was convinced she’d made the right decision. She could never help Logan in the way he’d asked. He was family and she loved him. Regardless of the guilt or the frustration, she was stupid to think she would ever agree to anything other than caring for him.
She’d lost Griff, but there was no way she was about to lose Logan.
‘Your option is no longer under consideration,’ she said, keeping her voice steady. ‘I thought I’d made that clear.’
Logan’s head turned, and his eyelids slowly parted. ‘Final answer?’
‘I understand why you asked me … I even get why we can’t discuss it with Griff, but I won’t take responsibility for your death, and that’s what you’re asking of me.’ She dropped to her knees and seized Logan’s hands. ‘You have so much to live for. Dylan. Tess. They need you in their lives. And what about Griff? Can you truly give up on him?’
‘You have.’
Evie snatched away her hands, sending the carer brochure to the floor once more. She knocked it under the coffee table, wishing she’d never discussed her marital problems with Logan. ‘I haven’t given up on him. I love him, but how do you expect me to look him in the eye when I’m keeping this huge, life-changing secret from him?’
‘So, tell him.’ Logan’s shoulders lifted in a pathetic shrug. ‘Makes no difference now. I’ll have to find another accomplice. I have to say I’m disappointed in you, Evie. I thought you’d see me right. I thought you were courageous and compassionate. I didn’t have you down for a selfish coward.’
‘How can you say that?’ Evie scuffed across the carpet, away from Logan, hoping the physical distance would give her space to think.
‘Don’t bother counting to five,’ he said. ‘And don’t convince yourself I’m only saying these things because I’m in pain. I’m always in bloody pain. Stand up and give as good as you get. For once in your life, fight for your beliefs.’
Evie put up a hand and shook her head. ‘I’m not doing this, Logan.’ She was well aware he was goading her into a fight, searching for a way to release his anger at her refusal to help. Refusal to help? She helped him all the time – more often than she did Tess – and she would continue to do so if it meant he lived until the point God or the Grim Reaper or whoever the hell it was made the call.
She hauled herself onto the sofa, combed her fingers through her hair and allowed a moment to pass before speaking. ‘I could no more help you die than I could my children.’
Logan’s silence screamed danger to Evie.
His intent was implicit: he would find another way.
Or, as he’d said, another accomplice.
Chapter Fifteen
Griff
With Ozzy and Honey settled on the craft centre floor, Olivia busying herself in her stockroom, and Imogen silent and cradling a mug of coffee in her hands, Griff was using the time to process everything he’d learned in the past half an hour.
He’d believed Mrs Joliffe’s death had been a terrible, unfortunate accident, but Imogen was telling him something different.
‘When did you realise what had happened?’ Griff placed the hot drink Olivia had supplied on the counter.
‘Killed herself, you mean?’
There was no venom behind the words, more a sad acceptance of the facts. Griff nodded.
‘As soon as I heard. We’d had a strange conversation the week before about paying bills on time and tying up loose ends. She insisted on showing me where she kept her paperwork, and gave me the court documents relating to her and Dad’s divorce. Said I should read them so I knew exactly why the marriage broke down. I knew why, but she insisted I kept the files.’
‘Your parents divorced?’
‘It kicked off just before my twenty-first. None of us had come to terms with Kieran’s loss, and Mum and Dad had spent years arguing and accusing each other of failing him. The plans I was making for my party seemed to be the catalyst for a series of particularly nasty rows. Mum thought I was callous and unfeeling, celebrating my special birthday when Kieran never got to see his.’ Imogen ran her finger around the rim of her mug. ‘When Dad stood up for me and told her I had the right to live my life, all hell broke loose. They were vicious to one another. I mean, really brutal. Things were said that could never be forgiven. Or forgotten.’ She reached into her pocket and pulled out a tissue. ‘Dad couldn’t take it any more. He upped and left. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.’
The tremor in Imogen’s voice and the glistening in her eyes forced Griff to look away before the weight of his escalating guilt brought him down.
The sharp blow of her nose and a breath-controlling sigh indicated Imogen was about to continue.
‘After the initial shock an
d upset, once we realised Dad wasn’t coming back, we reached this … level.’
Griff raised his head. ‘Of understanding?’
‘Of life. We weren’t happy, far from it, but there were no arguments, no hate, no blaming one another for Kieran’s death.’
She stalled at the word, recovered her composure, and gaped at Griff. His neck prickled under the heat of her unspoken accusation. It confirmed what he’d suspected for years. She blamed him for her brother’s death. Why wouldn’t she? He blamed himself.
‘I should have gone with my gut,’ he said, bowing his head. ‘I knew jumping off that rock was idiotic.’ He dared himself to look up and connect with Imogen. ‘You have every right to hold me responsible.’
Imogen maintained the eye contact, but at that moment Griff struggled to read her. The previous stare she’d issued was packed with resentment and condemnation, but this … this was something else. This was fluid. Shifting. He waited, watching for clues as to what was going through her head.
After a lengthy and considered pause, she spoke.
‘You were always the one to hold back. Reconsider. Determine the risk. You’d tell Kieran to take my hand when we crossed the road. Do you remember?’
Griff’s memory of the gangly eleven-year-old objecting to being yanked onto the pavement came with a smile. ‘I remember you swearing like a trooper at him. I was shocked at the language.’ The smile was gaining strength. ‘But you worshipped him, all the same.’
‘I did, and I only repeated what I’d heard. You and Kieran used to swear all the time.’
‘Not when you were around, which, as I recall, was all the time. We couldn’t go anywhere without you tagging along.’ Griff arched his brow.
Imogen set aside her mug and tissue, stepped off the stool and approached the dogs. ‘You didn’t seem to mind.’ She crouched and ran Honey’s ear through her fingers. ‘Do you know why I didn’t want Kieran holding onto me?’
‘You were asserting your independence. Breaking free from that whole baby sister thing.’ Griff joined her at the dogs and gave a sleeping Ozzy a gentle rub of his neck.
‘There was a little of that going on, but it wasn’t the main reason.’ Letting Honey’s ear flop back into place, Imogen turned on the balls of her feet towards Ozzy, and stroked him down the length of his back. ‘I was hoping you’d give me your hand.’
‘To get you across the road?’ Griff would have done that.
‘No.’ Imogen gave a slow shake of her head. ‘I wanted to know what it felt like. Whether your skin was rough or smooth. Hot or cold. Was your grip firm and reassuring or teasing and playful? How would you hold me?’
‘Seriously?’ Griff stopped petting Ozzy, rested his hand on the dog’s back and assessed Imogen’s admission. If that was what it was. ‘You had a crush on me? You were ten, eleven at most.’
‘And what? You never fantasised about your English teacher?’ Unembarrassed, Imogen laughed. ‘Kieran told me all about it. What was her name?’
Griff brushed Ozzy’s fur with his fingertips, as if sweeping Imogen’s comment away. ‘I don’t recall, but fair point. You surprised me, that’s all.’
Imogen reached for the counter, grasped its edge, and hauled herself up. ‘Don’t put yourself down. You were a good-looking boy.’ She offered her hand to Griff.
‘Were?’ He laughed as he accepted Imogen’s help to his feet. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘How’s my grip?’
They stood, toe-to-toe, hand-in-hand, Griff clenching his jaws together to suppress his amusement, Imogen committing to the moment with a tight squeeze of his fingers.
‘Rough,’ she said, turning his hand over in hers. She circled his palm with her thumb. ‘They could use some attention.’
‘They’re worker’s hands,’ Griff said. ‘They weren’t like this when I was sixteen.’
Imogen increased the pressure, massaging each of Griff’s fingers, lightly pinching and straightening them in turn, taking up his other hand when the first was done. The sensation was so unexpected and intense, it was verging on erotic. He fought the urge to close his eyes.
‘Is there no one at home who does this for you?’
Imogen’s caresses ceased and Griff regained his focus. ‘I can look after myself,’ he said, reclaiming his hand.
‘I’m sure you can, but life’s better shared with people you love.’ In one swift move, Imogen was back on the stool, feet on its bar, her head down. ‘I have no one.’
With the rapid mood change and the twist in Imogen’s words reopening Griff’s emotional valve, the guilt flooded his system. If he’d had the courage of his convictions, if he’d stopped Kieran that day, if he’d saved him, Imogen would have her family now.
Logan believed it was pointless living by what-ifs, but it was a shortcoming of Griff’s, and one he wasn’t afraid to admit. The what-ifs gave him both hindsight and foresight. They made him question his decisions, providing him with the potential to prevent future failure. They gave him the confidence to know his enemy and the conviction to issue orders with authority. They kept his mind sharp, his losses minimal, and proved to him, without a doubt, everything and everyone was worth saving.
What if he’d not vowed to look out for Imogen?
Then she’d be alone.
‘You have me,’ he said. ‘You’ve always had me.’
‘No. I lost you the day Kieran died.’
Griff stepped forward, wanting to comfort Imogen – draw her into his arms – close the gap and put an end to their distance, but he held back. ‘I was there, at his funeral. Don’t you remember?’
‘I remember.’ Imogen picked up the tissue she’d left by her mug, and tore at its corners. ‘I remember walking into the crematorium to “Stairway to Heaven”. I remember the solemn hymns. I remember hating you for what happened to Kieran.’
For a split second, Imogen’s expression was that of her eleven-year-old self who’d followed her brother’s coffin into the church. She’d caught sight of Griff the moment she’d stepped over the threshold and sent such immense waves of loathing in his direction, it had rocked him and cast him adrift.
He shook the image from his mind. After years without contact, Imogen was there, in front of him, saying all the things he’d been desperate to hear – all the things he’d told himself. Even under the peculiar circumstances that led her to the shop, the time was right. Imogen was prepared to talk, prepared to listen, and perhaps, prepared to accept Griff’s friendship.
‘I don’t expect you to forgive me,’ he said. ‘I’ve never forgiven myself. I’ve spent my life trying to save people and every loss takes me right back to the moment Kieran jumped. I wanted to be there for you, but your parents were clear – I was to have nothing to do with you. I understood. You were a child and they were protecting you, and you’d gone through so much.’ He stopped and checked Imogen’s face. A vulnerable, isolated and broken woman had replaced the hostile eleven-year-old.
Without further hesitation or question, he gathered her to him, locked his arms around her and held her until Olivia’s return to the shop front prompted him to pull away.
‘Fence mending or bridge building?’ Olivia motioned for Griff to pass over the coffee mugs.
‘Aren’t they the same thing?’ Griff finished the last mouthful of his drink, collected Imogen’s cup and passed both vessels to Olivia.
‘It depends on your perspective. From where I’m standing, it looks very much like the bridge has been built, tested for stability and crossed.’ Facing Griff, Olivia positioned herself between him and Imogen, looked him in the eye, and swiped her free hand from left to right, creating an imaginary divide. ‘My mistake. It’s lines that are crossed.’
Olivia rarely expressed disapproval; Griff was left in no doubt she thought he’d overstepped the mark.
‘It’s not like that,’ he said, certain an explanation would set her straight. ‘I’ve told you about Kieran, my friend who jumped off Pulpit
Rock?’
‘The young lad who died?’ Olivia’s stern expression softened. ‘I remember you saying. So tragic.’
‘Well, Imogen is Kieran’s sister.’ Griff gave Imogen’s arm a gentle pat. ‘We were talking about Kieran and it’s opened up old wounds.’
‘They never healed,’ Imogen said, her voice trembling. ‘It’s been a shock running into Griff. I’ve spent the best part of twenty-four years avoiding him.’
Olivia migrated to the desk. ‘That’s a long time. How’s that worked out for you?’
‘Until today, just fine.’ Imogen folded her arms.
‘I’m not judging you,’ Olivia said, ‘but for a woman whose dislike of Griff is as obvious as the danger in walking your dog down to Preacher Cove, I was surprised to waltz in and find you in his arms.’
Imogen flicked her head to the side and glared at Olivia, the hostility of which sent barbs up the back of Griff’s neck and onto his skull. He knew Olivia was looking out for him, but this unexpected and unnecessary confrontation was one he could live without. ‘Please don’t worry,’ he said, addressing Olivia. ‘Imogen’s like a sister to me.’
‘A sister who’s avoided you like the plague and then succumbed to your manly charms?’
‘Olivia!’ This was so out of character for the older lady. ‘She was upset.’
‘As Evie would be if she’d found you with a beautiful young thing in your arms.’
‘Evie?’ Imogen peered beyond Griff, towards the shop door. ‘Who’s Evie?’
Perplexed with the way the moment was listing out of control, Griff endeavoured to reel it in. ‘Can we stop this? I appreciate what you’re saying, Olivia, but really, I can look after myself.’
‘So you keep saying.’
‘You were listening to my conversation with Imogen?’
‘I wasn’t listening. I heard. The door was open. And what’s more, you’re doing a terrible job of looking after yourself.’
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