Newton Rushford was crawling with ramblers on this glorious October Saturday. No sign as yet of the Indian summer retreating. A couple sat outside Puddings Galore, fanning themselves with the new pamphlets Ian had designed on the history of the church. Hopefully they had given the suggested donation of one pound. And the village children were out in full force. A gaggle of them raced past, clutching iced lollies, and one bashed into his leg.
“Jimmy, come back here and apologize to the reverend.” Annie Green’s voice screeched behind him.
Gabriel turned, ignoring the huge splatter of pink and orange slush on his jeans. Sweat tickled his chest, and his facial muscles strained into a smile. “No harm done, Annie.”
He gave a wave that said Conversation terminated, and picked up his pace. With each step, an imaginary scenario unfolded: a little girl with a ponytail giving him a good-bye kiss before running inside the village school. Gabriel batted the thought away. Fantasies were for dreamers and creative people, and he was woefully behind on harvest festival. Silently he recited John Keats’s “To Autumn” but failed to find comfort in the familiar words. He failed to find comfort in anything these days.
Hugh had suggested talking with a professional, but Gabriel had resisted. Prayer and contemplation had always been enough, but that only worked if you were willing to turn inward to face your darkest corners—the sin you had hidden from yourself and God. He had traveled full circle and met his true self, a man who used the word hate. A man who, unlike Bill Collins, was unable to forgive.
Before supper he would sit on his patio with a pink gin and contemplate human weakness—his. And he would keep struggling toward peace with actions that had cost him his daughter, his love, his brother. Marianne was right. In that one tempestuous encounter, he let go and then retreated into shame. Which was a perfectly logical response to making love in a cemetery, but the repercussions had led to his brother’s death.
As he headed away from the sounds of people, his gait settled into a steady rhythm that contradicted the turbulence of his thoughts. He walked past the Newton Rushford sign to the outskirts of the village. To the grave of his baby. Pigeons cooed and sheep bleated as he pushed open the cemetery gates. A sparrow hawk flew by in a flap-flap-glide motion.
Even Jade’s texts had dried up. Although he was probably to blame. He hadn’t given her much to hold on to while he retreated into his inner world. He missed those texts more than he cared to admit. She didn’t demand anything from him, and he’d grown used to their communication. He took a deep breath. See? He was still lying to himself. He didn’t miss their communication; he missed her. What did that mean? If God knew, he wasn’t answering.
Gabriel wove around the graves and stopped by Gabriela’s. How many times had he been here and never once sensed a whisper of a connection? He sat on the grass, crossed his legs, and glanced at the headstone that mentioned only his brother. Simon had been under the influence of one thing that night: raging desire. The same force that led to Gabriela’s conception. It seemed he and Simon hadn’t been so different.
“Hello, Gabriela.” He paused. “Hello, Simon.” Staring at the headstone, he mined his memories for a happy one: Simon sharing his copy of The Beano on a camping trip to the Lake District. Simon had loved camping. This was a new habit: finding one happy memory of Simon every day. It was an easier task than he would have imagined. Again he thought of Jade, asking if they’d ever been close. She showed him the path forward, and he’d been too wrapped up in himself to realize it.
A jackdaw landed on Ursula Finch’s grave, and a car drove past with music blaring. His phone pinged with a text. He ignored it; it pinged again. Sighing, he tugged it out of his back jeans pocket. Much as he tried, he could never disconnect.
He smiled.
How’s life without the crazies? Jade had typed.
Quiet. He paused, looked at the jackdaw, kept typing. Are you sure you’re not psychic? I was just thinking about you.
Yeah?
I’ve missed you.
How much?
Some trapped emotion he couldn’t name scrabbled around inside his chest.
More than I’d like to admit. He hit “Send” before he could change his mind.
Have you ever been to Cornwall, to Daphne du Maurier country?
What did that mean?
Yes. Many times.
Want to go again?
His heart began pounding so fast he could hear the blood pumping, could imagine his heart valves struggling to keep up.
With you? He typed quickly.
Yes, Einstein. With me.
The pulsing gray bubble suggested she was still typing. It was taking so long, too long. The bubble disappeared and a fully formed message popped up.
I’m asking you to go away with me. It’s a yes or no question, and you’re taking too long to answer, because I’d like to leave tonight.
The back of his neck prickled. He stood up and turned. Leaning against the old rainwater trough was Jade. With a large suitcase and without scarlet hair. Jade with strangely normal hair—very Audrey Hepburn or very Halle Berry or very . . . His brain conked out. Simply ground to a halt. Texting with someone in another time zone was one thing, but this . . . He stared at her, she stared back, and neither of them moved.
Scratching through his hair, he started laughing, and her face transformed into the most wondrous smile he’d ever seen. He stepped cautiously around sunken graves, making his way through the row of dead people until he reached her.
“How did you get here?” he said.
“A plane.” She took a step toward him. “They’re an amazing invention, planes.”
“But you hate flying.”
“Yeah, how about that? I guess I really wanted to see you.”
“Are you always this impulsive?” He was standing so close he could feel her. Was she wearing that red bra again?
“Au contraire. I think of myself as calculating.” She swallowed, and the bravado slipped. “I took a chance, a huge one.”
Did she mean what he thought she meant? “Forgive me for being dense, but can we establish the reason you got on the plane?”
“For you.”
“For me,” he said.
“Yeah. Want me to draw a diagram?”
“What would that look like?”
“A big heart with an arrow through it. Possibly two initials on either side, a J and a G.”
She held out her hand, and he took it, weaving his fingers between hers. Her thumb stroked his palm and he shivered. Or was he shaking?
“Will this cause some horrible scandal if you walk through the village holding hands with a tattooed, mixed-race foreigner with multiple piercings?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “Although not as much as if anyone sees me do this.”
And he brushed her lips with a kiss—hesitant, warm, and gentle. He rested his forehead against hers and hoped his knees—the bad one and the good one—wouldn’t give way. “I can’t believe you’re here.” He pulled back. “It is just you, right?”
“Only me. I left the family at home.”
He swallowed. “There’s so much to say, but I don’t know where to start. That conversation we had when I flew off the handle about Darius being in London. I was jealous. I wanted you to put me first.”
“I think I just did.” She was breathing rapidly. “I think I’m about to walk away from an album that could make my career.”
“For me?”
“Haven’t we established that?”
“I’m a slow learner.” His mobile rang and he ignored it. “I’m not sure I can get away to Cornwall tonight, but—” His phone stopped and started again. Why was the cemetery the only place at this end of the village with reception?
“Sorry, I’ve got to take this. It’s my mother.” Instinctively he turned away from Jade. “Mum. Yes, I did get your message, but I’m a little busy. I can’t talk.” He turned back to make sure Jade was still there. He watched her watching him.
“I’m sorry, Mum. I will sort it out, but I’ll have to call you back.”
“No, Gabriel, I want—”
He hung up and turned his phone off. God help him, he didn’t care what his aging mother wanted.
Jade took a step back. “You’re busy, and I shouldn’t have turned up like this. I was worried that if I asked you’d say no. And I couldn’t have dealt with that. The rejection. And maybe it’s all too weird with our connection through Marianne. I mean you and she once—”
“Only once and before you were born.”
“Not helping, Gabriel.”
Heat rose up his chest. “Please don’t walk away. I know it’s not Cornwall, but will you come with me to my parents’ in Milton Keynes?”
“Do you do that often,” she said, “invite women to meet your parents?”
Gabriel hid his phone in his back pocket. “No, hardly ever.” He took a deep breath. “I have a strange life, a very public life, and I make no money, and I have two aging parents who need more attention than I can give. And when you’re my age, I’ll probably have a disabled parking badge.”
Had he said too much? What was he thinking, asking her to meet his parents? What was he thinking, talking about his salary and disabled parking? And now she would run, as any sensible woman would. He was doing exactly what he’d done with Marianne when they were teenagers. He was saying, This is my life, live it with me.
“I didn’t mean to corner you. Come on so strong.” He tried to smile. “Can we forget I said any of that and start over? Hello, Jade. How was your flight?”
“I don’t know how to do this,” she said. “How to love someone. I’m good at looking after me. Other people not so much.”
“From what I’ve seen that’s all you do. Put other people first.”
“Bull. I hold back. I have a shit track record with relationships. I’ve dumped more guys than—”
“Me too. Obviously not the dumping-men part. Actually, not much dumping at all. And not many relationships. But I don’t know how to do this, either. What if you stay for a while and we . . . I don’t know . . . talk about starting an English arm of Girls In Motion? Or I bet you could get a job in London. Doesn’t Darius have contacts in the city?”
“What are you saying?”
“I don’t know.” He laughed, because it was that or cry. “I have no idea what I’m talking about. I know nothing except that I don’t want you to leave, and I’m prepared to beg.” What he wanted was to kiss her again. She had tasted of coffee and peppermint. “Please stay.”
“I need to tell you something. Something I’ve never told anyone, not even Marianne.”
He took her hands.
“I left them behind. My siblings, when I ran. I left them behind.” She paused, but he wasn’t going to interrupt. She could take all the time she needed. “My brother tried to stop me. He asked me to take him, and I refused. Our stepdad was abusive, and I left my baby brother behind—abandoned him to evil. I had one thought when I ran away that day: that my brother would slow me down. He clung to me and begged me to reconsider. He was crying, and I pushed him off. I physically pushed him off. Pushed him so hard he fell to the ground. I knew he couldn’t cope without me. He was dependent on me, and I left him anyway.” Jade glanced at one of the leaning historic gravestones. “So you see, underneath, I’m a lousy person. And I worry that I’m more broken than Marianne.”
She turned back to stare at him with those big brown eyes and long lashes. No makeup. He’d never understood why women used makeup, certainly not a woman as beautiful as Jade. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that he loved her. His life had been dragged through the muck, and in the middle of it, he’d fallen in love. It was impossible, it was ridiculous, it was the sort of behavior he would expect from Marianne. And it was true.
“Have you considered that we’re both as broken as each other?” he said. “I preach forgiveness and I can’t forgive my own brother. I’m trying, but the truth is, I’m still angry.”
“Marianne told me, about the baby. I’m sorry.”
“I think you and I need to forgive ourselves. Guilt should come with an expiration date, and what we did as teenagers was a long time ago”—he gave a wobbly smile—“especially for me.” He eased her into an embrace, tucking her against his chest. She fit perfectly, and his breath turned into sparks of pure energy. “And I think we should start over, together. Because I want to look after you and I want you to look after me, and I want us to build a home, a real home, together, my darling.”
“Did you just call me darling?” She raised her head.
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Because I think something else, too . . .”
Her big eyes stared up at him.
“I think I love you, and—”
“You think or you know?”
“Are you going to make me say it? Because I’m scared shitless right now.”
“Shitless?” She gave a small laugh. “I’ve been trying to stop swearing, and you’ve started?”
“Jade, I’m shaking, but nothing terrifies me more than you walking out of my life and not coming back. I don’t know what that means, but I need to find out.”
“I kind of love you, too. Like an insane amount.”
“I knew the moment you took off your jacket to protect Marianne, but it took my brain a while to catch up, given how broken I am.” He grinned. “You were like an angel—a drunken, spectacularly nonconformist angel with truly horrific hair.” He dipped toward her. “And I have a weakness for angels”—his breathing slowed; his voice became a whisper—“but not the perfect kind.”
And then he kissed her, really kissed her. And he wasn’t a priest, he was a man lost in love, and he didn’t care where he was or who was watching.
CARRBORO, NORTH CAROLINA
OCTOBER
In the dusky light on the other side of the open kitchen window, a raccoon failed to navigate her new bird feeder defenses.
“Ha, ha, ha,” Marianne said in the dastardly-villain voice she reserved for the local varmints.
Then she picked up her phone and typed a joint text: If you two haven’t kissed yet, I’m going to be pissed as hell, which will not make Darius happy. And then he’ll drag it up in our next session with Dr. White, and accountability is exhausting. So do it already. Then figure out the sex thing before year’s end, because we call dibs on the rectory guest bedroom for ringing in the New Year. Love you both. P.S. Coffee machine arriving on Monday morning. It’s a gift from Darius. Xox
She added a manic smiley face emoticon. And a Union Jack. And a couple of hearts, a shooting star, a microphone, a guitar, and a row of musical notes.
The security light came on, and Darius walked toward the deck, whistling as he jangled his keys to Nightjar. For a guy who worked in a soundproof environment, he certainly liked to make noise. But both of them had always preferred to record with a touch of sound reflection. And now that the echoes of her past had mixed with the sounds of her present, a new song was about to begin. She grinned, the thought quietly exhilarating.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Yet again I have a long list of people to thank, especially those who shared stories of a bipolar life. You inspired me with your courage and your humor, and reminded me of the most important lesson of all: a person, or a character, is not his or her disorder.
As always I am beyond grateful to my agent, Nalini Akolekar. She continues to get the quirky BCW characters despite the synopses that never make sense. By extension, thanks to everyone at Spencerhill Associates. Carol Guerin, your emails brighten my days.
Endless gratitude to Gabe Dumpit and the team at Lake Union Publishing for their enthusiasm
and dedication—even though I’m making up my author life as I go. Special thanks to Jodi Warshaw and Clete Barrett Smith, whose edits not only deepened and tightened the manuscript but fired up my enthusiasm for Darius. (I was in the zone, man.)
Many thanks to my local indie booksellers for their continued support: Jamie Fiocco at Flyleaf Books, Sharon Wheeler at Purple Crow Books, Kimberly Daniels Taws at the Country Bookshop, and Keebe Fitch at McIntyre’s Books. I’m thrilled to add Suzanne Lucey at Page 158 Books to the list, and I’m looking forward to my first event at Scuppernong Books.
Deepest thanks to web designer Adam Rottinghaus and author assistant extraordinaire Carolyn Ring for their endless patience. Yes, I am as techno-challenged as you both suspect.
Thank you to book clubs and loyal readers who cheered me on when I was flagging, especially Carol Boyer and Susan Walters Peterson. Big hugs to transatlantic Facebook friends who answered every crazy plea for research help. To my writer friends at Book Pregnant, Fiction Writers Co-Op, Girlfriends Book Club, and WFWA, thank you for sharing my foxhole. Extra warm fuzzies for the WFWA retreat where I finished my second draft, although I’m still miffed about missing the margarita fountain. And humble thanks to Catherine McKenzie, Diane Chamberlain, and Barbara Davis, who are always so generous with their time, support, and friendship. Other writers are the best.
For miscellaneous brainstorming and fact-finding missions, hugs to Kim Allman, Cullen Cornett, Danlee Gildersleeve, Fiona Heath, Heather and Kimberly Montgomery, Julie Randles, Melanie Satterthwaite, Laura Spinella, Jessica Topper, Christine Westrom, Carolyn Wilson, and my nephew, Harry Rose—an officer and a gentleman in the Light Dragoons.
Echoes of Family Page 34