Grace wandered into the hall and looked at the room that she had hoped to paint. The boxes were back, along with a suitcase and an exercise cycle. She wondered if she should unpack the box that she’d packed in anger and hurt and decided against it as the kettle began to sing from the kitchen. Instead, she made a cup of tea and returned to her vigil. She let her fingers drift across his face, rediscovering the slant of his cheekbones and the curve of his lips. His hair was longer and it had dried in wayward spikes. She smoothed them down and traced the curl of his ear with her forefinger. It was good just to watch him sleep, to feel the warm, solid weight of him.
He woke an hour later and looked at her, his eyes huge.
“Grace.” He reached up and touched her face.
She covered his hand with her own and closed her eyes, scared of the pain she saw in his.
He sat up. She watched him fumble in his pocket for something.
“Will you wear this again?” he asked. “Would you still marry me, Grace?” He held the ring between his fingers.
Grace looked at the ring for a moment, at the promises and the burdens that it now carried with it. She remembered the beach and how it felt to sit protected from the wind, in his arms. She remembered his proposal, the rush of hopeful words, making love back at the cottage. She wondered if it would be possible to find those moments again. She had to try. “Yes. I’ll marry you.” She held her hand out as he slipped the ring onto her finger.
“Thank you.” He rested his forehead against hers. “Thank you, Grace.”
“I love you, Chris. I just want to help you, to be with you. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“I know, baby. I know you will. I think you’re the only one who can.” He sighed and gathered her into his arms. “Whatever happens, I love you.”
Grace closed her eyes and listened to the comfortable, familiar rhythm of his heart. Whatever it took, she would manage. She would fight his demons for him. If it meant moments of peace and warmth like this, she would endure anything.
* * * *
It was still snowing at bedtime. Grace sat on the edge of the bed and brushed her hair. She glanced at the wardrobe, where Christopher’s clothes now hung. It would take some getting used to, as would the feel of his pendant around her neck once more. He’d returned it to her without a word while she was in the kitchen making their dinner. He’d kissed the back of her neck and smiled, before returning to unpacking his things.
The medicine cabinet now housed a daunting array of pill bottles, along with the cologne and his shaving gear. Grace had looked at the open cabinet for some time, absorbing the suddenness of the change. His shampoo stood beside hers on the edge of the bathtub, his bathrobe hung over hers on the bathroom door and his toothbrush had returned to its rightful place. She wanted to cry.
He limped into the bedroom. “Are you sure you don’t want to turn out the light?” He unfastened his fly buttons. “They’re pretty bloody ugly, darling.”
“I don’t mind.” She watched him as he sank onto the bed and pushed his jeans away. He swung his legs onto the bed and she noticed how he studied her face as she looked at his scars. She bit her lip and surveyed the brutal damage. The long sweep of thigh that she had once loved to run her fingers along was now pock-marked with misshapen, puckered scars, ranging from an inch to five inches in diameter. Raw, red skin as fine and crinkled as tissue paper stretched across the smaller, concave ones where chunks of flesh had been cut away by the surgeons at Camp Bastion. There was another scar, a two-inch line, where the surgeons had pinned his leg back together. The largest, discolored ones were where the skin grafts had taken. That he had managed to keep his leg was a miracle.
“Do they hurt?” Grace asked. Her eyes burned with unshed, angry tears. She wanted to kill the people who had done this.
“The big ones do. There was a lot of nerve damage. They’re starting to grow back and they hurt…a lot. That’s why there’s all those pills. There’s a whole pharmacy of pain pills in there.” He rolled onto his side and pulled his shorts down, half way. “That’s where they took the skin for the grafts. Sorry, darling, my arse isn’t as nice as it once was.”
Grace touched the two patches where a faint, mesh pattern could be seen in the new skin. “Your arse is just fine.”
“Thank you, Gracey.” He put his shorts right and sat up once more.
She ran a cautious finger around the edge of the largest scar on his thigh.
Christopher reached for her hand and held it to his face. “Thank you, Grace. Thank you for giving me another chance.”
“It’s all right. I’ll do my best for you, I really will.” She wasn’t sure what she’d actually face in the days to come, but it had to be done. She stood up and peered out of the window. “I think you got here just in time. It’s snowing now.” She drew the curtains and crawled under the bedclothes. The snow whispered against the window and the room was cold. Grace reached for the lamp as Christopher curled up against her. She reveled in the warm weight of him while his head rested on her shoulder and she fell asleep, holding him.
* * * *
Grace wasn’t sure at first where the shouting came from. She sat up with a start. Her heart hammered against her ribs as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She reached for the lamp and turned it on as the bed shook.
“Chris?”
She didn’t know this man huddled up against the headboard. His eyes were wide and blank. Arms wrapped around his knees.
“Chris?”
He stared past her, his knuckles white while he kept groping at his legs. He opened his mouth, but said nothing. Formless sounds escaped from his lips, plaintive cries and nonsense, a mad jumble of words.
Grace put her hand on his arm. “Chris, it’s all right. It’s just a dream. It’s done, it’s over. Darling, please…wake up.”
Another shudder. His skin twitched at her touch. He jerked his head toward her.
“Do you know me?” His voice was raspy.
“You’re Chris.” She kept her voice low, calm.
“Chris,” he repeated. The shaking eased, his arms relaxed.
“You’re safe, and you’re home.”
“I am?” Christopher looked at her hand. “Home.”
“Yes, with me, Grace.”
“Grace.” He sounded drugged. “Grace. That’s a good word.”
“Yes.”
“I like that word. It makes me feel safe.”
Grace edged toward him. She put her arm around his shoulders. “I am safe. I’m your safe place, Chris.”
“Really?” He sounded like a child.
“Really.” She held him, felt him relax against her. “You’re safe with me.” She kissed his forehead. “You’ll always be safe with me.” Grace wanted to cry.
Christopher crumpled into her arms and sighed. Grace hid her face in his hair while he clung to her.
Outside, the wind rose and hurled mean spits of snow against the window and she was grateful that he was there and that he needed her. She held him until he slept, kissed his eyelids then turned out the light once more.
* * * *
Grace awoke to silence and to a room filled with soft white light. The other side of the bed was empty and she stared at the ceiling and wondered if it had all been a bizarre dream. She rolled over. There was a soft hollow in the other pillow and one of the wardrobe doors was slightly ajar, revealing clothes that didn’t belong to her. The scent of Christopher’s cologne lingered in the bed linen. She sat up and rubbed her eyes when he returned to the room carrying two mugs.
“I brought your coffee,” he said, handing her a mug.
“Thanks.” I could get used to this.
He sat on the bed beside her and kissed her cheek. “Did anything happen last night, Grace?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I just remember feeling scared and lost.” He stared into his coffee. “It happens, sometimes. I don’t know where I am. I’m scared of the dark.”
&nb
sp; “Yes, that’s what happened.” Grace pushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “You were scared. You didn’t know you and you didn’t know me.”
“So it wasn’t a bad one then.”
“No. You shouted a bit at first, but that was all.”
“I’m sorry, Gracey. Something usually happens every night. There’s always nightmares, there’s always something.”
“It’s all right.” She sipped her coffee. “I don’t mind.”
He pulled the duvet over his legs. “I don’t think I’ve had a decent night’s sleep since it all happened,” he sighed.
“Perhaps they’ll go away eventually. But don’t apologize, you don’t need to do that. That’s why I’m here, so you have someone to turn to when you have those nightmares.”
“Thanks, Gracey.” Another sigh as he sipped his coffee. “I guess there’s a few things you need to know just so you realize the mess you’re now in.” He took her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. “When you came to see me, when I was less than welcoming, there were one or two things I said that were true.”
She looked at him, at the sorrow in his eyes.
“I love you, Gracey, I really do. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, but I don’t feel things the way I used to. It’s like I’m feeling everything through a…filter. I can’t put it any differently than that. I know that I love you and, in some ways, I feel that as strongly as I ever did.” He kissed her cheek. “I get angry a lot. I can’t explain it. I don’t know why, I just do.”
“It’s all right, we’ll manage.”
“Then there’s my leg.”
“What about your leg?”
“Physio. You’ll have to help me with that. I’ve got the instructions from the physio at the hospital. You’ll have to be strong. I’m a bastard when I’m doing the physio because it bloody hurts. I’ll curse you to hell and back, I’ll yell, I’ll scream. I’m ashamed to say I made Mum cry more than once these past few weeks.” He set his coffee down with a sigh. “Basically, you’ve just got yourself stuck with a big, bratty child.”
She set her coffee cup down and took his face between her hands. “I’ve spent the last four years of my life working from sun-up to sun-down with neurotic racehorses, a half-mad Russian who can hardly scrape enough English together to order a drink and a yardman who can’t make it to work until he’s had three shots of whiskey with his cornflakes. I’ve had to deal with slimy estate agents, groping bankers, bent jockeys, patronizing trainers and stewards, all the low-life that racing can throw at me and I’ve coped just fine. I think I can handle a big, bratty, beautiful child.” She kissed him.
He sighed into her mouth and kissed her back, a hesitant, sweet echo of a long-ago summer. “Thank you, Gracey.”
* * * *
The snow had clearly settled in for the day. It whirled past the kitchen window while Grace prepared breakfast. She peered out of the door and heard the thump of wheelbarrows and her father telling everyone to get a move on so they could all get home and stay warm. Christopher was in the other room—she could hear him twiddling with the radio and humming.
“There’s a weather warning,” he called to her. “Six inches of snow.”
She tipped the scrambled eggs onto the toast and carried the plates into the room. “Really? I suppose I’d better get some groceries in. These are the last three eggs and the last couple of pieces of bread.”
“You don’t have any food in?”
“Not a lot, no. I wasn’t expecting a housemate.”
“Ah, sorry about that. When I saw your friend turn up with my boxes, I felt like I’d been stabbed.” He set his fork down. “I’d spent the last two weeks wallowing in self-pity and feeling sorry for myself. I regretted every word I said to you, but I was too bloody proud to tell you. When Steve stood there on the doorstep with a box in his arms and told me he had five more, I just knew I’d made the biggest, stupidest, most appalling mistake of my life and he had just presented me with an opportunity to make things right.” His hand covered hers. “I sent him into the kitchen and Mum gave him lunch and I packed the rest of my things. I kept thinking of all the horrible things I said to you and wondered how I could make things right between us. I just hoped that you wouldn’t turn me away when I turned up. I wouldn’t have blamed you.”
“I can never resist a challenge.”
“I told my Mum and she just burst into tears and said that it was about bloody time. We both cried. Steve must think I’m mad.”
“He’s married to Jane. He’s used to madness.” She looked beyond him at the shifting veil of snow. “I’m just glad that you’re here. We’ll get by, Chris. We’ll get through this. But we’ll starve if we don’t get out to the shops.”
* * * *
The snow was already beginning to settle on the roads when Grace drove nervously to the supermarket.
“I can’t believe you.” Christopher chuckled when Grace edged the car into a parking space. “You think nothing of riding a galloping horse flat out on a racecourse and yet you’re a wreck driving in half an inch of snow.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about, it’s the other idiots around here.” She turned the engine off and stared at the sloppy flakes of snow as they slid down the windscreen. “We don’t get much snow round these parts. People panic. You can bet that there’ll be hardly a loaf of bread to be found in there, because everyone will be stocking up for the apocalypse.”
They picked their way across the car park, careful with Christopher’s leg and slippery places. It was strange and seemed impossible to Grace that he was there, holding her hand as she took a trolley and looked at her scribbled list.
“You do realize,” she told him, “that by the time we reach the checkout line, everyone will have had a good old nosey at you.” She smiled at someone she knew and pushed the trolley toward the produce aisle. “This is Newmarket where everyone knows everyone’s business.”
“It’s as bad as that?”
She sorted through the carrots. “Only if you do bad things but if bad things happen to you, then people are very nice.” She squeezed his hand.
“Bloody hell, Gracey, should I put a bag over my head?”
Grace laughed. “It’s all right, I was only joking.” She added some potatoes to the trolley. “If we’re lucky no one will bother us because most everyone is still at work.”
Chapter Fifteen
Grace was thankful for the snow. It kept well-meaning visitors away from their door and shrouded their world in soft, white silence. She had no doubt that Christopher’s troubles would re-emerge once the joy and novelty of being with her had worn off but, for the moment, she was determined to enjoy the peace while it lasted. They sat side by side on the settee. Christopher had loaded the CD player with the CDs he had given her. He held her hand while they watched the snow dance past the window. She had made a stew in the slow cooker and the aroma of it drifted through the house.
“God, Gracey, I can’t tell you how many times I dreamed of days like this. Peace, quiet and you.”
Grace rested her head against his shoulder. “Same here, such a simple, uncomplicated thing to wish for.”
“There were times when I thought that I wouldn’t live to see this, to just hold your hand.”
She turned and touched his face. “It’s all right. Now you’re here.”
“One of these days, I may even find the guts to tell you all about it.” He kissed her hair. “But today isn’t that day. I’m just so happy to be where I belong.” He winced as he moved his leg.
“Are you all right?”
“It’s hurting a bit, that’s all.”
“Shall I get you something? Do you want a tablet?”
“It’s all right, darling. I’m not due a tablet for another hour or two. I think I’ll just have a nap.” He put his arm around her waist while he fidgeted and shifted on the settee, lying down behind her, on his side. “Join me? I think there’s room for two of us.”
Grace did
n’t want to leave him, even to sit on another chair. She stretched out beside him, resting in the crook of his arm as he wrapped himself around her.
His long sigh ruffled her hair. “Could we just forget the world, do you think?”
“I’d like that.”
“So would I.” His voice was a sleepy growl.
Grace closed her eyes when he curled his fingers through hers and fell asleep, holding her. She wished that she could suspend time and remain like that until he was healed.
* * * *
“So,” Jane asked as Grace emptied the muck sack, shaking it to get the last, damp pieces of straw off, “how’s it going?”
After two days of peace and quiet, Christopher had suggested that she should go back to work because he didn’t want her getting in trouble. “It’s good, so far.” She folded the sack. “He has nightmares and his leg really bothers him but, so far so good.”
She had spoken to her father. He’d suggested that mornings should be enough for the time being.
“You need to spend time together,” he’d told her. “He needs you, Gracey. We can manage without you for evening stables and it’s not as if I’m going to cut your pay. Take as long as you need.”
“Did he tell you what happened when Steve turned up?”
Grace followed Jane into the tack room to escape the chill of the March wind. The snow had gone, leaving the ground damp and the air cold. “He said that he saw Steve standing on the front porch with one of his boxes and saw his opportunity to sort things out. He said it was like a knife in the gut.” She sat down on the traveling trunk and shivered. It was difficult to crawl out of bed, leaving Christopher’s warmth. He had mumbled in his sleep and reached for her, his arm tight around her waist.
“Don’t leave me, Grace.”
Grace gazed out of the tack room door and thought wistfully of the cottage, of the man sleeping in her bed. Our bed. “He apologized for being such a selfish arse. Right now, things are good, but I don’t know how long it will last. There’s so much that he’s not saying. He’s not ready to talk about what happened, and the longer it festers inside him, the worse he might get.” She looked down at her hands. “I love him, Jane. I love him so much that I’m prepared to put up with whatever’s going to happen. I’m just going to take each day as it comes.”
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