Chapter Sixteen #2
Cat needed to go home. Not to London, but to Michigan.
To the life she’d put on pause after her grandmother died, when she’d buried herself in work and travel and distractions that looked like purpose.
She wouldn’t beat herself up for it. Grief had its own timeline.
But it was time to live again. To find that job, that future, a future that belonged entirely to her.
Entering the cottage, she nearly tripped over a row of suitcases standing by the front door. She glanced into the sitting room and discovered Rhys at the hearth, putting out the fire.
“They’re flying back from St. Barts,” he said, his voice rough. “The girls wanted to celebrate New Year’s Eve with me, and they’ll be coming over for dinner once they land.”
Cat nodded. It was all she could manage.
Rhys shifted, his tone softening. “I’ll take you back to London with me. Drop you off at your place. Can you be ready soon?”
Cat’s gaze swept the room, from the decorated tree to the mantle with the tall pillar candles and clove studded oranges. “What about everything here?”
“I’ve spoken to Mr. Trimble. His grandson is visiting from Manchester and is going to take the tree and decorations down and empty the refrigerator for me.”
“That’s nice of him.”
“I think he’s looking forward to the forty quid.”
Cat tried to smile but couldn’t. She ran upstairs to pack, and it didn’t take long. When she came down Rhys was already by the door, phone in hand, his coat buttoned.
“I’ve called ahead,” he said. “The roads are clear enough now. We’ll make good time.”
She nodded, lifting the handle of her suitcase. “All right.”
He took her luggage from her and carried both pieces to the car.
She paused at the door and then turned around, going into the sitting room to search the Christmas tree for the two sparkly, glittery ornaments the girls had made for her.
Plucking them off the tree she tucked them into her coat pocket and headed for the door.
Goodbye, little cottage. Goodbye, best Christmas. Goodbye, Langley Park.
Rhys drove in silence. The countryside slid past, pale fields and hedgerows blurred by mist. The radio was off. Even the hum of the tires sounded muted. Cat sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching the landscape change—stone walls giving way to towns, then to stretches of motorway.
Every few miles, she felt him glance at her. She didn’t meet his eyes.
About halfway to London, he spoke. “Do you need anything?” His voice was even, courteous. Too careful.
She shook her head. “No. Everything’s fine.”
A pause. “Temperature all right?”
“It’s fine,” she said again, softer this time. “I’m fine.”
He nodded once, hands tightening briefly on the steering wheel.
The rest of the drive passed in quiet. Outside, dusk gathered, turning the sky from pewter to blue-black. The headlights carved a narrow path through the dark, illuminating only the next few yards of road. It seemed fitting—neither of them could see much farther ahead than that.
About an hour outside the city, the open fields gave way to a sprawl of lights and motion.
Even on New Year’s Eve, the traffic was heavy—brake lights flaring red in the mist, taxis edging through the congestion, headlights cutting sharp through the gray.
The motorway hummed with restless energy, every lane crowded with people heading somewhere warm, somewhere waiting.
Rhys stayed steady in the slow crawl, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. Cat sat beside him, watching the skyline grow clearer with every mile, the glow of London filling the emptiness between them.
She gave him her address as they neared the turn off for her road.
When they reached her flat, he pulled to the curb and set the brake.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The city noise pressed in faintly from beyond the glass: distant horns, a bus groaning at a stoplight, the hum of a world that had kept going while they’d been elsewhere.
Cat unbuckled her seatbelt. “Thank you for the ride.”
Rhys nodded, jaw tight. “You’re welcome.”
She reached for the door handle. “Tell the girls I said hello, and Happy New Year.”
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out an envelope, and held it out to her. “I will.”
She couldn’t make herself take the envelope. Suddenly it felt wrong.
“It’s what I promised you.” His voice dropped, deepening. “Please don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“I don’t want your money.” I want you. But she couldn’t say it and so she blinked hard. “It was a privilege to be part of your family. I can’t remember when I last enjoyed a Christmas so much.”
“My favorite Christmas in years too,” he said, pushing the envelope into her hand.
Her fingers curled around the envelope of cash. Everything about this goodbye felt wrong. “Happy New Year, Rhys.”
“Happy New Year, Cat.”
She opened the door and stepped out into the cold, and closed it behind her, remaining on the curb as he drove away.
Her chest tightened and it hard to breathe.
It occurred to her that she might never see him again.
Fresh pain swept through her, and she forced herself to climb the stairs to her flat before she fell apart here on the street.
*
The elegant Chelsea house was alive with sound—music playing somewhere down the hall, laughter rising from the girls as they raced around the sitting room in paper crowns and glittery hats. Someone had found a pack of sparklers, and the faint scent of spent matches hung in the air.
Rhys stood near the window, glass in hand, smiling when one of the girls tugged at his sleeve, asking how many minutes until midnight.
“Just a few more,” he said, his voice light enough to make them grin and rush back to the television, where the countdown was already starting on one of the broadcasts from London.
He tried to watch, tried to follow the screen—the crowds at Trafalgar Square, the fireworks poised along the river—but the sounds blurred into a dull hum. The laughter, the music, the chatter … none of it was real. None of it mattered.
He missed Cat already. Their parting had been horrendous.
He’d planned to say things that might convince her to stay, to give them more time, but she was so still and distant during the drive back to London that he froze.
It wasn’t that he lacked courage, but the realistic part of him knew she’d made up her mind and was determined to go.
What could he say in that case? How could he convince her?
Better to let her go and do what she needed to do.
Just as he had responsibilities of his own. Like the girls.
The clock on the mantel read 11:58. The girls were chanting now, giddy with anticipation. Jillian, lightly tan and rested from her holiday, caught his eye and gave him a smile. At least she was happy.
Somewhere in the distance, fireworks were already starting—muffled bursts of color that faded as quickly as they came. He thought of Cat in her London flat and hoped she wasn’t alone.
The girls began the final countdown—ten, nine, eight—their voices high and bright, full of the joy he couldn’t summon. But he smiled for them, because that was what fathers did.
*
London was loud. Fireworks had already started along the river, bursts of color painting the low clouds red and gold.
From her flat, Cat could see the reflections flashing across the windows of the buildings opposite, hear the faint chorus of voices from the street below counting down the final seconds of the year.
She sat on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, a half-finished cup of tea cooling on the table.
The television was on, the sound turned low.
When the countdown began in earnest—ten, nine, eight—she felt the swell of excitement in the city like a pulse, quick and bright.
Somewhere, people were kissing, hugging, making resolutions they’d already forget by February.
Outside, the first thunder of fireworks filled the air, scattering light over the city. She thought of Rhys then—not in the cottage, but surrounded by his girls, smiling for them, determined to make it fun. Special.
Cat closed her eyes, letting the noise of the city roll past her. When she opened them again, the fireworks were still exploding against the sky, vivid and intense, but oh so fleeting. It felt like the last few weeks at Langley Park. Brilliant for a moment, then over.
Eyes stinging, Cat reached for her tea, found it cold, and drank it anyway. It would get easier. Things would feel better once she was in Michigan.
Cat picked up her laptop and turned it on. Before she could have second thoughts, she booked herself a one-way flight to Detroit for January second. Once in Detroit, she’d rent a car and drive to her grandmother’s house in Kalamazoo.
Outside, the fireworks faded, leaving only smoke and the hum of the city. Cat pulled the mohair blanket on the couch higher, wrapping it around her shoulders. “Happy New Year,” she whispered. “Here’s to new beginnings.”