Chapter 27 #2
I drive slowly down the lane. Past the church at Pencross where I’ll stand tomorrow, making promises. Past the turning for my parents’ house. Past the spot where I drove away two months ago and watched Nina disappear into the mist in my rearview mirror.
The harbour comes into view. The boats. The fish shack. The Ship with its faded sign.
And the café.
The Lavender Café, with its purple shutters, chalkboard sign, window boxes, and hanging baskets full of flowers.
I pull into a space at the top of the harbour.
Cut the engine. Sit there for a moment, just looking.
The harbour is golden in the early evening light.
The boats nod at their moorings. Everything exactly the same, exactly where I left it, as if the village was just waiting for me to come back and notice.
And then I see her.
She’s outside the café, reaching up to adjust the chalkboard. Her back is to me, dark curls escaping from a messy bun, wearing the apron she’s had for years – the one with the ink stain on the pocket that she’s never been able to get out.
I open the car door. Step out.
The sound makes her turn.
She freezes.
I freeze.
Twenty metres between us. The harbour, the boats, the entire village as backdrop. And Nina, standing there with chalk dust on her fingers, staring at me.
‘Tom.’
My name. Just my name. But the way she says it – soft, surprised, and underneath it a tremor I’ve never heard before.
‘Nina.’
We stand there. Not moving. Not speaking. The distance between us full of salt air and two months of silence and eleven years of everything we’ve never said.
She looks different. There’s colour in her cheeks that wasn’t there when I left. A steadiness in her stance. She looks like a woman who’s been building things.
‘You’re early,’ she says finally. ‘The christening’s not until tomorrow.’
‘I know. I wanted to—’ I trail off. I don’t know what I wanted. Or I do, and I can’t say it here, now, across twenty metres of cobblestone. ‘I’m staying at my parents’ tonight.’
‘Right. Of course.’
Silence. The gulls. The water. A halyard clinking.
‘The café looks good,’ I say. Stupid. Obvious. But the alternative is standing here not speaking until one of us turns to stone.
‘Thanks.’ She glances back at the chalkboard. ‘I was just updating the specials.’
‘What’s the special?’
‘Lemon drizzle cake. Mum’s recipe.’
‘Your mum’s lemon drizzle is legendary.’
‘I know. I tell her that. She pretends to be modest.’ A small smile, there and gone – like a light switching on and off. ‘She asks about you. Every time she calls. How’s Tom doing up there in Scotland? Is he eating properly?’
‘Tell her I’m fine. Eating properly.’
‘I’ll pass it on.’
The silence again. But different this time. Not empty – full. Full of things pressing against the surface, looking for cracks.
‘Nina—’
‘Tom—’
We both stop. Both wait.
‘You first,’ she says.
‘No, you.’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t even know what I was going to say.’
‘Neither do I.’
A pause. And then she laughs – just a small one, surprised out of her, but real. The first real sound between us in two months.
‘This is ridiculous,’ she says. ‘We should be able to have a conversation.’
‘We should.’
‘So let’s … start again. Tomorrow. At the christening.’ She straightens up. Tucks a curl behind her ear. ‘We’ll be standing at a font together. We should probably be able to make eye contact.’
‘Probably.’
‘Tomorrow, then.’
‘Tomorrow.’
She nods. I nod. We stand there nodding at each other like a pair of idiots, and I want to cross those twenty metres so badly my feet are aching with it, but I don’t. Not yet. Not tonight.
‘I should close up,’ she says, gesturing at the café.
‘Of course. I should go see Mum and Dad.’
‘Say hi to Ivy for me.’
‘I will.’
She turns back to the chalkboard. I turn back to the car.
‘Tom!’
I turn and there are two pink spots on her cheek, and I swear if I were closer I’d be able to see the pulse in the base of her throat. She takes a step towards me but then stops. Fingers fluttering at the neckline of her boho-style top.
‘You said it would have been better if you’d been the one to not come out of the water.’
My stomach squeezes. That was a low blow. Even for my heartbreak at leaving. I don’t respond.
‘That’s not true, Tom. Not true at all.’
She goes inside. The café door closes behind her.
The fairy lights come on – warm, golden, glowing through the lavender shutters – and I stand there watching them the way I’ve watched them a hundred times before.
But this time I’m not across the harbour.
I’m right here. Close enough to see the light move behind the glass.
Mum opens the door before I’ve reached the gate.
‘Mum—’
‘Look at you.’ She holds my face in both hands, studying me the way she studies the garden – looking for what needs tending. ‘You’re thin. And tired. And you’ve got that look.’
‘What look?’
‘The one you’ve had since you were sixteen.’ She pulls me into a hug, fierce and brief. ‘Come inside. Kettle’s on. Your father’s pretending he’s not emotional but he’s been pacing since four o’clock.’
I follow her in. And the smell of the house – tea, and furniture polish, and the woodsmoke that never quite leaves the walls – wraps around me like a hand I didn’t know I was reaching for.