Chapter Thirty-Seven #2
I never thought I’d be so gone for a man that the thought of him with someone else could have this effect on me. He watches me fish for the words with quiet interest, before saving me from my faltering. “Of course not.”
He steps off the porch to come meet me and puts my suitcase right side up.
With that, his hands—those magnificent hands I’ve come to worship—wrap around my shoulders and draw me into him.
I inhale warmth. Damp wood after rain. Clean skin and the tickle of the spices he’s been cooking with.
My fingers grasp at his worn T-shirt. I’ve missed him so much I choke on my next breath.
“I’ve got a bag of my own packed,” he says into my hair. “For a flight to Texas that leaves in three days.”
I yank my head back so fast I give myself whiplash. “You do?”
His eyes are a little wet as he nods, and smooths a hair from my face. He looks at me like he’s trying to study every inch. The space between my eyelashes. The dip above my lips. “I’ve been counting down the hours.”
He lifts my chin up and allows his mouth to hover over mine. My lips tingle with his breath, a new feeling thrumming in the slight space between us. Our lips touch a moment later and it’s like the first time. Only now I know the depth of my love for him, and it’s unlike any kiss I’ve ever had.
I sigh into him, pressing up on my toes until I’m practically climbing up his body.
Tom doesn’t seem to mind—his hands are twined so deep in my hair he’s almost pulling me up to meet him by my head.
And even better than the heat of his tongue against mine, or the hunger of his hands, or the sounds of need breaking from him, is the smile I can feel in his lips as he kisses me. The relief.
“Tommy,” a man’s voice calls from inside. “The kitchen’s startin’ to smoke!”
When he releases me, ragged breaths are sawing out of him. His hands stay tethered to my neck and hip as if I’m all that’s keeping him rooted here. For too long we just stare at each other, catching our breaths.
Inside his house I can still hear casual voices and the clanging of pots, faint blues drifting from a vinyl I know Tom put on. And beyond the estate, wind in the spruce branches and crows chatting overhead.
“Tommy!”
“Comin’,” he calls, though his eyes don’t yet leave mine.
“You should go.” I can hardly think, let alone speak properly. “Your kitchen needs you.”
His lips twitch. “I’d gladly watch my kitchen tumble into the core of the earth for another moment with you.”
“I’m never going to get over you saying things like that.”
When he laughs, the clouds above might as well split into pure sunshine.
“Jaysus, Tommy!” the man calls a third time.
Tom takes my hand. “Do you want to come inside?”
—
Before I’m through the foyer, a soft, scrubby dog is at my ankles, sniffing every inch of me. “You must be Conry.”
They say dogs are like their owners, but if that’s true, Conry and Willow should trade places.
Where Willow has Tom’s long, unkempt curls—albeit hers are white—Conry has my doe eyes.
And he’s using them for evil the way he silently pleads with me every time I try to ease up on the belly rubs.
Somewhere deeper in the home, a man is laughing huskily at my plight.
“Now you’ve done it,” Tom says above me. “He’ll never let you be, the ham.”
Conry in tow, I follow the scent of roasting herbs into the living room, which bleeds seamlessly into the kitchen.
Tom’s home is earthy and masculine, clean and warm and well lit.
Textured white walls, farmhouse detailing.
The kitchen’s filled with blond wood and credenzas stuffed with greenery and old vinyls.
It’s all deceptively simple, but everything from the antique diamond windowpanes to the brick fireplace that crackles with life tells a story—the history of the home, nestled in between graveyards and gloomy peatland.
The evenings Tom has spent on that faded, rust-colored couch in solitude, writing some transcendent ode that makes heartache tangible.
“Clem,” Tom says, putting his hand on the small of my back. “This is Francis and Mia, and their baby, Liam.”
Mia’s got nearly a foot of height on me, with a willowy ponytail and a fair, light-eyed complexion.
She’s wearing a pretty patterned dress while both Francis and Tom are in sweats and I get the feeling this is the first time she’s done something social since having Liam.
She cradles the doughy-cheeked little dumpling against her chest and I notice he’s curled one teensy hand as best he can around her upper arm.
“He’s the most perfect baby I’ve ever seen in my life.” It’s a little extreme as far as greetings go, but it’s also true, and I’m functioning on no sleep and no food so I cut myself some slack. It also seems to have been the right thing to say, because Mia’s eyes light up.
“You know”—she leans in—“I think so, too, but surely everyone thinks the same thing about their own newborns.”
“Nah,” Tom says. “He’s perfect. And godfathers are notoriously unbiased.”
The kitchen is alive with the bubbling of pots and the sharp sizzle of fish in a pan.
Tom moves through the fray deftly, as he does everything.
His hands once again the instrument of his creativity, only this time he’s traded the guitar strings for a cast-iron skillet and a spatula.
Condensation thickens the windows, where outside the afternoon light is fading sleepily behind the mountains.
My mouth waters from a multifaceted hunger.
“Clementine,” Francis says brightly. He’s a stout man with typical Irish coloring: copper hair, ruddy cheeks. “We’ve heard a lot about you. What’s the craic?”
“The crack?”
I can hear the smile in Tom’s voice when he says into the oven, “It means how’re ya.”
“Oh. I’m good. Long flight.” Everything smells like salt and butter and heat. My stomach reminds me how vacant it is with a howl. “What’s he making?”
Mia peers over at Tom, who’s stirring something lemony with razor focus. “Haddock, by the looks of it. Some hen o’the woods and kalettes I think.”
I don’t know what any of those things are but I nod gratefully.
“Cod, mushrooms, and kale salad,” Tom says, sliding around me to grab a pair of tongs.
My fingers touch his wrist. “Can I help?”
His eyes gleam. “I’m grand.”
“Tom’s a bit controlling in the kitchen,” Mia says with nothing but love. She rocks Liam until he stops fussing. “We just leave him to it, mostly.”
I lean closer. “Is he any good?”
“I heard that,” Tom says into a steaming pot.
“I wish I could tell you he’s god-awful, but everything he makes is marvelous.”
“Too talented for his own good, that one,” Francis agrees, taking his beer to the dining table.
“You’re telling me,” I say without meaning to. “Have you seen him hop a fence?”
Francis looks like he wants to dig into that further, but Tom interrupts, grin tugging at his cheeks. “Enough, all of you. Seat yourselves, will ye?”
The minute dinner is served I become a one-woman eating contest, and I’ve got my eyes on that shiny first-place ribbon.
I’m shoveling fish into my mouth faster than I can swallow.
Mia and Francis ask me plenty of questions about Texas—neither of them have ever been to America—and I respond as politely as I can amid mouthfuls.
Tom answers some for me while I chew, as if we’ve been doing this routine for years.
We talk about how far Tom’s estate is from the nearest grocery, and how happy Conry is to have his dad home.
Turns out Mia’s seen quite a few of my favorite musicals in London in the West End.
The firewood crackles as we rank our favorites and grin when our lists aren’t too dissimilar.
Tom watches me the entire meal with a quiet intensity.
Like he doesn’t quite know if I’m staying or going.
Like he might need to keep his wits about him in case I try to make a run for it.
“What did you think of your first tour?” Mia asks, rocking Liam in the bassinet to her side as he gazes at his mobile.
“It was life-changing,” I say.
“Tommy came home and slept for two weeks. Were you exhausted, too?”
It’s a real battle to keep my eyes on Mia. Tom is directly to my right, so I can’t see his reaction. How much has he told them about us? Anything?
“I hardly left my own bed. I was miserable.”
Tom’s chair creaks when he shifts in his seat. Francis cocks his head in confusion. “You miss life on the road all that much?”
“I missed performing. There’s nothing like the energy from Tom’s crowds. And those songs…I never grew tired of them.”
“You’re kind,” Tom says faintly.
“I dunno what’s wrong with you,” Francis jokes. “I grew sick of ’em ages ago.”
“I don’t get to sing back home,” I tell them.
“I’m just a waitress there. And that was tough.
Returning, I mean.” I think about how it felt to be back in my apron and sneakers.
To find they fit differently than they had before I’d left.
“My town felt smaller than it ever had. Suddenly I wondered if I was going to die there, you know? But the worst part was how much I missed Tom. I missed him so, so much.” It’s up there with the bravest things I’ve ever said.
When I allow myself to glance up at him, there’s a cautious hope in his eyes.
If I’m the outlaw and Tom’s the sheriff, he’s debating hanging up his holster.
But he’s got me, and it’s about time he knew it.
Mia and Francis look at each other the way couples do when they see another pair learning something they’ve known for years.
When Tom and I stand to gather the empty plates, Liam begins to fuss.
“Time to put this one to bed,” Mia says.
“I made up the guest room for all three of ye,” Tom tells her, piling serve ware into the sink.
“Thanks, Tommy. Love, it’s my turn,” Francis offers. “Let me put him down.”
“I don’t mind. It won’t be long, he’s tuckered himself right out.”
Mia presses a kiss into Liam’s brow and I don’t miss the way Francis stares in admiration at his own family.
How Mia smiles at him before nodding down to Liam.
A silent ask of, Can you believe we made this little thing?
There’s something between them my heart aches for profoundly, and I’d never even known it until now.
“He’s outrageously cute,” Tom says. “And clearly’ll be smart, too. Lucky you married her, otherwise he’d have your shite for brains.”
Francis’s laugh is a husky guffaw as he leans against the kitchen counter. “I’m not arguin’ with you. I’m lucky I married her for more than just that. She’s all too good with him.” Francis releases a full-bellied sigh. “We’re in dreadful need of a holiday, though. Maybe end of the month.”
“Where will you go?” I ask.
Francis tips his head, weighing the options. “Somewhere by the seaside. Maybe Dingle or Kinsale.” He turns to Tom. “Didn’t you and Eden spend a week down there? At her mam’s aul’ place for summer holiday?”
There’s nothing significant about the question. Had I been focused on transferring kale into Tupperware, I might’ve even missed the guttered expression that shadows over Tom’s face. But once I’ve seen it, it’s too late.
Francis tries gamely to plow onward. “Hot as a devil in August but we’re hopin’ it’s almost cooled off.”
They talk about the weather but it all sounds like stiff commercial dialogue. Forced and phony—Tom knows I’ve heard something I shouldn’t have. Something he wasn’t ready to share with me. Doesn’t matter anyway. I can’t really hear anything over the thundering of my heart.
“I’m just going to take the trash out,” I say primly. “Thank you for such a beautiful dinner.”
“Clem—”
But I’m hurrying for the front door with no trash whatsoever before Tom can catch me.