Chapter 27 Blythe
BLYTHE
I’m nervous.
I’m nervous about being away from Maggi.
Nervous about her being away from me. I barely slept last night.
I’ve only spent one night away from her, truly away, and that was when Eric was still here and she’d spent a night with my sister so we could have a little getaway.
Even here, I was down the hall or laneway.
But as I watch my in-laws drive away, I have to work hard not to run after them or start crying.
I know this is good for her. Probably good for me too, but rational thoughts have no place here at the moment.
That’s why I’m going away for a week to a remote cottage in the middle of nowhere with a guy who I can definitely see myself falling for but who I have no future with. Rational thought cannot survive in this hostile environment.
Maggi presumes I’m staying here for the week. Martha told her I had a lot on my mind, and it would be easier if I were alone with all the big thoughts. She hadn’t batted an eye. She hugged me goodbye, told me about the faerie tour for the twelfth time, and skipped to the car.
The car disappears at the bend, and I can’t seem to move. I’m packed. The suitcase is hidden in the closet so Maggi wouldn’t see, and I’m supposed to meet Sam here, get in the car he’s hired, and turn off my mom-brain for the next seven days.
“Everything is so dumb,” I mumble, turning back toward the front door to see Sarah and Colin standing there, both clearly trying not to laugh. “Shut up.” I roll my eyes and push past them back into the estate, charging toward the stairs.
“Blythe,” Sarah calls, and I spin back so fast I have to grab the railing at the bottom of the staircase to stay upright.
Sarah says something to Colin and then walks toward me.
“I know this is a bit weird, Eric being my brother and all, but if it makes you feel better, he would have really liked Sam. He’d be happy you’re doing something for you.”
“I’m sure he’d be happier if he was the one whisking me away for the week.”
Sarah’s laugh echoes off the walls, and before I know it, mine is harmonizing with it.
“Oh my god, he would have hated it.” She laughs harder until her laughter turns to tears and she’s gasping.
“I’m so sorry,” she says as I step closer.
“It has been an emotional week. Big moments are a reminder that he’s gone.
I kept having these weird blips where I’d be having a great time, and then I’d hear his voice.
‘You would get married in the middle of nowhere.’ That sort of thing. ”
“He would have had a great time as long as you were happy,” I assure her.
She nods, wiping her eyes. “Oh yeah. With all his rugby heroes here, he would have gotten over the location real quick.”
“Definitely,” I agree. “I’m not trying to replace him. I miss him every single day. Being here has been easier than I anticipated when the plane touched down. Seeing Maggi with all of you. Having some fun with S—”
“Sam,” Sarah says. “He’s gone through a lot, but he’s such a good man. I wouldn’t trust your heart with just anyone, even for a short time. I do trust it with Sam.” The sound of tires on gravel filtering through the open front door pulls her attention from me. “Speak of the devil.”
Devil? Hardly.
“I’ve gotta…” I take a step onto the stairs.
“Oh yes, of course.” Sarah steps up and wraps her arms around me. “Have fun. Don’t overthink a thing.”
“Me? Overthink? Never.” I roll my eyes, squeezing her back before heading up the stairs.
“We’ll see you when you get back to Glasgow,” Colin calls out.
“Yep,” I reply as I reach the top, the entrance hall disappearing as I round the corner and charge toward my room.
Nervous energy floods my body. I don’t know why.
It’s not like we haven’t already done things.
It’s not as if this is a trial run for something more.
It’s a week of relaxation in my favourite place with a very hot man who at the end of the week will return to his life while I return to mine.
This is a bridge to new things. That’s it.
And yet my hands shake as I pull my suitcase from the closet, and I’m uncharacteristically out of breath as I do a sweep of the room to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.
“We can stay here if you’d prefer.” Sam’s silky voice makes me jump, and I spin to find him leaning against the doorframe, legs crossed at the ankles, hands in his pockets, he’s oozing confidence, the exact opposite of how I probably look right now.
I let myself slowly take him in. A long-sleeved black henley, pushed up to his elbows.
Unfair. Jeans that seem to only accentuate powerful legs.
Criminal. Pristine white classic Adidas shoes.
Also unfair because clearly he doesn’t have a child in his life who will spill some neon beverage on them, and can get away with wearing such a thing.
When my eyes finally work their way back up his body, I realize that he’s trimmed his beard, and he looks far more well rested than he had the last couple of days. His body looks good, but it’s the easy smile and the lack of dark shadows under his eyes that have me smiling back.
“I think I’d rather get you far from prying eyes and ears,” I flirt, faking confidence and loving the way he blushes
“Damn,” he murmurs, stepping into the room and going right to my case. “Better get a move on then.”
With one hand wrapped around the suitcase handle, he reaches with the other and takes my hand, leading me out of the room and down the stairs, out the door, and to the perfect vehicle to drive further into the Highlands.
I stop dead. “Where did that come from?”
I may not be the most observant when it comes to the make and model of cars, but Land Rovers are fairly iconic in these parts. They stand out, especially the old ones.
Sam grins back at me. “It was dropped off this morning. There’s a company that rents them for that quintessential Highland trek.” His voice changes as if he’s doing a proper advert. He probably has done one of those before, come to think of it.
“Of course there is,” I mumble, shaking my head before following him to the car.
Slipping into the passenger seat, I look around while Sam stows my suitcase in the back.
It’s not made to look old; the interior is lacking all the modern bells and whistles. No GPS, backup cam, or even a CD slot adorns the dash. There is a spot for a cassette tape, but that’s as modern as it gets.
“What do you think?” Sam asks as he settles next to me.
“Well, it’s a more fitting car than the Ford Fiesta I imagined you pulling up in.”
Sam’s chuckle fills the car. “I’m not sure I could even fit in one of those cars,” he ponders while he backs away from the estate.
This is the time I should be staring out the windshield, getting my last look at the grand stone building that will hold many pleasant memories for years to come.
But instead I’m focused on how Sam’s hand rests on the back of my seat while he reverses.
My gaze sweeps up his arm and down his body as he shifts the Rover into gear and drives us down the laneway.
I know we pass his cottage and the gatehouse because before long the gravel turns to smooth asphalt beneath the tires, but I haven’t managed to look away from him.
He fits well in here. His calm demeanour mixed with the determination that seems to live permanently on his face combined with his outfit just works.
Like he was meant to be driving a vintage Land Rover through the narrow winding roads of the Scottish Highlands.
And how fucking lucky am I that I get a front-row seat to the view?
Blood pounds in my ears the longer I look at him.
I’m nervous but equally excited about the week ahead.
I waited for the words of warning from Sarah and then my sister when I mentioned what I’d be doing this week—none came.
Sarah squealed, and my sister’s approving hum floated through the speaker as she nodded sagely through the screen. Apparently Sarah gave her a heads-up.
Here’s something people don’t prepare you for when you lose your spouse: siblings becoming friends because of your grief.
Sarah and Beth had met, of course, but they hadn’t become oh-we-chat-once-a-week-buds until after Eric.
They’d take turns checking in on me and then obviously let the other know.
It was their way of remaining present without smothering me.
Something that I didn’t appreciate early on.
That being said, I was barely present then.
Time passed, but every day felt like the day he died.
Seasons changed, and yet I was stuck in the movie Groundhog Day.
A fact that annoyed me, seeing as how much I despise any media with that scenario.
“You okay?” Sam’s voice has me blinking out of my stupor, and I realize to him I’ve been staring at his hand on the gear stick.
I force my eyes up to his face to offer him a smile. “I’m great.”
He gives me a quick nod and looks back at the road, which is a relief, as this is not the kind of terrain you want to be distracted while traversing.
Eventually, I make myself look away from him and out the window. The change in scenery is not a disappointment as green mountains rise dramatically on either side of us.
Martha had barely let me finish telling her that I’d been invited for a week away, not with my sister, before she launched into all the reasons it would be good for me.
She knows how this place calls to me. She would often laugh in the days before Maggi about how we’d be living in Scotland before long because the pull in me was strong, even if it wasn’t present at all in Eric.
A tear rolls down my cheek before I can stop it, and I’m grateful I’m turned away from Sam so he can’t see as I wipe it away.
I’d agree to never step foot in this country again if it meant having Eric. If it meant that Maggi got to grow up with her dad.
We pass through a tiny village, and Sam pulls over in front of a Tesco Express. The week of having everything done for us has passed. If we want to eat, it’s up to us now.
The store is tiny, so even when I walk to the produce section to grab some fruit and vegetables, I can see Sam’s imposing form at the cheese counter as he peruses the options.
He’s approached by a man, and I watch as the two exchange a few words, ending with a handshake and a quick selfie.
“I forgot you were famous around these parts,” I goad, elbowing him when he joins me.
He grins and shrugs. “To a few people I am. I’m a nobody to most.” His grin remains, but the expression fades around his eyes as a distant sadness settles there.
Without a word I take the three cheeses he has in his hand and add it to the basket I picked up. We don’t make it two steps before his hand joins mine on the handle, and he takes it from me.
Shopping with Sam is a relaxing affair. He nods to most things I pick up, except for the jar of Branston Pickle, which gets the most hilarious reaction from him.
“Oh come on, a cheese and pickle sandwich.” I practically drool at the thought. “Nothing better.”
“Plenty better,” he says, grimacing again as if the thought of the sandwich is enough for him to vomit.
“Your Canadian is showing,” I tease.
“It has nothing to do with that. Twenty-year-old me got a big cheque, a big win, and way too drunk, and I can still taste that shit coming up.” He covers his mouth with his fist and gags.
Now it’s my turn to grimace. I had a similar experience with sun-dried tomatoes once, and I haven’t been able to eat them since.
I put the jar of Branston back on the shelf and keep browsing. “Marmalade? Or do you prefer jam?” I ask, stopping in front of the small selection of jams and jellies.
“Marmalade, definitely.” He picks up a jar and adds it to the basket. “What about you?”
I stare at the jar he added. “I love it,” I murmur, unsure why I’m suddenly emotional about marmalade.
A marmalade-covered knife sits next to the sink.
A strip of crust left on a plate with a dollop of orange on the corner.
Eric’s last meal had been toast with marmalade.
The same jar he used hasn’t been opened since.
It hasn’t been moved from the spot in the fridge door where he left it.
I’ve cleaned the fridge a few times since, but I haven’t touched the marmalade.
I can’t bring myself to do it. And I haven’t had it since. Haven’t wanted it until now.
“Just need some bread, and we’ll be good to go,” Sam says, switching the basket to his other hand and wrapping his hand around mine, offering a barely there squeeze that pulls me fully back into the present.
“Yeah, bread sounds good.”
I can tell by his expression that he wants to ask me a question.
Most likely he wants to know if I’m okay.
It’s a full reversal of what happened at the cheese counter.
But he doesn’t press, and I’m grateful for that.
The last thing I want to do is have a full-blown meltdown in the spreads aisle at a Tesco Express on my way for a week of hedonistic activities with the godlike man who loves marmalade but hates Branston Pickle.