Chapter Twenty-nine
The next four events pass by relatively smoothly; everyone arrives on time, it doesn’t rain and, despite my best attempts to convince him it’s a good idea, Declan doesn’t lead with any Christmas carols.
Bri still hasn’t managed to persuade Jed that they should ride off into the sunset together, but we don’t switch cars again, and the long drives that I was dreading before the tour become my favourite part of the day.
One afternoon, Declan tells me that he stole a wishing stone from a school market when he was a kid.
‘What made you do it?’ I ask, looking at him sideways as we pass fields and cows and sheep out of the window.
‘It’s like you’ve never even seen a wishing stone,’ says Declan, shaking his head. ‘They’re mesmerising.’
‘And your mum wouldn’t buy you one?’
‘No,’ says Declan. ‘She still doesn’t know I took it.’
I gasp in mock horror, and Declan ducks his head. ‘I had to leave it at least twenty years,’ he says. ‘If she found out any sooner, she’d have made me track down the stallholder and take it back.’
‘Do you still have it?’ I ask.
‘I will neither confirm or deny that,’ says Declan.
‘Colour?’
‘Blue,’ says Declan, sounding affronted. ‘I wouldn’t steal a yellow wishing stone.’
As well as a stolen wishing stone, I learn that Declan has a dog called Fido, that he loves cooked tomato but is apathetic about it when it’s fresh. I also discover that he is strangely passionate about people not indicating at roundabouts.
I tell him about my crappy toaster, and Yumi, and about how I accidentally lost my pet chicken when I was eight. I buy snacks almost every time we stop, and Declan doesn’t comment, but he does sneak my nuts.
Ruth messages me twice with picture updates. One is her and Gran and another scarf, and the other is the two of them with a copy of Talking to Trees . I went shopping at Brooks’! she proclaims.
It’s still the bestselling book at Brooks’ by a long margin, and Yumi tells me that she moved it to the second spot on our bestseller wall yesterday, just for fun.
We’ve stopped at three bookshops in the last five days, and in each place Talking to Trees is sitting happily at number one.
I’ve overheard enough conversations between Bri and Declan in the past week to know that the book is going well.
For my part, I’ve sold more books than even our best estimates, and yesterday I called Mike to confirm that we wanted to go ahead with the electrical repairs. And it feels . . . good.
Having gone into this tour expecting it to be a disaster, it’s hard to believe that there’s a part of me that now doesn’t want it to end.
There are things I’m looking forward to about being back, but I’m already missing the open skies and the feeling of rain on my face.
Declan and I don’t talk about the end of the pause and, in real Wilderness Clarrie style, I figure that I will just spot that owl when I come to it. Or something like that.
When we climb back into the car after the final bookshop on our way to the final event of the tour, Declan lets out a long sigh, leaning back in the passenger seat.
‘Are you upset because they didn’t have the most recent Francis Coates?’ I ask lightly, and he opens one eye at me, a flash of surprise and something else passing through them.
‘How do you know I like Francis Coates?’
‘I’ve seen your suitcase,’ I whisper, and Declan laughs, a low, even chuckle.
‘He’s a really good writer,’ he says.
‘I’ve heard that.’ Honestly, I only know he exists because of Annabel Stone.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask. ‘There was quite a crowd at the end.’
He nods. ‘Part of the job,’ he says, like this is something he tells himself often.
Then he sits up and rubs a hand through his hair.
‘And it really is incredible, the people I get to meet,’ he says.
‘There was a man in there . . . he said his son gave him the book for his birthday, because he’d read it himself and loved it.
He’s going to give the signed copy back to his son next birthday.
’ There’s a wonder in his voice when he says it – like he can’t quite believe that his book has meant that to someone. ‘I’m lucky, to do what I do.’
I reach down to touch his hand, and he turns his palm so he can lace his fingers with mine. ‘Did you send Yumi some pictures of the window display?’ he asks.
They had built a literal mountain out of books, complete with a jolly-looking hiker on the side. ‘I did,’ I tell him. ‘She said we should try doing the Eiffel Tower. She asked if you can please write a book about Paris so we can pretend that was our motivation.’
‘I’ll work on it,’ says Declan.
It’s such an innocuous exchange, but there’s something about planning even an imaginary future that stalls the conversation. Tomorrow. We go home tomorrow.
‘How does the mountain compare to your Charlotte’s Web display?’ asks Declan.
‘How dare you even ask,’ I say solemnly. ‘Nothing will ever top the Charlotte’s Web display. It was perfect. Apart from when Grandpa broke his finger trying to get the papier maché pig out of the window.’
‘He what?’ Declan laughs.
‘He spent four hours in Emergency,’ I say, laughing as well. ‘Though Gran said it was still worth it.’
‘She told me once that Charlotte’s Web was her favourite book,’ he says softly, and my heart cracks, just a little.
And I try again not to think about tomorrow.