Epilogue #2
He waves out of the window and drives away.
I watch his car disappear into the distance and then head down to the little dock where we moor our rowing boat.
Mac had been prepared to buy a small motorboat to explore the river, but I’d taken one look at the little boat our neighbour was selling and fell in love.
I like the fact that I have to row myself to our home.
The river marks the spot where I leave work behind and enter our real life—on Pharoah’s Island.
Mac and I had only been dating for a month when he announced he was taking me away for the weekend.
I’d thought it would be somewhere exotic, but instead, he’d brought me to the island and the house for a weekend to see if I could imagine living there.
The house had been stripped bare and felt fresh somehow, and it had given Mac the chance he needed to lay his ghosts to rest.
Mac might laugh, but I’ve always thought the place was grateful for its fresh start, just like Mac.
The same can’t be said for the chance of a relationship between Mac and his grandad.
I’d asked him if he wanted to tell him who he was, but he’d immediately dismissed the notion, and I’d backed away.
It’s Mac’s choice, and I can’t blame him for not wanting to know the old man.
He has a complicated relationship with his mum’s memory, but for his grandfather to disown his own daughter so thoroughly that he denied she ever existed to her son—that’s a step too far.
We’d spent that weekend lying in bed and planning the house how we wanted.
It had been one of the best weekends we’ve ever had, full of closeness and love.
Apparently, I’d changed his mind about his initial plans for the house, which I’m so thankful for.
I love the place passionately. The island is small, but there’s a real sense of community here, and we often spend weekends at neighbours’ houses for parties or hosting our own—a fact that Mac bemoans loudly, yet still enjoys.
“Wes!”
I turn and wave at our neighbour, who’s getting into his own boat.
“There was a parcel for you. I left it on the veranda.” He says something else, but the wind is blowing, and I can’t hear him, so I just wave and shout my thanks.
One of the quirky facts about the island that I love is that our mail and takeaways are delivered to the dock, and the delivery driver rings the bell to let us know.
I grab the oars and row myself over. It’s not a huge distance, but I can still feel the tug of the current and the heat in my muscles. The river breeze hits me, blowing my hair back. It’s briny and familiar now—the scent of home.
I tie up, jump onto our dock, and start the walk up the garden but not before looking over at the space where the old summerhouse used to sit.
I’d thought Mac might want to keep that dusty shrine to his mother, but he’d recoiled at the idea.
Instead, he’d torn it down plank by plank on our first weekend at the house.
He’d done it in a grim silence while I sat watching and waiting to hug him.
I offer hugs freely, even though he never used to quite know what to do with them.
He’s easier now, though, and the fact that I contributed to that makes our relationship seem so much more equal to me.
Now, instead of the summerhouse, a swinging hammock packed with colourful cushions twists in the breeze. Mac had put that up for me, and in the summer, I like to lie reading and watching the boats go by.
I look ahead at my home and smile. It looks such a different place from when I first saw it.
New windows twinkle in the last of the sun, and the paintwork gleams. I climb the steps up to the new veranda Mac installed and let myself into the house, throwing my bag gratefully down on the table in the hallway and stretching to get rid of the kinks in my back.
The parquet floor gleams and the house smells of furniture polish and beeswax, so Julie, our housekeeper, has been in.
I inhale the pleasant scent as I head into the kitchen to grab a cold drink.
The room is vastly different, with white oak units and an oak counter.
The walls are painted a shocking pink, which I’d insisted on, much to Mac’s consternation.
We’d knocked down walls and opened up the previously small and dingy space, turning it into a large room with a breakfast bar, dining table, and chairs.
A huge sofa and coffee table sits in front of a picture window that looks down the river.
Our lounge is lovely, but somehow, we always end up in here.
I’ll cook, something I’ve been learning to do, while Mac sits on the sofa, tapping on his laptop and listening to music while we talk about our days.
It’s empty today and missing my love, but shadows from the late sun hitting the river move across the ceiling and walls.
I put my glass in the dishwasher and pause in the lounge, looking up at the huge abstract picture hanging over the fireplace.
It’s painted in shades of orange, burnt umber, and black, and it’s as eye-catching in our lounge as it was in the little gallery in Seville where we first saw it.
We’d been there for the weekend and found it on one of our walks around the beautiful old city.
I smile at the thought of those lovely few days.
Mac takes time off now. He has real time off when his staff know he’s only available for dire emergencies, and I love that time. It feels like he’s all mine then.
I walk past the photos on the cupboard. That’s my contribution to this house—photos and more vibrant colours.
Mac never met a shade of beige he didn’t like, and he might grumble that the place looks like a child’s Wendy house, but I know he secretly likes the colours I’ve added.
Very secretly. In pride of place is the graduation photo of Mac and me that Cath sneakily took as she left that day.
We’re staring into each other’s eyes, and we look what we were—a couple just starting out and uncertain of each other, but our connection and awareness are still very evident.
The photo next to it shows how far we’ve come.
It’s of us sitting at a table. I can’t remember where we were—maybe a business function—but I’m talking, my hands in the air as usual, and Mac is watching me.
And the reason I framed this is the look on his face.
It’s warm and so loving that it always brings tears to my eyes.
He’s not an easy man, and that hasn’t changed since we’ve been together, but I’ve never been as happy as I have these last couple of years.
True to his word, Mac relaxed his walls with me.
It took a while and a few lapses where he tried to brick them back up, but I stayed patient.
It’s hard to paint over the mistakes and habits of a life.
And even when he’s withdrawn, there’s still something magnetic about him.
He’s funny and scarily clever, and I can see why he intimidates people.
I’ve been at functions with him where people are obviously nervous around him.
Maybe that’s the money or his humungous brain, but I’ve never felt that.
Even when we started, and I should have been biddable, something about him made me relax.
I like to prod him. Sometimes, I’d like to do it with a Taser when he’s being particularly stubborn, but that’s love, which is the one thing we have in abundance.
My smile dies away. But he still works too hard.
Case in point with this trip. It had extended and extended, and it’s been three weeks since we saw each other, and I miss him like I’d miss an actual limb.
We’ve talked every night, sometimes for hours, but it hasn’t helped, and I could hear the strain and aching yearning in his voice that echoed mine.
Last night, he’d cursed and said he didn’t care if the problem was sorted.
He was coming home. I haven’t heard from him since, but the sentiment was nice.
It’s nice to be missed in the same way I miss him, but it’s a fact that this house is too quiet without him.
He has a way of infusing a place with his presence, so even if he’s in his study working, I know he’s there, and something eases in me.
And I’m making it my life’s work to chase him out of that room and into the sunlight—to laugh and love.
I gave him that silver sunflower for a reason after all.
Sighing, I head towards the stairs. I’m going to shower, nuke something in the microwave, and fall into bed at five pm like the pensioner I apparently now am.
I have one foot on the stairs when the sound registers. It’s a sibilant hissing noise. I freeze and then realise what it is. It’s our shower.
For a wild second, I think someone has broken in and is having a wash before they start raiding the home. Realisation dawns as I notice the suitcase and suit bag thrown over the chair in the hallway. I can’t believe I missed them.
“ Mac .”
My heart seems to start and stop, and before I know it, I’m racing up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
I burst into our big bedroom, nearly falling over his shoes, abandoned with a pile of clothing by the sofa in the room.
Stumbling and catching myself just in time, I crash into the bathroom, nearly taking out a vase of tulips on the counter.
Mac is in the shower, his hands resting on the tiles and his head bent under the spray, but at my entrance, he jerks and turns to me.
The water pours down, sliding over that fantastic body.
He puts up his hand, smoothing the black silk of his hair back, showing the stark beauty of his bone structure, and then raises one eyebrow.
“Are you incapable of entering a room normally?”
“You’re back ,” I gasp.
“I see your gift of observance is getting better.”