Chapter 43
43
My knees are aching as I continue my descent, the farmhouse finally coming into view. I stare up at the house as I continue walking. The sun has almost set now, purples and violet light reflecting in the windows. There are no lights on inside, and as I approach the gate, I scan for a car. There are recent tracks, but nothing parked. Maybe it’s behind the building. I can feel fear beginning to swell in my chest. What if he’s not here? Then what will I do? It’ll be dark soon; I’ll have to hike back. The thought is edged with fear, but I shake myself. I can do this. If I can survive everything I’ve been through over the past week, both present and past, I can survive this.
I open the gate and knock on the door. There is no response. No sound other than my laboured breathing and the wind whistling down from the mountains.
Shit.
I cup my hands over the glass. There is a lounge filled with clutter but no sign of anyone here. I follow the walls of the building. Behind the house is a large shed. I push open the heavy door. Shed is the wrong word to describe this place; it’s more like an extension of the house. There are pieces of wood, a workbench, but also a small wood-burning stove, a sofa that looks more dog hair than upholstery, tools and a dog basket. I sit down at the workbench. On top is a list. Orders for wood and dimensions, reminders to buy flour and yeast. I open my bag and pull out the stack of letters Alan had given me. All addressed to James. I place an envelope next to the list. The handwriting on the list is scruffier, but it’s the same. A small sense of relief budges through me. I have the right place at least.
There is a small fridge vibrating in the corner. I open it. There are a few cans of Coke, some huge pieces of pork pie, and a Tupperware box filled with glucose tablets and insulin and a pack of unopened needles. I close the door, then open it again. I feel like Goldilocks but I take a can of Coke.
I leave my bag in the shed, still drinking from the can, glancing up towards the house at the back. It’s a long squat building, the roof sunken in the middle. I pull the gloves back on, drain the last of the Coke and head up towards the house, knocking firmly on the door.
There is no sign of life in there either. My heart sinks.
He’s not here. I look through the windows. The inside is tidy, no sign of James, of his clothing hanging on the back of the chair, no shoes kicked off by the fire. Disappointment rings through me, like the clink of a glass before a speech.
I follow the path back down, do another quick sweep of the house, still empty with no signs of life within, then head back to the shed. At least there is food, and warmth. I’ll wait. I’ve waited before; I can do it again. If Connor doesn’t return, I’ll make my way back into town tomorrow.
The light is fading quickly so I take some of the wood, and by some miracle get it burning. I open the fridge, vow to pay him back, and take a large slice of the pie over to the sofa. I sweep off as many dog hairs as I can and watch the fire sparking into action.
Tiredness takes over me.
What am I doing? This is the longest shot in the history of long shots. What if everything Lynn said about Connor McDonald is true? What if he is dangerous? I eye the tools warily, a thud from outside running goosebumps along my forearms. There is the bark of a dog, another door slamming.
I stand, grab a spanner, then quickly replace it with a hammer. I edge towards the door of the barn. I can hear conversation but the cracking of the logs in the burner, the wind and my heart hammering repeatedly inside my eardrums means it’s hard to make out.
This was a mistake. If I scream, no one will be able to hear me.
‘Well I cannae be expected to think of everything!’ The voice is deep. The dog barks again. ‘Caesar! Here!’
‘No, but you’d think you’d remember your sodding insulin for fuck’s sake.’
James.
I just have chance to register his voice before the lights flick on and I’m knocked off my feet by a giant brown dog.
I’m lying supine on the floor, hammer clattering beside me, my face being washed by a dry tongue that also manages to dribble saliva across my cheeks.
‘What the?—’
Above me, a man—tall, broad, bushy grey hair peppered with black.
‘Liv?’ And then there he is. James standing next to him. Dark eyes, wide with surprise, his hair ruffled by the wind, thick grey jumper, the glasses he wears when he’s driving.
The man I’m guessing is Connor claps his hands together and lets out a rip roaring laugh while reaching over and grabbing the dog’s collar. I wipe my face with the cuff of my hoody.
‘Um, surprise?’ I say, not quite able to meet James’s eyes for dog hair threading across my eyeball.
‘Liv?’ James repeats, taking off his glasses for good measure.
‘Well don’t just stand there like a great bloody arsehole,’ Connor says. ‘Help the girl up!’
‘Right, yes, sorry.’
His hand meets mine, warm, steady. Right. He pulls me up as I try to dislodge the hair from my eye.
‘What… what are you doing here?’
‘What is she doing here? Honestly, that’s the best you can do?’ James looks at Connor, with an expression of irritation. I can see the family resemblance there, the same height, stature, same thick hair.
‘Sorry.’
I pull the hair from my eyeball and shake my head. ‘You don’t need to be sorry.’
‘Oh, yes he does, leaving you on your wedding day like the bloody great cretin he is.’
‘Mac? Do you think you could give us some privacy?’ James asks.
His eyebrows bolt towards his hairline then sink with disappointment. ‘Right you are, lad. Caesar!’ The dog yelps, tail swishing as he follows his master.
‘It’s nice to meet you,’ I say as he heads towards the door. He hesitates by the stack of envelopes with his own writing on, taps the top of them, and smiles over.
‘You too, love. I’m just sorry it’s taken so long.’
James waits until the door is closed. His eyes are disbelieving, unsure, yet hopeful.
‘Why are you here, Liv? ’
‘Why am I here? Why are you here?’ I say prodding his chest.
I’m shivering. James steps closer towards me, takes off his jumper, leaving a white T-shirt behind. His hair is standing on end as he folds the jumper around my shoulders and leads me to the sofa, wiping it down before sitting next to me.
He turns to me, runs a hand through his hair.
‘I… sorry. About the way I left. It was a shitty way to behave.’
‘It was shitty.’
He nods. ‘I know, I… just. I wanted to let you come to terms with Kit being alive without me being in the way. I want you to have the chance to… choose.’
‘Why? Why did you think I needed to make a choice?’ I say, my voice soft.
‘You know why,’ he replies. There are a hundred unspoken conversations in that look. That one big question we have both chosen to ignore during our time together. If Kit hadn’t died, would we be together? ‘Kit’s back,’ he says.
‘Yes.’ I reach for his hand, looking down at his knuckles, scarred from the school fights of his childhood, from the fights he’s had as a career. ‘Yes he is.’ I rub my thumb across the small scars. ‘But that doesn’t mean I need to make a choice, James.’
His eyes are searching mine; there is disbelief still there, uncertainty.
‘I love you, James.’
‘I know. But?—’
‘No. I don’t think you do.’
I tilt his chin upwards so that we’re staring at each other. ‘Kit was my first love. But you?’ I push a lock of hair away from his eyes. ‘You’re my forever love.’ I cringe. That sounded so much better in my head on the plane after a quickly drunk glass of white wine on an empty stomach. Now it sounds like a bad line from a romance novel and I regret it the minute it leaves my mouth. ‘That’s a bit crap. I just mean that… you’re the one that I want.’
I grimace at that too. Now I sound like Olivia Newton-John.
James closes his eyes, holds his breath in his lungs before releasing it. ‘You’re sure?’ he asks, eyes now open and searching my face.
‘Well, I’ve just travelled through time, halfway across the country, and ended up in an empty barn in the middle of nowhere, so yes, James. I’m sure. I’m one hundred per cent sure.’
‘Through time?’ His eyebrows dip and rise, that wave I know so well.
‘It’s a long story,’ I say, tears in my eyes, my head shaking that conversation away for now. I try to think of another way to tell him I love him, but the only words I can find are: ‘ You’re the love of my life.’
He lifts a hand to my cheek, eyes boring into mine. ‘I need to tell you something.’ My throat tightens. Please. No more secrets. ‘That day, on the river…’
I practically sag with relief. ‘I know. I know it was you.’
His whole body feels like it’s exhaling. His eyes are filled with love as he looks at me. ‘I’ve always loved you, Liv. I don’t think I know how to not love you.’
‘Then don’t.’
He leans his head against mine. ‘God, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you.’
‘Oh, I think I do.’ I run my nose along the length of his.
James pulls me onto his knees, tucking my legs around him. He lifts my hair and kisses my throat. I stroke back his hair, staring into his eyes.
‘I love you,’ he says.
‘I know.’
And I do .
There are moments in your life that you try to capture; to take a snapshot of, keeping the past alive in the present. You can imagine them as Polaroids carefully placed in a scrapbook, surrounded by tickets, by menus, by hastily scribbled notes on the back of napkins. These images tend to be the good days: the Friday nights, the Saturdays, the lazy Sundays – our own inner Instagram posts. Monday and Thursday photos are often discarded, the images fading and the corners curling with time.
But right now?
This is a keeper.
Because I got to fall in love with the man I’m going to marry… twice in one lifetime.