Chapter 22 #2
“Get drunk on a whole bottle of Glenlivet?” He nodded, and Claire asked in a gentler tone, “Why did you, then?”
Dan didn’t speak for a moment, just spooned soup into his mouth until Claire thought he’d ignore the question completely. “My ex-wife is getting married,” he finally said. “She texted me to let me know.”
“Oh.” Claire gulped down a mouthful of soup. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “Happens to a lot of people.”
“But it upset you.”
He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “What upset me is that she’s marrying my brother.”
“Oh, no, that’s awful. Are you going to go to the wedding?”
He gave her a look of scathing disbelief. “Do you really not know the answer to that?”
“I guess not,” she murmured. “Very awkward.”
“Awkward? Awkward is having a piece of lettuce stuck in your teeth or laughing at the wrong part in a joke. This wasn’t awkward.
” She stared at him, wide-eyed, shocked to hear the emotion in his voice.
“This was devastating,” he continued quietly.
“I came back from Afghanistan to find Ted, whom I’d asked to look after my wife, was screwing her instead.
” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Trust me, that wasn’t just awkward. ”
“I’m sorry,” Claire whispered. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“It’s not your fault.” He dropped his hand and glanced at her bleakly. “That’s why I came out here. To get away from it all.”
“And did you?”
“Physically, yes. The rest I’m not so sure about.” He rose from the table, dumping the rest of his soup in the sink. “That kind of thing leaves its mark. I don’t know if you ever recover.”
“I hope you do,” Claire said. “I have to believe you do. If you can’t recover from the blows life deals you, what hope is there?”
“I’m not sure there is any.”
“Oh, Dan, you can’t believe that,” Claire protested. “You can’t believe that and go on living.”
He turned around with a wry smile. “Hence the bottle of Glenlivet.”
“Look, I understand about drowning your sorrows. I ended up here for the same reason.”
He cocked an eyebrow, waiting, and Claire plunged ahead. “I got drunk at a party and my fiancé dumped me and I ended up in rehab for four awful weeks, but at least it got me back here. I feel like I’m finally figuring myself out, and considering I’m twenty-eight, it’s about time.”
Dan filled the kettle and switched it on. “Your fiancé dumped you?”
“More or less. He didn’t actually say it in words, but considering I haven’t heard from him in two months, I consider myself dumped. I’m not heartbroken,” she added quickly. “Maybe I should be, but I’m not.”
“That’s just as well. There’s nothing good about being heartbroken.” He paused, his gaze distant. “We were married for seven years.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged aside her apology and reached for two mugs. “So am I.”
Claire watched him make them both mugs of tea even though she hadn’t asked for one.
There was something natural and comforting about sitting in his kitchen, sharing a meal, accepting a mug of strong, sweet tea.
“You know,” she said when they were both sitting down with their mugs, “you could still try here. Make friends, a life—”
Dan shook his head wearily. “I don’t really see the point.”
“But you came here for a reason. And life does go on—”
“Does it?” Dan interjected, his voice sharpening.
“I lost four men in Afghanistan. We were doing a search-and-clearance operation in the Nad Ali District and a hidden bomb exploded in an area I’d already swept.
It was my fault. Completely my fault that those men died, and two of them had children.
Three were married.” He glanced away, his face set hard.
“Oh, Dan . . .” Claire whispered. She had no idea what to say.
“Life doesn’t go on for everyone,” he finished, and drained his mug of tea.
“Why should it for me? Now you’d better get out there.
I’m sure someone will come in soon.” He rose from the table, taking their dishes to the sink, and then started upstairs.
Claire watched him go, wishing she could say something, yet having no idea what to say or how to comfort a man who had far more depth and sensitivity than she’d ever realized.
Alone in the kitchen, she tidied up and then went out to the shop.
It was raining steadily now, a thick mist lying over the high street.
Claire doubted they would get many customers in such weather, and she decided to brave the mist and rain to take Bunny for a walk.
She could deliver Eleanor Carwell’s paper and milk while she was at it.
She locked the front door and hung up the back in an hour sign and then whistled for Bunny, who came quivering towards her.
She’d gotten used to the dog in the last month, but she’d never walked her before.
Although she didn’t want to incur Dan’s wrath again, she decided to ask his permission and tiptoed up the stairs.
“Dan . . . ?” she called, and received no answer.
She went all the way up, Bunny at her heels, and crept down the narrow passageway, conscious that she was invading Dan’s privacy and setting herself up for a serious smackdown.
“Dan . . . ?” The door to what had to be his bedroom was ajar, and after tapping nervously on it, she poked her head around.
Dan was stretched out on the bed, fast asleep.
Claire stood there for a moment, watching him.
In sleep the grim set of his features was softened, his breath coming out deep and even.
He slept like he’d been laid in a coffin, flat on his back, his hands folded over his chest. Maybe it was a military thing.
Claire glanced around the room, shamelessly looking for clues about this man, but the Spartan bedroom gave nothing away.
Nothing on top of the bureau or bedside table, no photographs or books or even loose change.
The only thing she learned about him was that he was very neat. That was probably a military thing too.
After another moment of watching him, strangely transfixed by the sight of him asleep, Claire tiptoed back downstairs and whistled for Bunny, who came scampering joyfully to her side.