Chapter Thirty-Five #2
By the end of the meal, the crowd in the restaurant has thinned considerably; it’s just me and a couple with their two teenage children, both of whom are deep into their phones while their parents linger over coffees.
Moira has checked in a few times, presumably to make sure my full mental breakdown has settled.
Now she’s heading my way with a glass of whisky on a tray, and Lachlan’s hard work must have paid off, because I really wish the glass was for me. “All finished?”
“Yes, thank you. It was so good and I feel better already. I’m really sorry for barging in here like that. I’ll just take the bill and get out of your hair.”
“Och, Abby, your money’s no good here.”
“Sorry, what? Why?”
She smiles at me like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Because my son is in love with you.”
And the dam, so recently repaired, bursts again. I dissolve into an absolute wreck right in front of her. Even the teens look up from their phones, marveling at this crazy lady who is sobbing into her plate. They look down at their half-finished rhubarb crumbles, wondering what they’re missing.
Moira pulls out the chair across from me and sits down.
She covers my hand with hers, her palm warm and soft and beautifully weathered.
She rubs her thumb back and forth. “That’s all right, love.
Let it out. And have a sip of the whisky; it’ll help.
” She takes the glass off the tray and nudges it toward me.
“I’m sorry, I feel like such an idiot.”
“That’s the great thing about love: It makes fools of us all.”
“But Mrs. Ramsay—”
She clicks her teeth. “Moira, please.”
“But Moira, I can’t be in love with him. He’s still married, and neither one of them seems to be able to end it. What does that say about them? And what does that make me? I’m sure whatever he felt toward me was just infatuation or distraction or something.”
“First of all, it’s whatever he feels. And it’s not just infatuation: A mother knows.”
“Well, that’s lovely to hear, but the married part is still true, right?
” I can hear the pathetic pleading note in my voice, like I’m hoping Moira will deliver me some sort of deus ex machina: It was a sham wedding!
Claire has had a secret family in Canada this entire time! They got divorced yesterday!
But she doesn’t say any of those things. In fact, she doesn’t say anything at all. She doesn’t have to; I can see everything I need to know in her eyes, the same anguish I’ve seen in her son’s. There will be no convenient salvation here, no third-act plot twist.
The question is right there, waiting for me to ask it.
But I can’t seem to get my mouth to form the words.
Moira smiles, because of course she knows exactly what I’m thinking, but her smile is pulled down at the corners, a strange mix of pride and sorrow.
“Lachlan is a good boy. When he makes a commitment, he sees it through. He’s known Claire since they were bairns, chasing each other around at school, and he’s loved her since not long after that.
It’s hard to give up on that much history, no matter how much they both want to.
But they’ve grown too far apart, and if it were up to me, they’d walk away and be the happier for it.
But it’s not up to me. My son swore vows.
Hard as it might be, I think he intends to uphold them.
Pig-headed, maybe. Or cowardly. Or brave. I’m honestly not sure.”
I nod and take another fortifying sip of whisky, draining the glass. “Maybe all three.”
“Aye, maybe. But Abby, I know my son. What the two of you had these last few months was real. I’ve seen how you are together.
I’ve seen how he talks about you when you’re not around.
How he laughs when he gets a text from you.
The look in his eyes when you walk into a room. There’s real love there.”
These words split my soul in two. I’m gratified to hear these observations and devastated that they’re now meaningless. I’m reassured that he did love me and undone by the fact that it was all for nothing.
Moira sighs. “I know maybe that’s not helpful to hear since you can’t do anything about it, but you have to stop torturing yourself, because that breaks my heart. It wasn’t all in your wee little head, I promise.”
It’s sweet, but she’s wrong: I could have done something about it. I could have asked him to leave his wife. I wonder what this kind and lovely woman would say if she knew her beloved son had asked me to do that.
And maybe that thought registers on my face, because she frowns. “Lachlan came up here on New Year’s Day, did you know that?”
I shake my head, and there’s a part of me that is relieved to finally solve the puzzle of where he was when Amina went to go get my stuff.
“He was like a shell, like a hollowed-out shell where a man had once been. There’s only one thing in the world that can do that to a person.”
“Did he tell you…” I can’t bring myself to ask.
But Moira Ramsay is quicker than I gave her credit for.
“Did he tell me what happened at the party? He did.” Her expression darkens.
“Despicable. I nearly drove him down to Liverpool myself to make him apologize. He should never have put you in that position; that’s not the son I raised.
Whatever mess he’s made is his and his alone to clean up. ”
“Thank you for saying that.”
“No, thank you. Thank you for loving my son the way he deserves to be loved—or deserved, maybe, before he went and said what he did.” She rises from the table and takes my empty glass of whisky. “Now come on, love, get your coat and let’s go.”
“Oh, that’s okay—my hotel is just down the street.”
“Don’t be daft. What kind of mother would I be if I left you alone in this state? You’re coming home with me.”
This gesture nearly knocks me back into full-on sobbing, but I manage to hold it in.
I shake my head. “Thank you, but I just can’t.
” I hope she can read my look, can read the fear of what would happen to me if I spent the night in Lachlan’s childhood home, trading stories with his mother, seeing the posters on the wall of his bedroom, imagining what it would be like to spend Christmas and Easter and birthdays enveloped in the warmth of the Ramsay family.
No. Going home with Moira would shred me to pieces, sad little ribbons too fragile to weave back together. I can’t risk it.
She must understand, because she smiles and pats my hand again. “You’re a good girl, Abby McIntyre. And if he knows what’s best for him, he’ll realize that before the end.”