Chapter 17 A Glimmer of Something
A Glimmer of Something
Brandon
I sit on the patio wearing my pyjamas and striped dressing gown, nursing a sore throat and a mug of tea as I stare at the kintsugi bowl on the table before me. Sea-blue pottery, broken and mended with gold lacquer, its repair lines glinting in the sun like lightning captured in dark water.
My mother gave it to me years ago when she and my father packed up to go caravanning. No explanation, just a knowing smile.
It took me years to understand.
We all carry fracture lines, whether they’re caused by time, grief, or mistakes. They mark us, but the breaks don’t lessen us. And, as I’ve discovered in working with artists, they can make us into something rare, unique, and beautiful.
If we let them.
I’ve never quite found the knack for mending my own cracks.
I sigh, shuffling the paperwork stacked beside my laptop. Bills, insurance renewals, and the draft of a new rental agreement for whatever mystery tenant will come after Lily-Anne moves out.
It’s hard to concentrate. My legs are stretched out to reach the sunny edge of the patio, my eyes drooping sleepily as I consider the sea-blue bowl.
It’s held different things over the years. Keys, once. Coins and knick-knacks. Letters. Against my wishes, Nova began using it as an ashtray, and the sour memory clings even after years of scrubbing it from my mind. This bowl was the catalyst, if not the final cause, of our breakup.
Now it sits empty, striking but without a purpose.
Rather how I feel now, with a sore throat and lethargy weighing down my muscles. I rub at my temple and push the paperwork aside.
A soft scrape sounds at the fence. I glance up to find Rupert shifting a loose plank so he can poke his ruddy head through. “Still alive, then?” he calls, voice full of cheer.
“Barely.”
“Bah. You look fine to me. Nice morning to be out. Is Lily back yet?” he asks as if we discussed her leaving, but I humour him.
“Not yet.”
“Hmm. And you’re not worried she’ll come home to find you moping about?”
“I’m hardly moping.”
“Hmm,” he repeats.
I sigh, already dreading the next words from his mouth. My stack of bills suddenly seems very appealing.
“So…” Rupert continues.
I raise a questioning eyebrow.
“Nice girl, that Lily-Anne.”
“She is.” I keep my tone even, though we both know what he’s angling towards.
“And she’s bright. Cheerful. Shares your passion for music. And I was pleased to learn she prefers the Cornwall method.”
“All true,” I concede, reluctant to encourage him.
I hear the fence creak as Rupert leans against it, and I’m sure if the burly man could fit through the gap in the fence, he would, chair and all. “Play coy all you like, old boy, but don’t think Barb and I haven’t noticed the way you look at her.”
I release another sigh—this one loud enough for him to hear. “Lily-Anne would no more think of me than she would of you, Rupert.”
“Ha! Speak for yourself. If Barbara hadn’t snatched me up forty years ago, I reckon I’d stand a fair chance.” His grin fades, his eyes softening. “But seriously, Brandon—you shouldn’t think so meanly of yourself. You’ve a lot to offer.”
“She deserves someone closer to her age,” I reply, half-heartedly tapping the keyboard. “Someone without…baggage.”
Rupert shakes his head. “That’s not fair. We all have baggage.”
“She can do better.” The words come out clipped. “And all the better for her.”
For once, Rupert has no answer. He only frowns, lines deepening across his brow.
The silence holds—until Barbara appears on their back porch, violet curls bouncing as she waves her binoculars triumphantly. “Lily’s coming! I just saw her on the promenade while I was bird-watching.”
I doubt the birds are her main concern. Barbara knows everything about the neighbours’ goings-on and nothing about the difference between a seagull and an oystercatcher.
Rupert’s grin returns. “Well then, Brandon. You’d best hurry inside and make yourself presentable. Go on—or at least try not to look like a man in his pyjamas.” He slaps the wooden plank back into place, disappearing from sight.
Barbara’s already scurried away, no doubt to intercept her target.
I gather my papers unhurriedly. I’ve no intention of changing, though I do try in vain to smooth my hair.
Barbara’s voice rings out from the front of their house, pitched to carry: “He’s on the patio, Lily! No, go right ahead, love. He’s just procrastinating!”
I silently groan. One day, I’ll learn to stop underestimating Barbara’s enthusiasm for announcing my private business at full volume. It’s why I don’t often have visitors.
The side gate clangs and Lily-Anne appears, a cardboard tray of takeaway cups balanced in her hands.
I rise to meet her. “Hello.”
“Hi! I brought soup,” she greets.
“Would you like to join me?” I scrape my chair back several inches, angling it towards the garden so I’ll be less likely to pass on my cold.
She joins me at the table and nods to the gleaming bowl.
“That’s really beautiful,” she murmurs.
“It was my mother’s. It’s kintsugi—Japanese repair work.”
“Honouring the cracks,” she murmurs. “I like that.”
She passes two cups to me. “Soup and coffee. Sorry it took so long. I had trouble finding anywhere that still serves soup this time of year. I actually ended up at Willoughby’s…you know, the café from last night?” She hesitates, watching me.
I hold myself still, tone carefully blasé. “Oh yes?”
“Mm. And I saw the owner again—Jack Willoughby. He said you two used to be close friends…?”
I glance down at the cups, the café’s logo staring back at me. ‘Friends’ is a stretch, but it would seem ungracious to contradict the claim. “I see.”
Lily-Anne fidgets with her takeaway cup, turning it in place. “Is that…not alright?”
“No, it’s fine,” I say quickly, taking a sip and forcing a smile. “Pumpkin?”
She nods.
The taste is smooth, buttery, and at odds with the tightness in my throat as my thoughts drag to the last person who saw Natalie alive.
Swallowing the stuff takes effort, but I drink another mouthful, stalling.
The air shifts, and the acrid thread of cigarette smoke brushes past. My skin prickles with the sense of Nova nearby, but I cannot see her. I blink, turn my head to focus on Lily-Anne, and the smoke is gone.
“Thank you for getting these—it was kind of you,” I tell her, and I mean it.
“You’re welcome. I was happy to go.”
“Did you see anything interesting in town?” I ask, eager to change the subject.
I can tell she’s still concerned, but she brightens as she recounts her walk along the promenade, the galleries she wants to visit, and a server at the café with pink hair who would apparently make a perfect fancast for someone named Nymphadora Tonks.
“That’s quite the name,” I observe.
“Yes, she’s a character from—”
“Harry Potter?”
She leans back. “Yes! How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
She grins, then she sighs longingly. “I wish I were brave enough to pull off a short hairstyle like that.”
“I’m sure you could,” I say before I can stop myself. “Though I’d miss your curls.”
The words hang there, too honest. Part of me wants to call them back; the rest is glad they’re out. Besides, it isn’t flirting. Not in the slightest. Anyone might have complimented her blonde waves.
Yet it pleases me to see the faint rose tint colouring her cheeks.
Lily-Anne twirls a strand of hair around her finger, eyes flicking down. “Brandon, can I ask you something?”
Anticipation flickers, a candle guttering between hope and fear. “Of course. Anything.”
“I wondered…did Willoughby have something to do with Nova—Natalie?”
The question catches me off-guard. “Why do you ask?”
“Because he mentioned you two had fallen out of touch. And I’m wondering if your reaction to her song last night has something to do with him too.”
I grip the cup. “He was the one she left me for.”
Her eyes widen. “He dated Nova too?”
“She left me for him,” I state simply. The old bruise is still there—deep, but no longer sharp.
“He was the one who found her when she…” I trail off.
“I was angry. He’d been doing promotional work for her, but I felt he should have been with her.
It’s…coloured my opinion of him. Perhaps unfairly,” I add, though it costs me.
Her voice drops. “Do you mean…he could have prevented it?”
Could he have?
Could I?
He was better placed—I wasn’t even in the same country. But neither of us made her take so many pills.
“It’s complicated,” I say gruffly.
She studies me, concern in her gaze. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. It’s fine. It was years ago—I ought to be past it by now.”
At that moment, I truly feel the distance of it, the future a little brighter, my pulse steady as I breathe in the clear afternoon air.
The feeling is short-lived when Lily-Anne says, “I’m thinking of heading back to the café tonight.”
“You are?” I ask, trying to sound indifferent.
“If…that’s alright with you?” When I don’t answer, she adds, “It’s just that Willoughby mentioned there’s an open mic on. He said I could bring my guitar so he can install a new string. And…I’m thinking of playing.”
I grip the cup tighter as phantom arms curl across my shoulders, Nova’s smoky breath teasing my ear. “Do I detect a flush of jealousy? Not so impervious after all, are you?”
“He said we’re both welcome tonight,” Lily-Anne continues, searching my face. “But I told him you aren’t well. He said he hopes you recover soon.”
I nod, though the motion feels stiff. Not well indeed—but the flu is suddenly the least of my concerns, and Jack’s well-wishes are a poor remedy.
I was still carrying a half-formed notion that I might help Lily-Anne with her string. Nonsensical, given I’m sick and contagious, but the thought of Willoughby stepping into that space makes me bristle.
I tamp the feeling down. This isn’t about me. It’s about Lily-Anne.
“Do you think you’ll get up on stage?” I ask, careful to keep my tone light.
“Maybe,” she says, uncertainty tugging at the edges of her voice.