Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
brYNN
Iwake to an empty bed and a body that feels like it’s been thoroughly, deliciously used.
The sheets smell like him. Salt and soap with delicious hints of warmth underneath – skin, sleep, Jude. I stretch, feeling the pleasant ache in muscles I’d forgotten I had, and press my face into the pillow where his head was.
God. Look at yourself, Trelawney. You’re hugging a pillow like a lovesick teenager.
But I’m smiling. Can’t help it. It’s a smile that is starting deep inside and spreading outwards until my whole damn face is aching with it.
Last night. The dinner. Morgan’s confused face when Jude walked in looking like he was ready to commit murder over fish pie. The way Jude’s hand found mine under the table and didn’t let go.
I’m not scared of an old rivalry.
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. The cottage is quiet – and I can’t stop staring at the ceiling and grinning. I’m actually embarrassing myself.
Jude’s already at sea. He mentioned it last night, somewhere between the third kiss and the moment we stopped talking altogether. Early start. The Mary Jane needed to go out with the tide.
I should be annoyed that he left without waking me. Instead, I’m picturing him trying to extract himself from my bed without disturbing me, probably stubbing his toe on the doorframe and swearing under his breath.
The thought makes me laugh out loud. Jude Harding, jealous of Morgan Morrison. Jude Harding, who crashed a family dinner because he couldn’t stand the thought of someone else charming me over Cal’s cooking.
As if Morgan ever stood a chance.
I lie there for another few minutes, luxuriating in the unfamiliar feeling of … what is this? Happiness? Contentment? Hope?
Don’t get ahead of yourself. One dinner declaration doesn’t make everything rosy.
But it’s a start. It’s more than I had yesterday.
Eventually, the guilt of wasting daylight gets me moving. I shower – trying not to think too hard about the marks Jude left on my collarbone, failing spectacularly – and pad downstairs in yesterday’s jumper and a pair of ancient leggings.
Tea first. Then the boat shed.
But my eyes catch on the box in the corner of the sitting room. Grandad’s things. The letters I’ve been slowly working through, trying to piece together a picture of the man my father was before he became a ghost.
The boat shed can wait.
I settle into the armchair with my tea, pulling the box onto my lap. The familiar smell rises up – old paper, dust, an old floral scent that could be aged lavender or might just be memory.
These letters have become a strange type of comfort. Not because they paint my father in a flattering light – they don’t. He was weak in ways I’m only beginning to understand. But they’re a connection. A thread back to a man I barely knew, who was lost long before he actually died.
I pull out the bundle I’ve been working through. His handwriting is cramped, difficult to read. Half-finished thoughts. Apologies that never quite land.
I know I failed you, one says. I know I wasn’t the father you deserved. But please believe me when I say I loved her. I loved her more than I’ve ever loved anything, and losing her broke something in me that I couldn’t fix.
Her. Always her. Never a name.
Who was she?
I shake my head, setting the letters aside. This is a puzzle for another day. Right now, I have a boat to work on and a man to see when he gets back from the sea.
The walk to the harbour is golden. Late morning light slanting across the water, the air carrying that particular Cornish clarity that makes everything feel sharper, more real.
The clocks have changed – British Summer Time has crept stealthily in – and soon the days will stretch long and lazy, the sun not setting until nine or later.
I used to love those endless summer evenings as a child. Running along the beach until my legs ached, Grandad calling me in for supper when the light finally started to fade. The memory sits warm and cherished, bittersweet.
The boat shed is cold when I unlock it, but it warms quickly once I get moving. I’ve been working on the hull restoration – painstaking work, scraping away decades of neglect to find the good wood underneath, sanding and sealing.
I lose myself in the rhythm of it. Scrape, assess, mark. Scrape, assess, mark. Restoration work is meditative, if you can allow your mind to wander. Taking a wreck and making her whole again is almost healing.
The metaphor isn’t lost on me.
I’m so focused that I don’t hear the footsteps until they’re right outside the door. Then a familiar voice:
‘You know, most people take a day off after a dramatic dinner declaration.’
I spin around, heart leaping. Jude’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, that half-smile playing at his lips. His hair is still damp from the sea, curling at the edges, and there’s a dark smudge of – oil? fish guts? – on his jaw.
He’s never looked better.
‘Some of us have work to do,’ I say, but I’m already crossing the distance between us. ‘Good catch?’
‘Decent.’ He catches my waist as I reach him, pulling me in. ‘Missed you, though.’
‘You were gone four hours.’
‘Long four hours.’
I laugh – actually giggle, which is mortifying – and he grins like he’s winning.
‘You’ve got a smudge on your face,’ I say, reaching up to wipe the mark from his jaw.
‘Attractive, isn’t it?’
‘Devastating. All the girls must swoon.’
‘Only one girl I’m interested in swooning.’ His hands tighten on my waist. ‘Come outside.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because I want to kiss you properly and this shed smells like dead fish and turpentine.’
‘Romance isn’t dead.’
‘Never said I was romantic.’ But he’s already tugging me toward the door, out into the bright midday sun.
The harbour is busy. Of course it is – it’s nearly noon, and this is a working village.
Bill and Frankie are at the fish shack, sorting the morning’s catch.
A cluster of tourists are taking photos of the boats.
And there, down by the Mary Jane, Reuben Harding is coiling rope with such aggressive efficiency it’s suggesting he’s imagining it’s someone’s neck.
Jude follows my gaze. His jaw tightens, then deliberately relaxes.
‘Let him look,’ he says. Quiet. Certain.
And then he kisses me.
Not a peck. Not a quick brush of lips that could be explained away as friendly. A proper kiss, his hand sliding into my hair, his mouth warm and sure against mine. It’s a statement kiss, and I’m all over that statement. I’m painting my name across it in neon letters.
I’m dimly aware of someone wolf-whistling – probably Frankie, the old gossip – and the murmur of voices from the tourists. But mostly I’m aware of Jude. The taste of him, salt and tea. The way his thumb traces circles on my hip. The steady thrum of his heart against my chest.
When we finally break apart, I’m breathless.
‘Well,’ I manage. ‘That was—’
‘Long overdue.’
I laugh, and he’s laughing too, and for a moment everything is perfect. The sun on the water. His hands on my waist. The whole village watching us and neither of us caring.
Then I see Reuben.
He’s stopped coiling the rope. He’s standing completely still, staring at us, his face a mask I can’t read. Not just anger – though there’s plenty of that. This is deeper. Broken.
‘Jude,’ I murmur.
He turns. Sees his father.
The warmth drains out of him. I watch it happen – the way his shoulders go rigid, the way his jaw sets into that stubborn line I’m coming to know so well.
‘Dad—’
But Reuben’s already moving. Dropping the rope, turning on his heel, striding away from the harbour with a speed that surprises me given his age.
‘Shit.’ Jude’s hands fall from my waist. ‘I have to—’
‘Go. It’s fine. Go.’
He hesitates, searching my face. ‘I’ll come by later. We need to talk about—’
‘I know. Go.’
He kisses me once more – quick, fierce – and then he’s gone, jogging after his father’s retreating figure.
I stand there for a moment, watching them go. Two Harding men, one chasing the other up the hill toward town.
‘Well.’ Frankie’s appeared at my elbow, wiping his hands on his apron. ‘That’s put the cat among the pigeons.’
Bill joins him, shaking his head. ‘The boy doesn’t understand what he’s stirring up.’
‘What do you mean?’
They exchange a look. It’s a look that holds decades of history I’m not privy to.
‘Nothing, love.’ Bill’s smile is sad. ‘Just … some wounds run deep, that’s all. Deeper than he knows.’
Frankie nods toward the hill, where Jude has nearly caught up to Reuben. ‘He’s got a good heart, that one. But a good heart doesn’t always—’ He stops, shakes his head. ‘Never mind. Not my place.’
‘Jude, you don’t understand!’ Bill calls out suddenly, his voice carrying across the harbour.
But Jude doesn’t turn. Doesn’t slow. He catches Reuben’s arm, and even from here I can see the tension in both their bodies, the way they’re squaring off like fighters before a match.
Bill sighs. ‘I’ve got a real bad feeling about this.’
He looks at me then – really looks, with eyes that have seen more than they’ll ever say. His face folds into careworn lines.
‘You should head home, love,’ he says gently. ‘Whatever happens next … it’s not going to be pretty.’
I want to argue. Want to march up that hill and stand beside Jude, face whatever storm is coming together. But those deep lines of worry on Bill’s face stop me.
Some wounds run deep. Deeper than he knows.
What do they know that we don’t?
I nod, numbly, and start walking.
The cottage is quiet when I get back. Too quiet. I make tea I don’t drink, try to read a book I can’t focus on, pace the length of the sitting room until I’m dizzy with it.
What’s happening up there? What’s Reuben saying? What’s Jude?
The light shifts as the afternoon wears on. Lengthening shadows, the golden hour stretching lazily toward evening.
I’m staring out the window when I hear the gate.
Jude’s walking up the path. His face is thunder-dark, his jaw so tight it must hurt. And he’s carrying a holdall over one shoulder.
I’m at the door before he reaches it.
‘What happened?’