Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
JUDE
There’s a particular quality to early morning light on the water. The way it catches the swell, turns the grey-green Atlantic into a sparkling shimmer that’s almost silver. I’ve seen it a thousand times – ten thousand – but it still gets me. Still makes my body loosen, just for a moment.
The Mary Jane cuts through the chop like she was born for it. Which she was, I suppose. Three generations of Hardings have worked this boat, hauled these nets, brought the catch home to Sea Salt Bay. My grandfather. My father.
Me.
I check the nets, haul in the last of the morning’s catch. Decent. Not spectacular, but enough to keep the books balanced for another week. The cod are running well this season; the mackerel less so. Climate change, probably. Or overfishing. All the things Dad won’t talk about or even acknowledge.
Or maybe it’s just the sea being the sea – unpredictable, ungovernable, answering to no one.
I like that about her. The sea, I mean. She doesn’t care about family feuds or grudges or which Harding son is the disappointment. She just is.
The harbour comes into view as I round the headland. Sea Salt Bay in the early light, all white cottages and slate roofs and the eternal smell of fish and diesel. Home. For better or worse.
For the first time in years, it feels more like better.
I catch myself humming.
Actually humming. Like some idiot in a bad film. I clamp my mouth shut and check over my shoulder – nobody heard, thank God – but the damage is done.
This morning I woke up with Brynn’s hair in my face and her cold feet pressed against my calves. I didn’t even complain about the cold feet. Just pulled her closer and lay there like a complete sap, watching the dawn light move across her ceiling.
Her ceiling. Because apparently I live there now.
Three nights. Three nights of falling asleep to the sound of her breathing, of tripping over her shoes in the hallway, of fighting for bathroom mirror space like an old married couple.
My razor’s sitting next to her moisturiser.
My jumper’s in her laundry pile. Yesterday I opened the fridge looking for milk and thought, we need to get more eggs.
We. Christ.
Get a grip, Harding.
Dad’s on the dock when I bring the Mary Jane in.
Coiling rope. Same position he’s held for fifty years, same rigid back turned toward me like a wall. We haven’t spoken since he threw me out. Not under my roof, he’d said, and I’d grabbed my holdall and walked out before I could say words I’d regret.
Three days. Three days of silence, of working around each other like strangers, of pretending the other one doesn’t exist.
I tie off the boat and start unloading the catch. He doesn’t look up. Just keeps coiling that rope, hand over hand, like I’m not even here.
Fine. I can play that game too.
I haul the first crate onto the dock. The second. My shoulders burn from the morning’s work, salt crusting on my forearms. Dad reaches for another length of rope and—
His hand misses.
Not by much. An inch, maybe two. But I’ve watched this man coil rope my entire life, watched those hands work with a precision that put the rest of us to shame. He doesn’t miss.
He tries again. Gets it this time, but his fingers fumble the loop. The rope slips. He has to start over.
I set down my crate.
His face, when he turns to grab the fallen rope – there’s a greyish cast to his skin. A slackness around his mouth I don’t recognise. And his eyes, when they briefly meet mine, don’t quite focus. Like he’s looking at me through fog.
‘Dad.’ My voice comes out sharper than I intend. ‘You all right?’
‘Fine.’ He doesn’t look up. His hands are shaking on the rope.
‘You don’t look—’
‘I said I’m fine.’ The snap in his voice, at least, is familiar. ‘Mind your own business.’
‘You’re my father. You are my—’
‘Don’t you have somewhere else to be?’ He cuts me off, still not looking at me. ‘Someone else’s family to destroy?’
His hands keep working. Loop, twist, coil. The tremor visible in his fingers.
I could push it. Could tell him to sit down, call someone, force the issue.
He’d never forgive me. Reuben Harding doesn’t accept help. Doesn’t show weakness. Doesn’t admit that anything’s wrong, ever, even when it’s written across his face in grey.
‘Yeah,’ I say, picking up my crate. ‘I do, actually.’
I walk away.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
I do it anyway.
The boat shed door is open when I get there, morning light spilling across the worn floorboards in golden stripes. I can hear movement inside – the scrape of a tool, the soft thud of footsteps. It springs me forward, a magnetic pull I can’t resist.
She’s here. She’s always here, these days. Working on that bloody boat like it holds the secrets of the universe.
I lean in the doorway for a moment, just watching.
Brynn’s bent over the hull she’s been restoring, her hair escaping from its messy bun, a streak of teak varnish across her jaw. She’s wearing those ancient overalls that should be hideous but somehow aren’t, and she’s frowning at a piece of timber like it’s personally offended her.
‘Morning,’ I say.
She startles. Actually startles, spinning around with the scraper raised like a weapon. Which is – unusual. Brynn isn’t the kind of woman to startle and even if she did, I doubt she’d let it show.
‘Jude.’ She lowers the scraper, pressing a hand to her chest. ‘God. You scared me.’
‘Sorry. Thought you heard me.’
‘I was … distracted.’ She turns back to the boat, picks up the scraper again. ‘Miles away.’
‘Anywhere good?’
‘Just thinking about the hull. There’s more damage to the stern than I thought.’ She runs her hand along the timber, frowning at it. ‘Might need to replace the whole section.’
Boats. She’s talking about boats. I can work with this.
‘Show me.’ I push off from the doorframe and cross toward her.
She shifts to make room, pointing out a section of planking near the waterline. I lean in – ostensibly to look, actually because it puts me close enough to smell her shampoo.
Focus, Harding.
‘See here? The rot’s gone deeper than the surface damage suggested.’ Her fingers trace the grain. ‘I thought I could patch it, but now I’m not sure.’
‘What are the options?’
She looks at me, surprised. ‘You’re actually asking?’
‘I’m actually asking.’
‘Sister a new plank alongside. Reinforce rather than replace. It’s more work, but it saves the original structure.
’ She runs her hand along the wood with a tenderness I recognise – it’s how I feel about the Mary Jane, even if I couldn’t fix her to save my life.
‘This wood has been in the water for sixty years. You don’t throw that away if you can help it. ’
My phone rings.
I glance at the screen, frowning. Kit. He doesn’t usually call this early – it must be the middle of the night in New York.
‘Hold that thought.’ I step back, answering. ‘Brother. What’s wrong?’ I ask, after I’ve swiped.
‘What’s wrong?’ Kit’s voice is sharp, tight with that particular brand of older-brother concern that’s never quite gone away. ‘I don’t know, Jude, maybe you can tell me why I’m hearing from three different people that you’ve moved out of Dad’s house?’
Bloody hell. News travels fast.
‘Who was it? Cal? Frankie? Bill?’
‘Does it matter who it was?’ I can picture him, pinching the bridge of his nose the way he does when he’s frustrated. ‘What the hell is going on over there? Dad’s not answering his phone, you’ve apparently moved out, and no one will give me a straight answer about why.’
I’m looking at Brynn. She’s watching me, the scraper forgotten in her hand, her face unreadable.
I take a breath.
‘Think I’m in love, brother.’
The scraper clatters to the floor.
Brynn’s eyes go wide. Huge. Shocked in a way that makes me want to laugh – like I’ve just announced I’m joining the circus or moving to Mars.
I grin at her. Can’t help it.
Silence on the other end of the phone. I can practically hear Kit recalibrating, trying to make sense of this new information.
‘You what now? What on earth is going on over there? I leave for a few weeks and suddenly you’re – who is she? Do I know her?’
I’m walking toward Brynn, still grinning like an idiot. She’s frozen in place, staring at me, and God – the look on her face. Like she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing.
It’s so much better to say these things out loud. So much easier than I thought it would be. I should have done this weeks ago – stood in the middle of the harbour and shouted it for everyone to hear.
‘I’m in love with Brynn Trelawney. Deal with it.’
‘Jude.’ Kit’s voice is insistent. ‘Brynn? Trelawney—’
‘I’ll explain everything later,’ I cut in. ‘Promise. It’s just—’
I’m two steps away from her when Frankie comes running through the door, his grey hair windblown, eyes wide, skin an ashen pale.
‘Jude! Jude!’
Bill’s right behind him, breathing hard.
‘It’s your dad.’ Frankie’s got a hand pressed to his chest, wheezing. ‘He’s collapsed. Down on the dock. Cal’s with him, ambulance is coming, but—’
The world tilts.
Kit’s shouting in my ear – ‘What? What’s happening? Jude, talk to me!’ – but I’m already running. Out of the boat shed, down the hill toward the harbour, my heart slamming against my ribs.
I round the corner and see them.
Dad’s on the ground, flat on his back on the wet dock. Cal’s kneeling beside him, one hand on his shoulder, the other holding a phone. A small crowd has gathered – Dot clutching her shopping bag, a couple of tourists who don’t know where to look – but they all blur into one.
‘Dad.’ I skid to my knees beside him. The dock is cold and wet through my jeans. ‘Dad, can you hear me?’
His eyes are open. Staring at the sky. Not seeing me.
‘Jude?’ Kit’s voice. Tinny, distant. I forgot I was still holding the phone.
‘It’s Dad. I’ll call you back.’
‘Jude, wait—’
I hang up and feel for a pulse, but I’m shaking so hard I can’t feel a damn thing. Is he breathing?
Is my dad fucking breathing?
I focus on his chest. How long does a breath take. It feels like I’m watching for hours.