5. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Jon
T he garden is a sanctuary, a quiet escape from the churn of thoughts that usually plague me. For the first time since arriving here, I’ve managed to push aside the memories of Tajikistan, the weight of Arif’s death… and the death of the girl who didn’t make it. Today, the sunlight feels warm on my skin, and the words on the page in front of me are starting to make sense again. It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it.
The peace doesn’t last long. A rapid patter of footsteps cuts through the stillness, followed by a bright, chirpy voice. “Hi, Doctor Jon!”
Layla’s energy is impossible to miss as she bounds across the grass toward me, her face glowing with enthusiasm. I glance up from my book, bracing myself. “Hello, Layla.”
“What’re you reading?” she asks, climbing onto the wooden bench beside me and leaning over to peer at the cover.
“A thriller,” I reply, holding it up briefly.
“Ooh, is it scary?”
“Not really. ”
“Are there murders?”
“A few.”
“Cool!” She grins, clearly fascinated. “My teacher reads books with kissing in them. She says they’re romantic. I think yours is better.”
“Good to know,” I say, hiding a smirk as I try to focus on my book again. But Layla’s not done.
“Does your boss know you are here?” she asks, her legs swinging wildly.
“Yes.”
“Oh.” She tilts her head thoughtfully. “Is your boss nice?”
I pause, considering. “Depends on the day.”
She giggles at that, clearly pleased with herself. “Do you have friends?”
Her question catches me off guard. “A few,” I say, unsure of what else to tell her.
“What are they like?”
“Busy,” I reply, a little amused by her persistence.
Layla nods sagely, as though she understands the complexities of adult friendships. “Do you miss them?”
I blink, momentarily taken aback. “Sometimes,” I admit, my voice quieter than before.
She doesn’t press further, thankfully, and instead starts fidgeting with the wooden bench, picking at the weathered edges.
“Are you a good cook?” she asks suddenly, switching gears as only a child can.
“Decent enough,” I reply. “Why?”
“Do you also like cats or only dogs?”
“Both,” I say without hesitation .
“Do you like chocolate?” she asks, her eyes narrowing as if this is the most important question yet.
“Who doesn’t?”
“Good answer,” she says, grinning.
Her chatter starts up almost instantly again, a flood of information about her school, her teacher, and some ongoing drama involving crayons and a boy named Liam. I nod occasionally, making the odd noise of acknowledgment. Despite myself, I find her enthusiasm oddly endearing. Layla doesn’t need much encouragement to keep going.
“You’re very quiet,” she says suddenly, peering up at me. “Do you not like talking?”
“I like listening,” I say. “Sometimes.”
“That’s good,” she decides with a firm nod, as though she’s just discovered a valuable trait. “You’re a good listener.”
I don’t bother to correct her. Instead, I glance back at my book, but she fidgets on the bench beside me, her attention span already wavering. Her legs swing beneath her, and her hands pick at the wood.
Suddenly she gasps and snatches her hand back. “Ow!”
Her yelp pulls me to attention. “What happened?”
Layla holds up her finger, her eyes wide and filling with tears. “I got a splinter! It hurts!”
Sure enough, there’s a sizeable piece of wood lodged in her finger. “That’s a big one,” I say, inspecting it closely.
“It really hurts,” she whispers, her voice trembling as tears spill over.
Before I can say anything, Abigail strolls towards us across the lawn, concern etched on her face. “What’s wrong? Layla, are you okay? ”
Layla thrusts her hand toward her mum dramatically. “I got a splinter, Mummy! A big one!”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Abigail crouches down, gently brushing her daughter’s hair back. “Come here, let me see.”
But Layla shakes her head, pulling her hand away. “No! Doctor Jon has to do it. He is the doctor .”
Abigail raises an eyebrow at me, her lips twitching with amusement despite her worry. “It’s just a splinter, darling. I can—”
“No! Doctor Jon has to,” Layla insists, turning her tearful gaze on me. “He helps children like me!”
I sigh, resigned. “Looks like I’ve been recruited.”
Abigail straightens up, crossing her arms. “Fine. What do you need, Doctor?”
“Tweezers, a sterilised needle if you have one, antiseptic, and a plaster,” I say. She nods and hurries back into the house.
Layla looks at me, sniffling. “Will it hurt?”
“Maybe a little,” I reply honestly. “But I’ll be careful.”
Abigail returns quickly, handing over the supplies. I lay them out on the table beside me, keeping my movements deliberate to show Layla she has nothing to fear. “Alright,” I say, gesturing for her to sit on the bench. “Let’s fix this.”
Layla climbs up, her big eyes watching every move I make. I clean the area first, her tiny wince tugging at my chest more than I care to admit. With the needle, I carefully loosen the splinter.
“You’re doing great,” I say, keeping my tone calm. “Almost done. ”
When I finally pull the splinter free with the tweezers, Layla gasps, her face lighting up. “You got it!”
“See? All done,” I say, holding up the offending piece of wood.
She beams, wiggling her bandaged finger after I’ve cleaned it up and applied antiseptic. “Thanks, Doctor Jon! You’re a really good at this.”
Abigail watches the whole thing with an expression I can’t quite decipher. As Layla runs back into the house, already chattering about her “operation,” Abigail lingers.
“I hope she is not bothering you. I think she likes you,” she says softly, her voice tinged with something like gratitude.
I shrug, packing up the supplies. “Kids have strange taste. But no, she is not bothering me at all.”
Abigail leans against the doorframe, watching me with that ever-present warmth in her eyes. “So,” she says casually, though there’s a playful lilt to her voice, “are you joining us for dinner again tonight?”
I glance up from the supplies I’m repacking. “What’s on the menu?”
“Fish finger sandwiches,” she replies with a grin. “Nothing fancy, but Layla loves them. Bit of a tradition in this house. You’re welcome to join if you don’t mind the chaos.”
The corner of my mouth twitches into a smile before I can stop it. “Fish finger sandwiches, huh? Haven’t had one of those in years.”
Abigail raises an eyebrow. “You sound like you might be tempted.”
I nod, leaning back against the bench. “I’ll admit, they were my favourite when I was a kid. ”
Her face lights up. “Really? Then you definitely have to join us. Layla will love that.”
I hesitate, the familiar instinct to keep my distance creeping in, but something about Abigail’s open expression and the thought of that little girl’s chatter over fish finger sandwiches makes it hard to say no. “Alright,” I say finally. “Count me in.” I have yet to make it to St Claire for dinner. Every day Abigail or Layla or both sell me on their planned supper.
Abigail smiles, pushing herself off the doorframe. “Brilliant. Dinner’s at six, as usual. You know where the kitchen is.”
As she heads back into the house, I let out a breath, leaning against the bench and staring out at the garden. With me being the only guest staying at the moment, it is starting to feel a lot less like a business relationship and much more like a friendship. It’s strange, how easily they’ve folded me into their little routines, how quickly this place feels less like a B&B and more like a home.
I glance at my watch. A couple of hours until dinner. Enough time to read a few more chapters, though I doubt I’ll focus. The thought of fish finger sandwiches and Layla’s boundless energy has me smiling despite myself. It’s been a long time since I’ve looked forward to something so simple.
Abigail holds up a bottle of wine, her grin both charming and a little cheeky. “Go on, Jon. One glass won’t hurt. ”
I hesitate, glancing toward the hallway leading to my room. “I don’t know. I’m not much of a drinker.”
She cocks her head, her tone teasing but kind. “Neither am I, but sometimes, after a long day, a glass of wine and some conversation is exactly what’s needed. Come on, humour me.”
I almost say no. Almost. But there’s something about her—maybe her persistence, maybe her warmth—that makes me relent. “Fine,” I say with a small sigh. “One glass.”
She beams as though she’s won a battle.
I follow her into the cosy living room, where she hands me a large glass of red wine before settling into the armchair across from me.
“To surviving another day of my daughter talking your ear off,” she says, raising her glass.
I clink mine against hers. “Cheers.”
“So,” she starts, taking a sip of her wine, “what do you think of Sunshine Cottage so far? Be honest—I can take it.”
“It’s charming,” I reply, the word feeling foreign on my tongue but accurate nonetheless. “Comfortable, quiet. Exactly what I needed.”
Her smile widens, a genuine warmth in her expression. “That’s good to hear. I put everything into this place, you know.”
I glance around, taking in the personal touches—the photos on the mantel, the colourful cushions on the sofa, the soft light from the lamps. “It shows.”
She sets her glass down, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I bought it with the money from my husband’s life insurance. He always wanted us to live somewhere quiet, away from the city. After he passed, it just… made sense to do it. For Layla and me.”
The openness in her voice takes me off guard, but I nod. “You’ve made it a good home.”
We sip in silence for a moment, and I feel myself relax. Abigail’s gaze flicks to me, her expression curious. “So, what brought you to Sunshine Cottage then?”
I take another sip of wine, the question catching me off guard. “Needed a break.”
“From work?” she prompts.
I nod. “And other things.”
Her brow lifts slightly. “Other things like... an ex, perhaps?”
The corner of my mouth twitches. “You don’t hold back, do you?”
She grins unapologetically. “Life’s too short to dance around questions. So? Was it an ex?”
“I'm divorced,” I admit, setting my glass down. “Have been for eight years.”
Her expression softens, and she leans forward slightly. “Eight years? That’s a long time. So… is that why you’re here? To recover?”
I let out a humourless chuckle. “If I needed eight years to recover, there’d be something seriously wrong with me.”
Her cheeks flush, and she holds up a hand. “Fair point. Sorry if I’m being nosy.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. The divorce isn’t why I’m here.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “Then what is?”
I raise an eyebrow at her directness. She is definitely a lot more comfortable around me now than she was when I arrived .
Abby holds up a hand. “Sorry, that’s none of my business. Forget I asked.”
I shake my head, surprising myself with how quickly I respond. “No, it’s okay. It’s just… complicated.”
She rests her elbows on her knees and studies me. “Complicated is fine. I’m a good listener.”
The openness in her gaze breaks through something I hadn’t realised I was holding tightly. The words come before I can stop them. “There was an incident.”
Her brow furrows, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“It was during a secondment I took with an NGO in Tajikistan,” I continue, my voice quieter now. “We got a call about a little girl in a remote village. She’d fallen and was unconscious. We were trying to get to her, but the weather…” I trail off, my throat tightening.
Abigail leans closer, her face etched with concern. “What happened?”
I exhale, the weight of the memory pressing against my chest. “There was a landslide. We crashed. One of the local drivers didn’t make it. The girl… she never had a chance. I didn’t ask enough questions, didn’t push hard enough to find out how bad it was before we left. If I’d known, maybe I would have realised we couldn’t save her and I could have stopped the team from making that trip altogether.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and raw. Abigail doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just watches me with an expression that’s hard to read. Then, quietly, she says, “You can’t blame yourself for something like that. You were trying to help.”
“I didn’t help, though,” I snap, the bitterness in my voice surprising even me. “I made it worse. I put everyone at risk, and for what? A child who didn’t even make it. ”
Abigail doesn’t flinch at my outburst. Instead, she studies me, her eyes steady, her expression soft. “I’m tempted to tell you not to blame yourself again,” she says carefully. “But I know that won’t help. It never does, does it?”
Her words surprise me. I expect platitudes or reassurances, but instead, she meets me where I am, not trying to pull me somewhere I’m not ready to go.
“No,” I admit, my voice quieter now. “It doesn’t.”
She nods, as if she understands. “So, what’s next? What are you planning to do?”
I lean back in the chair, staring at the wine glass in my hand. The question hangs in the air, heavy and unanswered, because the truth is, I don’t know. “I’m not sure,” I say finally. “But I can’t see myself heading back out on a mission anytime soon.”
Her brow furrows slightly, and she tilts her head. “Because of what happened?”
“Partly,” I admit. “But also because…” I trail off, unsure how to put it into words. “It just feels different now. Like I’ve hit a wall I didn’t know was there. I used to think I could handle anything, but now—”
“You’re questioning if you can,” she finishes gently.
“Something like that.” I take a sip of wine, the bitterness on my tongue mirroring the feeling in my chest. “It’s not just about what happened. It’s the whole thing. The constant uncertainty, the danger, the responsibility. It’s exhausting.”
“So maybe it’s time for a change. Something that doesn’t weigh you down so much,” she suggests.
I raise an eyebrow. “A career change? After everything I’ve put into it? ”
“Not necessarily a career change,” she says, her tone thoughtful. “But maybe a different direction. Something that uses your skills without pushing you to the brink.”
“Like what?” I ask, genuinely curious despite my scepticism.
She shrugs, a small smile tugging at her lips. “That’s for you to figure out. But whatever it is, it doesn’t have to happen overnight. You’ve got time, Jon. Give yourself some grace.”
Her words settle over me, not entirely comforting but not unwelcome either. It’s strange—this woman I’ve only just met has a way of making the unbearable feel slightly less suffocating.
I set my glass down, exhaling slowly. “Maybe.”
She smiles softly, not pressing further. “That’s a start.”
The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable, just... there. For once, it feels like enough.