Chapter fifteen
Not the greatest of cooks, Marcus looked down at the cottage pie steaming on the top of the counter. He beamed with pride. With curls of potato, that had taken him ten minutes to perfect, now slightly browned and crisp, it looked delicious.
He leaned in closer and inhaled deeply. It smelled good too.
Marcus could smell the rich gravy he’d made to coat the minced beef, even though it was buried under a mound of mash.
Later, he’d sit down to a good hearty lunch, the first since the house had officially become his, after living off take aways and food from either The Cheese Wedge and Pickles, or Tammy’s Tearoom.
Covering the cottage pie with a clean tea towel, then filling the pan of vegetables he’d just peeled and diced with cold water, ready to boil later on, he placed the lid on the pan and put it next to the pie. Picking up his water bottle, he headed back outside to finish what he’d started.
Looking up at the sky, it was clear overhead, but in the horizon, he swore he could see what looked like grey clouds—or was he imagining it—he was after all, overdue an eye test? Still, now that the undercoat was dry, nothing was going to stop him getting the first coat of paint on today.
Yapping caught his attention, and he tried to place the yap with the dog. A smile crept on his face when it registered, and Marcus turned around and walked to the edge of his small front garden, craning his neck as he looked down the lane, in the direction it was coming from.
Little Rosie came into view on the end of an extended lead, followed by Christine and Tom, arm in arm. Christine’s cheeks were ballooned as she blew out hard, obviously worn out from the effort to make it to the top of the steep lane.
Marcus chuckled and curled his hands around his mouth. ‘Come on! You can do it!’
Christine spotted him and waved.
A minute later, Christine, Tom and Rosie were standing on the opposite side of Marcus’s garden gate.
Christine held onto it as she caught her breath.
Marcus reached out an extended hand to Tom. Tom shook it with a huge smile, as he glanced Christine’s way. ‘Morning, Marcus.’
‘Good morning, you two. What brings you all the way up here?’
Christine held up a finger, and both Marcus and Tom looked at each other and laughed.
Licking her lips, Christine looked at Marcus. ‘Could I trouble you for a drink, love?’
Marcus offered his water bottle. ‘This is fresh, I’ve not drank from it yet.’
Christine gratefully took it, and drank greedily.
Marcus looked from her to Tom. ‘Can I offer you a drink, Tom.’
Tom shook his head. ‘I’m fine, thanks, Marcus. I’m used to walking these hilly streets with Rosie here. But this is Christine’s first time. We usually just walk along the beach.’
Marcus nodded and laughed heartily. ‘Ah, no wonder she’s practically dying on my doorstep.’
Christine stopped drinking and smiled sweetly. ‘Oi, I’m still here you know.’ She turned and looked at Marcus, eyes narrowed. ‘How the heck do you manage that hill every day?’
‘It was a killer at first, but now I’m used to it. What I can’t understand is, how did Morgan manage it with her walking stick?’ Marcus shook his head. ‘No wonder she chose to stay in the living accommodation above the pub with her brother-in-law.’
‘I think that was more from circumstances... Anyway, the reason why I’m here is to give you this list to ponder, before the big day tomorrow. I didn’t get a chance to pin you down yesterday on the beach after the meeting and hand it over.’
‘Thank you.’ Marcus took the paper from Christine, opening it and quickly scanning its contents.
‘I know, it was organised chaos wasn’t it?
But I’m glad we did it yesterday. My mind’s so much more at ease now.
’ He gave Christine a warm, heartfelt smile.
‘Thank you for making me see sense, Christine. I couldn’t have done it without you rallying the others to help.
’ Marcus looked at Tom. ‘That goes to you too, Tom.’
Tom nodded. ‘No worries, mate. We always help neighbours in need.’
Tom’s words made Marcus’s chest glow.
Christine reached across the gate and pulled Marcus to her, embracing him tightly. ‘You daft sod, you’re very welcome. You’re going to make my mascara run.’
Marcus chuckled. When they pulled away, Christine thrust his water bottle in his chest. ‘Here, have this back so’s I can sort myself out.’
Marcus took it and watched Christine fetch a tissue from her pocket and dab it at the corners of her eyes.
Rosie was sitting at Christine’s feet, and she tilted her head to one side and whined.
Christine huffed a laugh and looked down at Rosie. ‘I’m okay, gorgeous girl, just sentimental.’
Tom wrapped his arm around her shoulders. ‘Come on, you daft caper, let’s call in the tearoom and I’ll treat you to high tea.’
Christine chuckled. ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’ She raised a hand to Marcus. ‘Bye, love. See you bright and early.’
Tom dipped his head. ‘Bye, Marcus. We’ll get there before anyone else does, to help out with last minute prep.’
‘Thanks guys. I’ll see you in the morning.’ Marcus watched them until they disappeared out of sight.
He turned around and headed for the paint tin, which he’d already priced open, resting the loose lid on the top to stop bits from the wind blowing into it.
Taking off the lid and placing it on the sheet already laid out to catch drips, Marcus admired the colour, before picking up the brush and gingerly immersing the tip. The paint clung easily to the new black bristles of the brush.
Lifting it to the top of the window, Marcus spread the first stroke evenly.
He drew in a breath. The cornflower blue almost matched the perfect sky above his head.
It was fresh, and spoke silently of new beginnings.
Marcus got lost in euphoria as he painted over the old with new.
Before he knew it, he was putting the last stroke of paint along the sill.
He’d done it. He’d finished the first window frame.
He stepped back to admire the colour against the white rendered wall. A fuzzing feeling spreading throughout his body.
It was perfect.
This solidified his new beginning in Seagull Bay.
‘Very nice.’
Marcus spun around to see Rowan on the other side of the gate. He wanted to run over to him and fling his arms around his neck, just like Christine had done to him less than an hour earlier, but instead, he kept his smile—controlled.
‘Thank you.’
Rowan’s gaze moved from Marcus’s face to the freshly painted window frame. ‘It suits the house and compliments the wisteria.’
Marcus glanced back at the cornflower blue paint, warmth blooming in his chest despite his attempt to remain controlled. ‘You think?’
‘I do.’ Rowan rested one hand on the gate, his eyes travelling over the front of the cottage. ‘It looks like you.’
Marcus blinked. ‘Blue and in need of another coat?’
A faint smile touched Rowan’s mouth. ‘Bright. Warm. Hard to miss.’
Marcus forgot how to speak for a second.
Atlas gave a soft huff from beside Rowan’s leg, then lowered his nose to the gate as if inspecting Marcus’s work for himself.
‘And what do you think?’ Marcus asked him. ‘Does it pass inspection?’
Atlas sniffed once, then pushed his nose through the gap in the gate.
Rowan looked down at him, his expression sharpening with interest. ‘He remembers this place.’
‘Of course he does. Good memories, I hope. Mostly sanding dust and me pretending I know what I’m doing.’
‘He wouldn’t choose to come closer if he didn’t feel safe.’
The words landed softly.
Marcus looked from Atlas to Rowan. He wanted to ask if Rowan felt safe here too, but the question felt too large for the narrow lane, the half-painted house, and the fragile thing growing between them.
Instead, he cleared his throat. ‘Have you eaten?’
Rowan’s brows lifted slightly. ‘That depends why you’re asking.’
‘Because I’ve made cottage pie.’ Marcus gestured over his shoulder towards the house. ‘Possibly too much cottage pie. It turns out cooking for one person after living on takeaways is more complicated than it sounds.’
Rowan’s gaze flicked towards the cottage door.
Marcus saw the hesitation. He felt it too. Inviting Rowan into the house felt different from letting him help at Ruff to Regal or stand in the front garden with sandpaper. This was not work. Not Atlas. Not the competition.
This was lunch.
In his home.
‘You don’t have to,’ Marcus added, because apparently he had no sense of self-preservation. ‘I just thought, since you’re here, and I’ve made enough to feed half of Seagull Bay...’
Rowan looked down at Atlas. ‘He might not come in.’
‘Then we can eat outside. I’m not precious. Though I should warn you, the vegetables are peeled and everything. I’ve gone very advanced.’
For a moment, Rowan only looked at him. Then he nodded. ‘Outside would be good.’
Marcus’s chest loosened. ‘Outside it is.’
Ten minutes later, after deciding microwaving the veg would be quicker, he carried two plates out, balancing them with the pride of a man who had not only cooked but also managed not to burn anything.
Rowan had settled on the front step, Atlas stretched in the shade near the wisteria, watchful but calm.
Marcus handed Rowan a plate and sat beside him, leaving a careful gap between them.
Rowan looked down at the food. ‘This looks good.’
‘Sound more surprised, why don’t you?’
‘I didn’t mean—’
Marcus laughed. ‘Relax. I’m surprised too.’
They ate in companionable quiet for a few moments. The cottage pie was not perfect. The mash could have been smoother, the mince needed more salt and he had possibly overdone the gravy, but Rowan ate as if it mattered. As if Marcus had offered him something more than lunch.
Maybe he had.
‘You’ve made a home here,’ Rowan said eventually.
Marcus looked out at the small garden, the paint tin, the dust sheet, the half-finished window frame to his left. ‘I’m trying.’
‘It shows.’
Marcus turned his fork over in his fingers. ‘Does it?’
Rowan nodded. ‘You’re putting yourself into it.’
The words touched too close to the place Marcus had been trying to protect since yesterday.
‘That’s the plan,’ he said lightly. ‘Windows first. Then the front door. Then the gate. Then the garden. Then possibly the entire kitchen, if I ever find the courage to look too closely at the cupboards. The sitting room, hall and bedrooms last.’
Rowan’s mouth twitched.
Marcus looked down at his plate. ‘I suppose I like the idea of making it mine. Not just living here because I needed somewhere after the accident. Not just being grateful Seagull Bay took me in. Actually choosing it.’
Rowan went quiet.
Marcus knew that silence now.
He set his fork down. ‘And that’s the bit that scares you, isn’t it?’
Rowan did not answer immediately.
A gull cried somewhere down towards the seafront. In the distance, a dog barked. Atlas lifted his head, listened, then settled again.
‘Choosing?’ Rowan asked at last.
‘Staying.’ Marcus looked at him properly then. ‘I heard what you said to Jack yesterday. About being here until the competition is finished. About the next contract.’
Rowan’s expression closed by degrees. ‘Marcus—’
‘I’m not asking you to stay because of me.’
The words came out steadier than Marcus felt.
Rowan’s hand tightened around his fork.
Marcus drew a breath. ‘But I need to know if I’m making room for someone who’s already packed.’
For a moment, Rowan looked as if Marcus had put a hand flat against his chest and stopped him in place.
‘I haven’t packed,’ he said quietly.
‘Maybe not your bags.’
Rowan looked away towards the lane.
Marcus swallowed. ‘I like you, Rowan. More than I probably should, considering we’ve known each other five minutes and half of those minutes have involved wet dogs or emotional chaos.’
That earned him the faintest smile.
It disappeared too quickly.
‘But I can’t be your almost,’ Marcus said. ‘Almost trusted. Almost chosen. Almost part of your life until something easier comes along.’
Rowan’s eyes returned to his. ‘I don’t want something easier.
’ Marcus’s breath caught. Rowan looked down at Atlas, who was now dozing beside the step as if Marcus’s front garden had always belonged to him.
‘I don’t know yet what happens after the contract.
I don’t know what I’m ready for. But I know I don’t want to leave and pretend this meant nothing. ’
Marcus nodded slowly.
It was not everything.
But it was not nothing.
Before either of them could say more, Marcus’s phone buzzed on the step between them. Jack’s name flashed on the screen.
Marcus frowned and opened the message.
Weather turning tonight. Stronger winds forecast. We may need extra pegs and sandbags for the marquees before tomorrow. I’ll check with Old Po.
Marcus looked up at the sky. The blue was still bright above them, but on the horizon, the grey clouds he had noticed earlier had thickened.
Rowan followed his gaze.
‘Problem?’ he asked.
Marcus let out a slow breath. ‘Possibly.’
Rowan placed his empty plate beside him and stood. ‘Then we sort it.’
Marcus looked up at him.
Not I’ll help if I can.
Not I’ll stay until the competition.
We.
A small smile tugged at Marcus’s mouth as he rose to his feet.
‘You know,’ he said, picking up the plates, ‘for a man who claims not to know how to stay, you do keep showing up.’
Rowan looked at him for a long moment.
Then, softly, he said, ‘I’m trying.’
Marcus’s heart warmed.
Behind them, Atlas stretched in the shade, perfectly at ease on Marcus’s front path, while the first restless breeze stirred the wet blue paint on the window frame.
The storm could come later.
For now, Rowan was still here.