Chapter Thirteen ~ Nathan #3
I stand and reach for the carved wooden box in the centre of the mantel.
It was one of the first things I ever made.
My grade eleven woodworking teacher saw something in me and offered to work with me after school to hone my skills.
The box was a Mother’s Day gift for my mom; it’s far from perfect, but she loved it and displayed it proudly.
After she died, I filled it with sentimental things of my own: photographs of my grandparents that were too faded or worn to put in frames; a sonogram picture of Rex where it looks like he’s giving a thumbs up; postcards Fiona sent me during her summers in Ireland.
Murph’s last letter to me was the most recent addition.
I take the letter out and sit on the couch. My name is scrawled across the front of the envelope in Murph’s familiar handwriting, and the back is sealed with a wax stamp featuring his initials. He always did have a flair for the dramatic. The envelope is thin, but it feels heavy in my hands.
“You don’t have to,” Fiona says quietly. “It’s fine if you’re not ready.”
“They say a funeral is the final goodbye, but I feel like I’ve spent the last few weeks saying goodbye over and over again.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” Fiona rises, taking both of our glasses to the bar cart in the corner.
She tops them up, then hesitates for a few seconds before sitting on the far end of the couch.
“Is this okay?” she asks. At my nod, she settles in, tucking her legs under herself. “Take your time.”
I take a swig of my drink before carefully prying open the seal on the envelope. Just like my mind played tricks on me with the weight of the envelope, I’m not sure whether the faint musk and peppermint scent is real or imagined.
My eyes scan the page first, taking in Murph’s familiar handwriting and the date in the corner: January first of this year. I take another sip of whiskey, followed by a deep breath, and then I start reading.
Well, my boy, the days grow longer, but my time here grows shorter.
This letter is about the house in Ireland, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t put into writing the things I’ve done my best to tell you to your face.
I love you like a son, Nathan. Having you, Liam, Thea, and Rex in my life has been among the greatest sources of joy and pride in my life.
You’re as much my family as my beloved Mae and Fiona.
You know that, don’t you? It’s been an honour to watch you grow into the incredible man you are today, and it gives me a sense of peace knowing my girls will be looked after and loved once I’m gone.
“Jesus, Murph.” Something tickles my chin, and I roughly swipe away my tears before they can land on the paper. A glance at Fiona shows her watching me intently, her face wet with tears. I drop my gaze back to the paper, although it takes a minute for my vision to clear enough to keep reading.
Now, the cottage. I’m aware leaving it to you could cause some hurt feelings, but in my heart, it feels like the right decision.
This is all spelled out in the will, but I’ll reiterate it here: I want you to keep the cottage for at least one year from the date you sign the papers taking ownership.
If you decide not to keep it once the year is up, that’s your business, but think long and hard about it, won’t you?
And be sure to do some of that thinking in the place itself, whether it’s on your own or with someone else.
Or, hell, everyone else. Cram our entire family into the cottage and fill it to the rafters with laughter and music and love.
Now, I know you’re wondering why I left the house to you and not one of my girls.
Being with you in Ireland created a series of beautiful memories that imprinted on my soul.
You came alive in a way I’d never seen before.
It filled me with indescribable pride to see you fall in love with my homeland.
It reminded me of the way you fell in love with Fiona: slowly at first and then all at once, fully, with no going back.
I know things with Fiona have been tense for years, and you have your reasons.
There’s always been a part of me that hoped the two of you would work things out, whatever that may look like.
Friends, partners, something else entirely.
You and I talked about everything under the sun, but one of my greatest wishes is something I never dared to say to your face.
I’m dead now, though, aren’t I, so you can’t talk back or tell me not to be a sentimental old fool.
Make things right with Fiona. Not just for me, but for yourself too.
Carrying this hurt through life hasn’t served you, has it, lad?
You can’t keep that generous, soft heart of yours caged forever.
And if you set it free, you might just find a way to make everyone happy.
Either way, I know the cottage will stay in the family, and that’s all I want.
It goes without saying that you’ll take care of our family, but take care of yourself too. And never forget how precious you are to me and how very loved you are, always.
Murph
The breath I release is so heavy, it nearly blows the paper from my hands.
Emotion bubbles inside me, rising from my gut up into my chest and throat.
I expect a sob to wrench free, but it’s a laugh instead.
I wipe my damp face with the sleeve of my sweater as uncontrollable laughter spills out of me.
Fiona remains silent, watching me with a mix of amusement and bewilderment.
“I always knew your dad liked to have the last word, but this…this takes the fucking cake,” I say, finally getting myself under control.
I hold the letter out to Fiona. Instead of reaching for it immediately like I expect, she tucks her hands under her thighs.
“You don’t have to read it, but you can if you want to. ”
A myriad of emotions play across her face: surprise, hesitance, and gratitude, along with more I can’t quite pinpoint, yet somehow understand completely.
“Will you read it to me?” she whispers.
The soft entreaty stirs up more long-ago memories.
Fiona always loved being read to. Murph used to read to us all the time when we were little; it didn’t matter what the story was, we were a captive audience, but no one more so than Fiona.
As we got older, she’d ask me to read to her.
She equated Murph reading to her with a child hearing a parent sing a lullaby: comforting and familiar.
The words themselves didn’t even matter, it was about the connection.
She told me once it was the same when I read to her, yet also completely different.
It was still about comfort and connection, but there were deeper layers to it.
She eventually admitted how sexy it was when I read to her, how much she loved my voice, and could listen to me forever.
On one memorable occasion, she even told me that listening to me read to her was like porn for her ears.
I’m guessing that’s not what this is about now.
I stare down at the letter until my vision blurs. Letting her read it is one thing, but reading it to her is another thing entirely.
“Please, Nathan? I don’t think I can read it myself.”
And with that plea, I’m a goner. Just like I’ve always been a goner for Fiona Mae Murphy. After a few slow, deep breaths, I start reading. My voice shakes with suppressed emotion, but I keep going. I can’t look at her, partly because her quiet sniffles tell me she’s crying again.
When I finish reading, I fold the letter carefully and place it back in the envelope. I’ve always considered that old wooden box my ‘grab in case of fire’ item, so it seems like a fitting place to keep this last message from Murph.
“I love how much he loved you,” Fiona says, her voice wobbly. “And you’re right about him having to have the last word. The last part of that letter feels like a roundabout matchmaking attempt.” She huffs out a laugh, and I echo the sound.
“Will you go?” she asks. “To Ireland? To stay in the cottage and figure out what you want?”
Figure out what I want. I thought I did have it all figured out.
I renovated my home to be exactly what I wanted it to be: somewhere comfortable and quiet, a safe haven, a place I’m proud to call my own.
Is it a little lonely sometimes? Sure. Do I occasionally feel like I’m being haunted by the past?
Yes. But it’s mine, and the people I love seem to enjoy being here.
Rex even has his own room, decorated to his exact specifications.
I’ve created a life I’m content with. Besides the renovations on this house, Liam and I built a business from the ground up and have expanded it into something beyond our wildest dreams. I haven’t allowed myself much time or space to think of anything beyond that, especially after Murph got his diagnosis last year.
I haven’t examined the thread of discontent that’s woven its way into my life since Fiona came home last December and we slept together.
My lapse in judgement highlighted the things I’ve been missing in my life.
The physical side of a relationship, yes, but the intimate side too.
The connection with another person. It reminded me I’ve never had a bond with anyone like the one I shared with Fiona, and made me wonder—not for the first time—if I ever would.
Since she’s been home, that thread of discontent has been tugging harder.
Staying away from her didn’t work. Holding onto old resentments didn’t work.
Letting her in…well, if tonight is any indication, that’s painful too, although for entirely different reasons.
No matter what I do, I feel like I’m fucked.
“Yeah, I’ll go to Ireland,” I say suddenly. Fiona’s eyebrows arch, but she schools her face quickly. “Maybe this summer I could go for a couple of weeks. I wouldn’t feel right about leaving Mae yet.”
“I’m here,” she points out.
But for how long? The unspoken words hang in the air between us. My spacious living room suddenly feels like a shoebox. The last hour has been a rollercoaster of emotions, and I’m wrung out.
Fiona unfolds her legs from beneath her and slides to sit on the edge of the couch.
“If you need any help planning your trip, I’m your girl.
I can find you cheap flights and organize your transportation to the cottage.
” Her voice is steady now with a briskness to it.
She’s returning to solid ground by taking the emotion out of things and switching to her area of expertise.
“I could even create a whole itinerary for you if you wanted to see more of Ireland. Dad would love for you to explore more of his homeland.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I watch her stand and adjust her borrowed clothing. She avoids my eyes the entire time.
“You might also think about taking someone with you. Mum might be ready to travel by summer. Or Liam and Rex? Like Dad said in his letter, fill the whole cottage. It’s up to you, of course; it’s your house now.”
Something about Fiona’s rambling unsettles me. It’s like emotional whiplash, going from heavy, intense feelings to the strange, almost detached tone she’s using now.
Before I can second-guess myself, I reach out and grip her sleeve, holding her in place at the same moment she tries to move away.
“It may be my house, but it’ll always be your home.
” I almost add ‘Just like this will always be your home’, but that’s not right, is it?
Honeywell isn’t her home and hasn’t been for a long time.
I’m not her home, no matter how strongly I used to believe she’d always see me that way, even when she was halfway across the world.
Her brow furrows, and she presses her lips together until the colour drains out of them. I know that look. She wants to argue. Instead, her shoulders slump, and she folds in on herself like a deflated balloon. There’s that emotional whiplash again.
“I’d give you the house right now if I could, Fiona.” I tug on her sleeve until she looks at me. “Just know that whatever happens, it’ll always be your home, and you’ll always be welcome there.”
She gives a jerky nod. When she lifts her head, the mask she’s been wearing with various degrees of success over the last few weeks is gone. Grief is etched into every delicate feature of her face, and her eyes are pools of such deep sorrow I feel like I could drown in them.
Without thinking, I pull her toward me. It’s graceless and rough, causing her to stumble forward and fall against me.
The second she’s in my arms, muscle memory takes over.
I band one arm around her waist and cup one hand at the back of her head.
She wraps her arms around me and presses her cheek into my chest. She’ll be able to hear my heart racing, but that’s better than her being able to hear my racing thoughts.
Time slows the way it always used to when I held Fiona close.
We still fit together perfectly, her soft curves molding to the shape of my body, her head tucked under my chin.
I have no idea how much time passes when she releases a shuddering breath and shifts away from me, fisting her hands in the front of my shirt.
“Thank you,” she whispers. Her big brown eyes search my face, lingering for a moment on my mouth.
My gaze dips to her lips, then back up to find her watching me closely, her expression inscrutable.
She sighs and sways forward slightly, bringing us so close I can feel her breath on my face.
Voices whisper in my mind, one telling me this is a bad idea, and the other wondering if it would really be so bad to take comfort in the familiarity of Fiona’s embrace.
Both voices are silenced as Fiona wrenches away from me and practically runs across the room.
She pauses in the living room doorway, eyes wild.
Her mouth opens as if she’s going to speak, but nothing comes out.
With a shake of her head, she lifts her hand—a wave?
A signal not to follow her?—and then hurries away.
By the time my body cooperates and moves me toward the door on legs that feel like heavy, creaking tree trunks, she’s gone. Gone. A common theme with Fiona. Gone, and I’m left here, haunted by a lifetime of memories and her lingering mango scent.
Something she said a few minutes ago niggles at the edges of my mind. “I’m your girl.” She said it innocently, in relation to her offer to help me plan a trip to Ireland, but it was something she used to say to me when we were together. “I’m your girl, Nathan. Always.”
Turns out ‘always’ didn’t last as long as either of us thought.