Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
KIT
Iscrub my hands, using washing-up liquid, but I can still smell her on my skin. Vanilla and salt. Always that combination, ever since we were teenagers. Like she absorbed the sea air and made it part of her.
The kitchen is quiet except for the angry chop of my knife against the cutting board. Onions. Garlic. Too forceful, too fast. A piece of onion skitters across the counter and onto the floor. I swear under my breath, bending to retrieve it.
My arms still feel the phantom weight of her. Too light. Much too light, like there’s less of her now than when she left. And why am I noticing? Why does my body remember exactly how she fits against me when my brain is screaming to forget?
I toss the onion piece into the bin and return to chopping. The curry I’m making is simple – one of the few things I can cook reliably that isn’t fish or pasta. Jessica taught me, patient as always, laughing at my early disasters until eventually I got it right.
My breath aches in my throat at the memory. Two years and it still catches me sometimes, that twist of grief when I least expect it, but then, after the tide of grief comes the swell of survival, the steadiness of still being here, still living, still doing all the things Jess wanted me to do.
For some inexplicable reason, an image of Isla flits its way back into my consciousness, but I try my hardest to block it out while I prepare my late wife’s recipe.
The front door bangs open, followed by the thud of Maisie’s wellies being kicked off in the hallway.
‘Dad! Dad!’ Her voice rings through the house, excitement palpable. ‘Is Isla okay? I tried to come over to help but Grandad made me wait with him!’ Her tone tells me exactly what she thinks about Grandad in that moment. I bite down on a grin.
‘She’s fine,’ I say, keeping my voice neutral.
‘Just a bruised foot. Did Grandad not want to come in?’ That’s unusual; normally when he’s had Maisie he will stop in, see if I’m cooking anything he might fancy.
Maybe he got a whiff of the garlic and ginger and decided that he wasn’t up for any of that fancy stuff.
Maisie appears in the kitchen doorway, cheeks flushed from the wind, eyes bright. ‘He’s gone to the pub. Nina said the rock was HUGE. Was it ginormous? Did she cry?’
‘It wasn’t that big, and no, she didn’t cry.’ I return to chopping. ‘It’s just a bruise.’
‘She didn’t cry?’ Maisie climbs onto a kitchen stool.
‘She swore. A lot.’
Maisie’s eyes widen. ‘The f-word?’
‘Multiple times.’
This seems to impress her enormously. ‘Whoa. That’s a bad word.’
‘Don’t get any ideas.’ I point the knife at her before resuming my chopping. ‘Just because Isla Quinn swears doesn’t mean you can.’
‘I know.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘I’m not a baby. I’m eight.’
I grunt noncommittally, adding the vegetables to the pot. The curry will need to simmer for at least thirty minutes.
‘So you carried her the whole way? Like in princess movies?’
My jaw tightens. ‘Like someone with an injured foot who couldn’t walk.’
‘That’s so romantic,’ she sighs dreamily.
‘It was practical,’ I correct, placing the lid on the saucepan with more force than it deserves.
‘Nina said you looked like a superhero.’
Jesus Christ. I’m going to have a word with Nina about the stories she shares with my impressionable daughter.
‘Nina should mind her own business,’ I mutter, just quiet enough that Maisie can’t hear.
Maisie hops off the stool. ‘Can I watch a movie before dinner?’
‘Homework first,’ I remind her.
‘Already did it at Grandad’s,’ she says cheerfully. ‘It was just spelling. I got all the words right except “because”. I always forget the “a”.’
‘Fine. Thirty minutes, then dinner.’
I expect her to choose one of her usual animated films, the ones with singing princesses or talking animals that I’ve been forced to endure more times than any adult should. Instead, I hear the distinct sound of a DVD case being snapped open.
A familiar musical score rises from the living room. I close my eyes, a fresh wave of irritation washing over me. Of all the films in the house, she has to choose that one.
I finish preparing the curry, setting it to simmer, then follow the sound into the living room.
Maisie is curled on the sofa, utterly transfixed.
On the screen, Isla moves through the frame, her hair shorter than it is now, her face younger but unmistakably her.
The Lighthouse. Her breakout role. The film that took her from promising newcomer to serious actress.
‘Why are you watching this?’ I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
Maisie doesn’t look away from the screen. ‘I want to see if she’s as good as everyone says.’
‘There are plenty of other films—’
‘Shhh!’ She raises an imperative finger. ‘This is the ’portant bit.’
I should turn it off. I should insist on something else.
Instead, I find myself watching as Isla’s character confronts her father in the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, her voice rising with a decade of suppressed rage.
It’s raw, visceral. The kind of performance that makes you forget you’re watching acting.
My throat tightens. That’s not acting. That’s Isla channelling real pain, real abandonment.
I’d seen it enough times when her train arrived at the station and she realised she’d been parcelled from boarding school to here with barely a beat between.
I never understood it. I guess, while my own mum left when Jude and I were kids, Dad had always more than made up for it.
Always ensured that we had family. But Isla’s parents.
Wow. Helicopter parents they weren’t. How Maggie with her roses and jam and big heart had a property investor tycoon for a son, I never quite understood. Guess I never will.
‘Wow,’ Maisie whispers, cutting into my thoughts of the past. For a moment I’d forgotten I was standing in the lounge I chose with my wife, and instead I’m waiting at the station with a bunch of flowers in my hand, my heart thumping, my ribs barely able to haul in a useful breath.
I force myself to turn away, returning to the kitchen before I can get sucked in further.
The timer shows ten minutes left on the curry.
I busy myself setting the table, putting out water glasses, placing down some kitchen roll for the inevitable spillage that Maisie will splatter.
Normal, everyday tasks that have nothing to do with the voice emanating from the living room.
Maisie appears in the kitchen doorway before the allowed time has passed.
‘That’s soooo sad,’ she announces. ‘Isla is amazing.’
‘Mmm.’ I stir the curry, not committing to a response.
‘Do you think she’s still sad? About her foot, I mean.’
‘I’m sure she’s fine.’ I keep my eyes on the pot.
‘But she’s all alone in that cottage. And she can’t walk good.’ Maisie’s concern seems genuine. ‘What if she can’t make dinner?’
‘I’m sure she can manage.’
‘But what if she can’t reach things? What if she falls again trying to get stuff from high shelves?’
‘Maisie,’ I warn.
‘I’m just saying, maybe we should check on her after dinner.’
‘She has a phone. If she needs help, she can call someone.’
‘Like who? She doesn’t know anyone here anymore.’
I wince at the unintentional accusation in that. ‘She knows Nina. And Tom. And apparently half the village now.’
Maisie is quiet for a moment, helping me carry plates to the table. As we sit down to eat, I think I’ve successfully navigated away from the topic. I’m wrong.
‘Is her foot super purple? Nina said it would probably turn all purple and blue and green.’
‘I don’t know. Probably.’
‘Does she have ice? For the swelling? You said she needs to put ice on it.’
I serve her curry, trying not to sigh. ‘I’m sure she figured that out.’
‘But what if—’
‘Maisie.’ My tone is sharper than intended. ‘Enough about Isla, please.’
She pokes at her curry, subdued. ‘I’m just worried about her.’
Guilt twists in my chest. I try a gentler approach. ‘I know you are. But I’m sure she’s fine.’
We eat in silence for a few minutes. Until Maisie looks up, her expression so much like her mother’s when she’d made up her mind about something.
‘We should invite her over.’
I nearly choke on my water. ‘What?’
‘She’s hurt, and she’s all alone, and you said we should always be kind to people, ’specially when they’re having a hard time.’
Using my own lessons against me. Clever girl.
‘We’ll see,’ I say finally, the parent’s universal non-answer.
‘That means no,’ she mutters.
‘It means we’ll see.’
‘It’s raining really hard.’
‘It is.’
‘How do we know Isla’s cottage is even safe. It’s been ages since that old lady lived there.’
‘Maggie,’ I automatically correct. Then I think of the bulging ceiling and smell of damp.
For fuck’s sake.
‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ I say again, but now I can’t stop thinking about the forecast calling for endless rain tonight.
‘Dad.’ Maisie’s voice is serious now. ‘What if her ceiling falls in and SMOOSHES her?’
The image of Isla trapped under collapsed plaster, injured and alone, flashes unwanted through my mind. It’s ridiculous, melodramatic. The cottage has stood for over a hundred years through far worse storms.
And yet.
‘Fine,’ I snap, putting down my bowl. ‘I’ll go check on her. Just … stop talking about her for five minutes, okay?’
Maisie’s face breaks into a delighted smile. ‘Can I come too? I want to see if her foot is purple!’
‘No. It’s pouring, and you’ve got school tomorrow.’ I grab my raincoat from the hook by the door. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes. Finish your food.’
‘Tell her I hope her foot feels better! And that she can borrow my sparkly Band-Aids if she wants!’ Maisie calls as I head out into the rain.
The walk to Salt Cottage is miserable, rain lashing sideways, soaking me despite the coat. Puddles have formed on the uneven lane, and I splash through them, irritation growing with each step. This is ridiculous. I’m sure she’s fine.
But my pace doesn’t slow, propelled by something sharp and persistent that I don’t want to examine too closely.
As Salt Cottage comes into view, I spot light in the windows, warm against the darkening evening. And then, through one of those windows, I see her. Standing on a chair. Balanced on her good foot, bad foot gingerly held up from the seat of the chair.
‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,’ I growl, as something hot and dangerous ignites in my chest. She’s only trying to catch water from the leak in a saucepan.
I stride up the path, hammering on the door with more force than strictly necessary. Through the door, I hear a soft curse, then the slow, uneven shuffle of someone limping across the floor.
The door opens, and all my carefully prepared words evaporate.
Isla stands before me, hair piled in a messy bun, wearing an oversized sweater, exposing the delicate line of her collarbone. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, lips slightly parted in surprise. She’s leaning heavily on the doorframe.
‘Kit?’ she says, confusion evident. ‘What are you—?’
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ The words burst out, propelled by an emotion I refuse to name. ‘Standing on a chair with an injured foot?’
She blinks. ‘The roof is leaking worse. It must be the storm.’
I push past her into the cottage, rain dripping from my coat onto the floor. Sure enough, there’s a steady stream of water coming through the ceiling, splashing into a saucepan that’s nearly full.
‘So your solution was to climb on furniture while you can barely walk?’ I demand, turning back to her.
She closes the door, limping back towards me. ‘I needed to empty the pot before it overflowed.’
‘You could have fallen and made your injury worse,’ I point out, running a hand through my wet hair in frustration. ‘What were you thinking?’
‘I was thinking I don’t want Maggie’s cottage to flood,’ she retorts, a flash of the old fire in her eyes. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’
The question pulls me up short. What am I doing here? I could say Maisie sent me. I could say I was worried about the leak. Both would be true, but not the complete truth.
‘Pack a bag,’ I say instead, the words emerging before I’ve fully thought them through.
‘What?’
‘Pack. A. Bag.’ I enunciate each word. ‘Clothes. Toothbrush. Whatever you need for the night.’
She stares at me like I’ve suggested she sprout wings and fly. ‘Why would I—?’
‘Because you’re staying at my place tonight.
’ I can’t believe I’m saying this. Jessica’s house.
The home I built with my wife. And I’m inviting Isla Quinn – the first woman I ever loved – to sleep under that roof.
Maisie’s going to read into this. Hell, I’m reading into this.
‘I’ll fix the roof in the morning. You can’t stay here with water pouring in, and you clearly can’t be trusted not to injure yourself further. ’
‘I don’t need your help,’ she says, lifting her chin in that stubborn way I once found endearing.
‘Apparently you do.’ I nod towards the chair. ‘Unless your plan was to spend the night emptying pots one-footed in the rain.’
She opens her mouth, then closes it again, clearly looking for a counterargument and finding none. Her teeth catch on her bottom lip, and my eyes track the movement before I can stop myself.
‘Fine,’ she says finally. ‘But just for tonight. And I’m taking the sofa.’
‘Whatever gets you moving fastest,’ I reply, already regretting the impulsive offer but unwilling to withdraw it.
She limps towards the bedroom, and I resist the urge to help her.
I empty the overflowing pot into the sink, then grab a towel to mop up the worst of the water on the floor.
By the time Isla emerges with a small overnight bag, I’ve positioned three more pots around the room.
The leak’s spreading, water dripping from multiple points now.
‘Ready?’ I ask, suddenly acutely aware that I’m inviting Isla Quinn to spend the night in my home. The woman I’ve spent ten years trying to forget. The woman I carried home today, whose scent still lingers on my clothes.
She nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a gesture so familiar it rewinds time. ‘Thank you,’ she says quietly. ‘I know you didn’t have to do this.’
‘I know.’ I take her bag – it’s so light, I’m not sure she’s packed anything – not meeting her eyes. ‘Can you walk, or do you need…?’
‘I can walk, it’s feeling so much better already,’ she says quickly. ‘Just slowly.’
I nod, relieved and disappointed in equal measure at not having to carry her again. ‘Let’s go, then.’
As we step out into the rain, I offer my arm for support without looking at her.
After a moment’s hesitation, her hand curls around my bicep, light but present.
The rain drums against my hood, running in rivulets down my neck.
Her grip tightens when we hit a puddle, and I slow instinctively, adjusting my pace to hers.
Neither of us speaks. The only sound is rain and our footsteps, oddly synchronised despite her limp.
Taking Isla Quinn home is going to be a complete fucking disaster.
But I’m already too far gone to stop.