Chapter 11 #2
‘Dad says we can’t go inside right now because it’s dangerous, but after it’s fixed, everyone will be able to visit again,’ Maisie continues. ‘Are you going to help with the fixing? Even with your hurt foot?’
‘I reckon my rock-carrying days are over,’ I smile. ‘But I’d like to help somehow.’
‘You could do a fundraiser,’ Maisie suggests eagerly. ‘Like, sign autographs or something. People would pay lots of money for that.’
I laugh. ‘I’m not sure there’s much demand for my autograph in Sea Salt Bay.’ Or anywhere.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Kit says, his first full sentence in a while. ‘The hairdresser’s been talking about nothing else since you arrived.’
‘Not Sandy?’ I recall the woman who used to cut my hair when I was a teenager, giving me my back-to-school trim. ‘She’s still here?’
‘Everyone’s still here,’ Kit replies. ‘That’s how Sea Salt Bay works. People stay.’
That’s not strictly true, though. I know for a fact his mum didn’t stay. She left before I’d even come down for my first summer. It was always Reuben and his boys. Clearly they don’t talk about her. But I know he’s not thinking about her with his barb – he’s thinking about me.
That I didn’t stay.
Or I didn’t come back.
We stare at one another and I’m actually hoping he slides off his high horse and breaks a damn leg.
Maisie, oblivious to the tension, yawns widely.
‘Bedtime,’ Kit announces, glancing at the clock.
‘But I’m not tired,’ Maisie protests, despite evidence to the contrary. ‘Isla just got here.’
‘And she’ll be here in the morning,’ Kit says firmly. ‘School tomorrow, remember?’
Maisie turns to me, eyes pleading. ‘You will be here, right? When I wake up?’
The naked hope in her face makes my chest tighten. ‘Yes,’ I promise. ‘I’ll be here.’
This seems to satisfy her. She stands, then hesitates before throwing her arms around me in an unexpected hug. ‘I’m glad your foot got hurt,’ she whispers. ‘I mean, not that you’re hurt. But that you’re here.’
‘Me too,’ I whisper back, trying to ignore the burning in my eyes. I can’t remember the last time I was hugged with such uncomplicated affection.
Kit watches this exchange with an unreadable expression before holding out his hand to Maisie. ‘Teeth. Pyjamas. Bed. Now.’
‘Okay, okay,’ she sighs dramatically. ‘Goodnight, Isla.’
‘Goodnight, Maisie.’
I manage to eat about half the rice and sauce, set my half-finished bowl on the coffee table, and lean back against the cushions, listening to the rain beating against the windows and the muffled sounds of Kit reading Maisie a bedtime story upstairs. My foot throbs in time with my heartbeat.
It’s a long while before Kit returns downstairs. I’ve almost dozed off, the warmth and comfort of the sofa conspiring with my exhaustion. He moves quietly, collecting my bowl, disappearing into the kitchen. I hear water running, the soft clink of dishes.
When he returns, his expression is determined, a look I recognise from years ago.
Normally he’d made up his mind about something stupid like jumping off the highest rocks down in the cove.
Or flaming sambucas on a night out in Newquay.
Although looking at him in the golden light of the living room, he’s so far from the teenager who knocked back shots and danced till 1 am.
I ache for that summer. That snapshot of time.
But I guess he’s never given it a thought. His life here has grown far beyond anything I’ve ever known for myself.
‘She’s an amazing kid, Kit. You must be so proud.’
He rubs at his jaw, hesitating. Am I that awful he can’t even sit with me for a couple of moments?
My eyes are hot. Throat thick.
‘You must really miss her.’
There’s a beat. A pause for the woman no longer here.
‘Every day.’
I nod. Swallow against the ache in my throat. ‘I can’t imagine how hard it is doing this by yourself.’
He clears his throat. ‘I’m not by myself. I’ve got Dad, Jude, Nina, the whole damn village.’
I stare at him, although he won’t turn around to look back at me. ‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘I’ve changed the sheets upstairs,’ he says, voice firming up, pushing me back. ‘You’ll take my room.’
I sit up straighter, startled. ‘What? No. The sofa is fine.’
‘It’s not.’ His tone makes it clear this isn’t a debate. ‘You’re injured. You need a proper bed.’
‘But where will you sleep?’
‘Here.’ He nods towards the sofa.
‘Kit, I can’t take your bed.’
‘You can and you will. The only bathroom is up there, and I’m thinking you’ll need it eventually.’ His jaw clenches. ‘Do you need help with the stairs?’
The thought of him carrying me again sends my face nuclear. ‘I can manage.’
He raises an eyebrow, sceptical. ‘It’s steep.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I insist, pushing myself up from the sofa with as much dignity as I can pull together. I test the weight on my foot, a dull ache throbbing when I try and put all my weight down. Crap.
Kit doesn’t say, ‘I told you so.’ He doesn’t need to – it’s written across his face as clearly as if he’d tattooed it on his forehead.
‘Lean on me,’ he says, offering his arm. ‘Unless you’d prefer I carry you?’
‘Lean.’ It’s a no-brainer in the awkwardness scales. I place my hand on his forearm.
The staircase is narrow, forcing us closer together.
I can smell his shampoo, something clean and faintly herbal.
His warmth radiates through the sleeve of his shirt where my fingers grip his arm.
We navigate to the upper floor, an awkward three-legged creature moving in fits and starts.
Kit matches his pace to mine, patient despite the fact he’s holding his body rigid and as far from mine as he can while still offering support.
The dog follows like he’s planning on sleeping with me.
By the time we reach the top landing, I’m breathing harder than I’d like, and not entirely from exertion.
‘First door on the right,’ Kit says, guiding me towards his bedroom.
Inside, a lamp casts warm light over a simply furnished room. A double bed with navy bedding. A plain wooden dresser. Bookshelves filled with paperbacks and nautical reference books. Some framed photos of Maisie.
He nods towards the bathroom across the hall. ‘There’s a spare toothbrush in the drawer if you forgot yours.’
‘Thank you.’ I sit on the edge of the bed. ‘You really don’t have to do this.’
‘Try telling that to Maisie. If she found out I made you sleep on the sofa with an injured foot’—his lips quirk in what’s almost a smile—‘I’d never hear the end of it.’
‘Well, thank her for me,’ I say.
He nods, lingering in the doorway as if there’s something more he wants to say. The silence stretches between us, filled with unspoken words.
‘Goodnight, Isla,’ he says finally.
‘Goodnight, Kit.’
‘Come on, Cap. You can’t sleep with Hollywood’s golden girl.’
I laugh a little.
But it hits off key.
I’m not golden anymore.
I’m tarnished.
He closes the door softly behind him, leaving me alone in his bedroom. I sit motionless for several minutes, long after his footsteps have retreated down the stairs followed by the patter of his old dog.
The dog that belonged to his wife.
Something about that makes my chest ache in the worst possible way.
Eventually, I force myself to move, rummaging through my overnight bag for pyjamas – an old T-shirt and soft cotton shorts, hardly glamorous.
The bathroom is as simple as the bedroom, clean but utilitarian.
No fancy products, just basic necessities.
So different from the marble ensuite of my London apartment with its collection of expensive toiletries.
Back in the bedroom, I ease myself under the covers, trying not to think about whose bed I’m in. But it’s impossible not to. This is Kit’s bed. Where he sleeps each night. Where he once slept with his wife.
I’m an intruder, trespassing on a life I have no part in. I stare at the ceiling, listening to the rain against the windows and the occasional creak of floorboards as Kit moves around downstairs.
Sleep eludes me despite my exhaustion. My foot throbs, but it’s the ache in my chest that keeps me awake.
Time stretches, elastic and strange. The wind howls around the eaves, rain lashes the windows. In the distance, thunder rumbles, moving away towards the sea. I count the seconds between flashes and rumbles, just like Maggie taught me during summer storms.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three…