Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
ISLA
Iwake to pale morning light and the smell of woodsmoke and salt. For a disorienting moment, I don’t know where I am. The sofa cushions beneath me are lumpy and unfamiliar, someone’s jacket is draped over me like a blanket, and my neck aches from the angle I’ve been sleeping at.
Then I remember. Kit’s cottage. The storm. Peter.
I sit up carefully, the jacket – Kit’s, I realise, smelling of him – sliding into my lap.
The living room is dim, curtains still drawn, but I can make out Kit in the armchair across from me.
He’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes, still has dirt under his fingernails, the scrapes on his face livid even in the shady light.
Maisie is curled against him, her body tucked into the space between his arm and his chest, both of them breathing slow and deep.
He looks like he’s aged a decade overnight. His lips are pressed tight in a line, a frown between his closed eyes. I want to kiss it away, smooth the pain that put it there.
I don’t know how this works. Not sure what happens next. All I do know is that last night, when I held him as he cried, this feral ownership had possessed me. And I’d meant what I said.
I’ll be here.
So I stayed.
Now, in the grey morning light, I carefully fold Kit’s jacket and stand. My body protests – I’m stiff from the sofa, my eyes gritty from too little sleep and the tears I’ve shed for a man I barely knew, but will mourn all the same because I know he was a good man. A good friend to the man I love.
I love him.
My gaze steals back over this man I’ve never forgotten.
I love him.
It’s a thunderbolt that smacks straight into my chest.
I loved him the first time he held my hand, kicking our feet on the harbour wall, his grin as cheeky as the devil himself as I stared at our entwined fingers.
‘What are you doing?’ I’d asked, a runaway train thudding in my chest, heat scorching up my arm that had nothing to do with the sun and everything to do with Kit Harding.
‘Holding your hand, Quinn. That all right?’
‘Yeah, it’s all right.’
I loved him the first time he kissed me, pulling me up to my feet from where I’d been dragged by the wild water of the tide. Instead of drowning in salt water, I’d drowned in the heat of his mouth, so steady and sure.
My heart thuds unevenly in my chest as I stare at Kit and his daughter, the trajectory of the future I thought I wanted refolding itself into something new.
I need to go back to Salt Cottage, shower, change, give them space.
But then I turn and see the kitchen. Dishes piled in the sink.
Empty mugs scattered across the counter.
The kettle, abandoned mid-fill. Evidence of people trying to help who didn’t quite finish the job.
My feet carry me to the kitchen before I’ve decided to move.
I fill the kettle properly this time, set it to boil.
Find tea bags, sugar, milk that’s still good.
While the water heats, I wash the dishes as quietly as possible, stacking them to dry.
Wipe down the counters. Find bread that’s only slightly stale and put it in the toaster.
This is something I can do. Something useful. Something real.
I’m spreading butter when I hear a small voice behind me. ‘You’re still here.’ I turn. Maisie stands at the kitchen island between the living area and where I am. Her face is sleep-scrunched, a reddened cheek from where she’s been leaning against Kit. Keeping my voice soft I ask, ‘Is that okay?’
She nods, padding across the kitchen in her socked feet. ‘I love you being here. Dad’s still asleep.’
‘He needs the rest.’ I think he needs more than rest. I honestly don’t know how, in the cold light of the morning, he’s going to face the guilt that was eating him away last night.
‘Are you making breakfast?’
‘Toast. I’m not very good at breakfast, but I can manage toast.’
Her mouth tries for a smile. Doesn’t get there. ‘Can I have jam?’
‘Of course.’
She climbs onto one of the kitchen chairs, legs swinging, and watches me with Kit’s eyes. Dark. Serious. Older than eight years old should be. ‘Is Mr Peter really not coming back?’ she asks quietly. My hand stills on the butter knife.
‘No, Maisie. He’s not.’
‘Dad’s really sad.’
‘I know.’
‘Are you going to stay and help him not be sad?’ The question lands like a weight in my chest. Direct. Innocent. Impossibly complex.
‘I’m going to try,’ I say honestly. ‘If that’s okay with you.’
She considers this, swinging her legs. ‘Okay. But you have to know that he doesn’t like honey on his toast. He says it makes it too sweet. And he drinks his tea with two sugars, even though he tells everyone else to have less.’
‘Good to know,’ I say, sliding a plate towards her. ‘What about you?’
‘I like honey. And I’m not allowed tea yet. Only juice.’
‘Orange juice? I think there’s some in the fridge.’
‘Please.’
As I pour, something loosens in my chest. This I can do.
This quiet, ordinary care. Maisie eats her toast and I make a second round.
I don’t know whether she’s going to school.
What are the rules when something like this happens?
I don’t have a clue, don’t know the first thing about parenting or anything maternal.
I’m saved when Reuben taps gently on the door and I let him in.
‘Isla.’ There’s a gruffness in his greeting, but also admiration I’m not sure I deserve. I hold a finger up to my lips and tilt my head in the direction of Kit.
‘I wasn’t sure if Maisie would be going to school,’ I say, sliding my hands into the pockets of the jeans I’ve been wearing for twenty-four hours. I might stink. How very un-Hollywood of me.
‘She can stay home, I think.’ Reuben looks around for his granddaughter.
‘She’s upstairs.’
He nods and glances again at his son, shaking his head slightly. ‘I don’t know how he will get over this.’
‘I’ll be here to help.’ I pause. We may as well deal with the strain between us.
‘This time, Reuben, I’m going to be here to help.
’ I reach for his arm and give a gentle squeeze.
This man who once was the closest thing to a father I knew, but who I let down, along with everyone else. With Maggie, with Kit. With myself.
Reuben’s pale blue gaze glistens. ‘I hope so, Isla. I really hope so.’
Kit stirs then and blinks at where we are.
For one blissful moment there is only awakening and confusion on his face, and then it clouds, crumples, breaks my damn heart in two.
‘Dad? Have they found him?’ His voice is raw, and it’s obvious it hurts to swallow.
Salt water will do that. I remember it from the day of our first kiss, before Kit washed it away with a warmth I’d never known before.
‘No, son, not yet.’
Kit struggles from the armchair. ‘I’m going out to help.’
‘Kit, it’s the coastguards’ job now.’
But he’s pulling on his jacket. His skin is so pale, I think he might collapse on the spot. ‘Kit, please.’ I step closer, closer to the smell of salt water and heartbreak.
His gaze goes right through me. ‘I’ve got to get out there.’
Reuben glances over at me, a small shake of his head. ‘Maisie, love,’ he calls up the stairs, ‘come on, we are going to mine and then seeing Tilly at the Ship.’
She slips down the stairs and gives Kit a hug that’s almost ferocious, arms wrapped tight around his waist. Absently he palms her hair.
‘Come on, girl, let’s go and get Uncle Jude.’ Reuben steers her towards the door, another quick glance flicked in my direction. The glance says, Don’t let Kit out there.
When they’ve gone, Kit’s just staring at the photos hanging on the wall, ones of him, his wife and Maisie. I swallow. It hurts like I’ve been to the bottom of the ocean. ‘My love,’ I whisper, pulling on his arm.
He blinks. Once. Twice. ‘My love?’
I step closer, winding myself into his arms. They hesitate and I push myself closer, desperate to feel him, for him to feel me. ‘Always.’
He drops his head to mine and a wild sob wrenches out of his throat. ‘I shouldn’t be here, Isla. I shouldn’t be here.’
‘But you are. And I’m grateful for that. Grateful for Peter.’
And so we stand, marooned on an island of guilt and grief with me just holding our heads above the water.
Eventually his hold relaxes, and I lean up and kiss the dark beard on his jaw. ‘Let’s get you in the shower and look at these cuts and bruises.’
I think he’s going to argue, but he lets me lead him up to the bathroom and switch the shower on. I hold in my gasp as I find his chest black and blue, an angry purple bruise on his right thigh. I lay my hand over it, gentle, like I can magic it away.
‘I hit the rail as I went over.’
I nod, lifting my hand back up and brushing his tangled brown hair from his forehead. ‘I’ll give you some space.’
‘Don’t leave.’ Firm fingers clutch around my arm.
‘I’ll stay here.’
His gaze meets mine and it’s burning, deep and twisted.
Whatever he wants to say, though, stays buried beneath the surface and he gives me a simple nod.
I sit on the closed toilet lid while the shower runs.
When it finally shuts off, I hand him a towel and help him back out of the shower unit.
The steamy air is thick with a spicy-smelling soap, but I’m sure I can still smell sea salt under it all.
He goes to pick up a pair of jeans, but I stop him, plucking them from his fingers.
‘Bed, Kit. You need to rest.’
His mouth opens but then closes again and he lets me lead him to his room, where only yesterday morning life seemed so very different.
He gets under the covers, not a stitch of clothing, while I settle on top, lying close by his side.
‘Why is your room white when the rest of the house is so colourful and blue?’
His eyes are closed but I watch the long lashes flutter open, and listen to the sound of his sigh. ‘Because it reminded me of Jess and the life we weren’t going to have.’