Chapter 33
“I
t’s a bit like back home around here,” Hugo says, gazing ahead of us along Blythewell’s Main Street. “Apart from the snow. And the temperatures low enough to freeze the nuts off a badger.” He wraps his arms around himself for dramatic effect. “I’ve never been so bloody cold in my life. Why the hell does anyone live here?”
It was a complete surprise when he called to say he was in Boston on business and asked if I was around for a visit. Since I wasn’t in the mood for a trip to the city, I invited him up here for a couple nights.
Eager to have my brain occupied with non-Hannah-related matters since she left four weeks ago, having him here is a welcome distraction.
I haven’t seen her since the night she and I got back from London—the night she made it clear she thought I was a giant mistake. I took off for New York the next morning and stayed with Walker until Maggie gave me the all clear that she’d gone.
And since then, I’ve done exactly what I came here to not do—work. So much for the rest and relaxation. But the more I can stuff my head with things to take my mind off the gnawing feeling in my chest and gut that I’ve lost the greatest thing that ever happened to me, the better.
Bedtime, when I’m alone in the quiet with nothing but my own thoughts, is the worst. I do my best to drown them out with true crime podcasts. But while I try to fill my head with tales of nineteenth century poisonings and modern-day reversals of miscarriages of justice, when sleep finally comes, the image I inevitably drift off to is that of Hannah’s face on the pillow next to me, lashes fluttering, an almost-smile forming on her lips.
This afternoon, because Hugo has to walk every day as part of his knee rehab, we’ve strolled into town with the incentive of stopping off at The Frisky Ferret for a beer on the way back.
“Yeah, there’s a very British influence,” I say of the rows of brick and stone buildings on either side of the street, each with charming signs or canopies. The shiny new pink-and-yellow striped awning of Choc Full of Love stands out a little way ahead of us—I might have to cross the street to avoid the memories in there. And at the very center, on an island in the middle of the road, is the tall, old, wooden clock tower decorated with hand-carved flowers.
“Elliot told me the village was named after an English guy. Mr. Blythe, I guess,” I say. “Hence Maggie and Jim’s house is Blythe Manor. Apparently, he built it in a lovesick attempt to try to get an Irish woman to move over and marry him.”
“I’d have moved over and married him for that place,” Hugo says, stuffing his hands into the pockets of Jim’s spare parka. The wool jacket he wears around London just didn’t cut it in late February in New Hampshire. “It’s fucking gorgeous. What a top bunch of blokes you are to get them something like that.”
“They weren’t sure about it at first. Thought it was too big. Love it now, though. And the thing they like most is when we’re all there. I don’t doubt they’re desperate to have a horde of grandkids running around, playing hide-and-seek all over the house and chasing each other in that massive garden.”
My mind spools through a home movie of us sitting around the dining table for a huge Christmas dinner, with each of our partners at our sides. The person next to me? Hannah, of course. In the background are the happy laughs and squeals of kids spread out on the floor, playing with their new gifts. Dylan tries to keep them all in order, particularly his little sister. Or is it a brother?
“So, yeah,” I continue. “They generally just love to share it.”
“I should pick up a thank-you gift while we’re out.” Tough on the outside, softy on the inside, that’s Hugo. “What do they like?”
“Anything related to wine or scotch for Jim. Anything related to plants or the garden for Maggie. Actually”—I point to the shop we’re approaching—“that’s the perfect place for something for Mags. Anything from there will make her happy.”
I instinctively follow Hugo into Find Your Roots but stop when my stomach lurches as I step over the threshold. “Actually…I’ll…wait outside. I have to…um…make a quick call.”
“Scared to show your face in here, Tom Dashwood?” Hannah’s cousin, Jude, pops up from behind a display of greenery.
Shit. I thought I was escaping before she’d seen me. I wasn’t certain Hannah would have told her what happened. But I am now.
“Well, hello,” Hugo says, sidling up to her with a glint in his eye and the smile that always means trouble.
“Oh. Hi.” Jude fixes him with a suspicious look. “Can I help you with something?”
Hugo winks. “I could probably come up with a list.”
Jude rolls her eyes.
“But for now,” he continues, “I’ll settle for advice on a thank-you gift.”
“Who’s it for?” Jude sniffs and folds her arms across her apron bib.
“The aunt of the pariah over there.” He looks at me and raises his voice. “Makes a nice change for you to be the one people are pissed off with, huh, Tom?”
Hugo’s still stinging from the way the British press have portrayed him as the man who let the football-mad country down by getting injured in training (not his fault), for thumping a reporter (totally his fault), and unceremoniously dumping one of the nation’s most beloved English rose singer-songwriters by text (absolutely his fault). She did write a song about it, though. And it got to number one. So she made sure the world knows he pulled a dick move, and she got some good revenge therapy.
“Oh, well, if it’s for Maggie.” Jude softens slightly. “I know exactly what she’d like.”
Jude squeezes between Hugo and the rack of foliage. He makes zero effort to move.
As she leads the way farther into the shop, Hugo’s focus drops to her backside. Of course it does. He looks at me over his shoulder and makes a phwoar face.
“You know Maggie, then?” he asks Jude’s butt.
“One of my favorites. I love the locals.” Jude’s tone suggests what she doesn’t like is out-of-towners who think they’re God’s gift to women.
She stops by some sort of palm that’s about five feet tall. “Maggie admires this every time she’s here.” She shoves her hands into her pockets and keeps her eyes firmly on the plant. “I know she’d love it.”
“Well, I definitely can’t carry that back up the hill.”
“Or out the front door,” I chip in. The pot looks huge even from where I’m standing. It must weigh a ton.
“For Maggie, I would deliver,” Jude says.
“And what would you do for me?” I can see only the back of Hugo’s head, but I’d bet my London flat he’s looking at her under his waggling eyebrows. Something that a surprising number of women seem to find appealing.
“Deliver it to Maggie.” Jude’s voice is deadpan. Guess she’s impervious to the eyebrow thing.
“Well, I can make do with that. For now.” Hugo takes out his wallet. “Where do I sign?”
The thought of watching Hugo try to pick up anyone right now is pretty unbearable, but the thought of him trying to pick up Hannah’s cousin is beyond intolerable. “Like I said, I’ll wait outside.”
Leaning against the redbrick wall, I pull my phone from my pocket. Five new texts. My stomach flutters with anticipation—or is it foolish hope?—every time there are new messages. Then it shrinks when none of them is from Hannah.
Of course, I don’t expect to hear from her. She was clear. And she was right. There’s no point keeping in touch.
But I can’t shake the hope. Will I still be jittery ten years from now every time I get a text, just in case it’s finally from her? Possibly.
Hugo appears by my side, a satisfied grin decorating his face.
“That”—I point into the shop—“is Hannah’s fucking cousin. If you’ve just picked her up, you need to go right back in there and cancel. You can’t shag her and then fuck off back home when that’s exactly what Hannah’s accused me of doing.”
“Worry ye not.” He puts his arm around my shoulder, yanks me off the wall, and leads me back the way we came. “She’s really fucking hot. In a stern kind of way. And knows a shitload about plants. Not my type, though.”
I draw back and look at him with exaggeratedly wide eyes. “You mean the famous Hugo Powers charm failed you for once?”
He mimics my stare. “You mean just like the famous Tom Dashwood get-up-and-go seems to have gotten up and gone?”
I sigh and shake my head.
“Anyway,” he continues, pulling up the collar of the parka, “when are you coming home?”
“Home?” I’m suddenly unsure where he means.
“Yeah, London. You know. Where you live. Where your business is.” He stops in his tracks and gasps. “Oh my God. Do you feel more at home here?”
“Here in Blythewell?” I scoff. “God, no. Village life is not for me. I can’t bear the thought of living among local gossips who’re outraged if you don’t deadhead your roses at the right time, and you can’t fire your cleaner for being useless because she’s the daughter of the plumber you need to fix your sink.”
“I meant ‘here’ as in this country. The States,” Hugo says. “Not specifically this little place.”
Since I can only dream of having an answer to that question, I just shrug.
“Yeah,” Hugo says. “It must be odd growing up American, then becoming British as an adult. Where do you feel most like you belong?”
On the tip of my tongue are the words “Next to Hannah,” but I bite them back. That would be ridiculous and pathetic.
“I feel the same amount at home here and there.” But I don’t tell him that that amount is “not at all.”
Hugo pulls open the red door of The Frisky Ferret. “Okay, that’s my physio for the day. Let’s have a pint and try to put a smile on that super grumpy face of yours.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
“Okay, well, I was going to say ‘heartbroken,’ but I thought you might punch me. And if someone caught that on their phone it would be reframed as me attacking you and any hope of a future career would be even more in the toilet than it already is.”
“You’re worried about getting a job?” I ask in disbelief as we enter the warm relief of the pub and head to the nearest empty table.
“Oh, no.” He points at me. “No, no, no. You don’t get to make me the subject.”
Hugo takes off the parka and hangs it on the back of a wooden chair.
“I’m not heartbroken,” I lie as he eases himself down to sitting.
Hugo’s full belly laugh fills the room and turns a couple heads. “Right, yeah. Sure. If that’s the way you want to play it.”
He blows into his hands to warm them before picking up the laminated drinks menu.
“I’m not.” I take the seat opposite him. “I’m totally fine.” Of course the constant hollow emptiness inside me and the fact I feel like nothing will ever have any meaning without Hannah around means I’m not. But I’m not prepared to admit it to anyone. Even Hugo.
He drops the menu, rests his clasped hands on top of it, and leans toward me. “Now, I know I’m not someone you would ever consider taking relationship advice from?—”
“Too fucking right.” I tap my menu. “The Brown Burrow is the closest they have to British beer.”
“Don’t care,” he says with a look in his eye I don’t recognize. “My main concern right now is that this Hannah business has left my best friend more down than he was three or four months ago when his marriage ended.”
I recoil like he’s just punched me in the face as hard as he punched that reporter.
Well, shit. If rubbish-at-relationships Hugo hasn’t just hit the nail on the fucking head and seen what I haven’t been able to see myself.
I came here tired, fed up, and needing to relax and rejuvenate before heading back to London, raring to go at work and to throw myself headlong into my new life alone.
But here I am, in an even worse state than when I arrived. Fuck, yes, losing Hannah has affected me more than the end of my bloody marriage.
That was definitely not how these couple months were supposed to go. I was supposed to be taking steps forward, not backward. To be feeling better, not worse.
I try to listen to what that tells me, but this revelation is screeching inside my brain like a thrash metal guitar solo.
“You can’t do anything about the timing of when things happen.” Hugo plows on with his out-of-the-blue enlightenment. “Look at me.” He indicates his buggered knee. “I didn’t plan for my career to end right now. Just like you didn’t plan to fall for someone right after your divorce.”
“I can’t cope with you being wise, Hugo. Could you please just order a beer?”
“Honestly, Tom. You can’t always control the timing of your life. Sometimes you have to just go with it.”
I stare at him, speechless for a second. Not only is he talking in platitudes. That one makes actual sense. And it comes from someone who’s learning that lesson in the hardest and most painful way.
But I have no intention of letting him know he might be right.
“Is your new career going to be as a radio show agony uncle?” I point at an imaginary poster in the air between us and read out the imaginary show name and tagline. “‘Dear Hugo: He can’t sort out his own love life, but he’ll give you advice about yours.’”
His attention is back on the menu. “Just don’t leave it too long till you figure out I’m right. And yeah, I’ll have the Brown Burrow.”