Chapter Nine
Lydia stood in the fire station’s small kitchen, the weight of a Tupperware container heavy in her hands and the scent of caramel and dark chocolate rising to greet her.
She had spent the morning perfecting her millionaire’s shortbread — thick layers of buttery biscuit, gooey toffee, and a sharp snap of tempered dark chocolate. It was just a simple thank-you for the attic door.
“Lydia! Good to see you out of the captivity of the attic!”
She turned to see Miller, the junior crewman, grinning as he wiped grease from his hands with a rag.
“Freedom feels good,” Lydia laughed, her confidence holding steady. “I just thought I’d bring some of these by for the crew. Consider it a bribe so you don’t mention the attic again.”
William stepped out from the main appliance bay then, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a smudge of engine oil on his forearm. He stopped when he saw her, his expression shifting into a quiet, surprised warmth.
“Lydia,” he said.
“I was just telling Miller I brought these over to thank you all,” she said, holding out the container.
William took a piece, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Lydia hesitated, her thumb tracing the plastic rim of the box. This was the moment she had rehearsed in the car.
“I’m actually having a small housewarming party,” she said, aiming for a casual tone.
“Not tomorrow, but a week on Saturday. Nothing big — just my brother Mark, his wife Lorna, and a few friends from the church. I wondered if… well, if you’d like to bring your children over?
It’s just next door, so it’s easy for the little ones. ”
The air in the room seemed to vanish.
William’s hand stilled mid-air. His expression grew totally still — a deep, hollow kind of stillness that made Lydia’s stomach drop instantly.
“Lydia,” he said softly. “I… I lost my wife, Eliza, and our baby daughter, Rosie, in a car accident about eighteen months ago.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Lydia felt the blood drain completely from her face, her heart hammering violently against her ribs.
“Oh,” she whispered, the word feeling small and useless. “William, I — I am so sorry. I didn’t know. I’m so incredibly sorry.”
“It’s all right,” William said quickly, stepping forward as if to shield her from her own embarrassment. “You couldn’t have known.”
But Lydia was already moving, blinded by a sudden, hot wave of pure mortification.
“I’m so sorry,” she stammered again, her hands shaking as she fumbled blindly with the container.
In a blur of panicked movement, she practically tipped the shortbread onto a nearby ceramic plate, the heavy pieces clattering together. She did not look up. She could not.
Before William could say another word, she turned and bolted for the fire station door, clutching the empty plastic box to her chest like a shield.
“Lydia, wait—” William called out.
She did not stop. She scrambled into her car and pulled away from the kerb, her face burning.
It wasn’t until she was halfway down the High Street that she looked down at the passenger seat and realised the true extent of what she’d done. In her haste to escape, she had taken the box — but the blue plastic lid was still sitting squarely on the station kitchen counter.
? ? ?
Back at the station, William stood in the sudden silence of the kitchen, looking at the mountain of shortbread and the solitary blue lid. He picked it up, running his thumb over the smooth plastic edge.
You really do have a sense of humour, he thought, a quiet, weary smile finally tugging at his mouth as he looked upward.
He put the lid into his locker. He would have to return it, of course. But as he looked at the shortbread, he realised that for the first time in a very long time, he was actually looking forward to a week on Saturday.