Chapter Thirty-One
The foyer of Brookleigh Bay Community Church was already warm with Sunday chatter when Lydia stepped inside. Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket, and she pulled it out.
I just want to talk, Lydia. Five minutes. Please.
She dismissed the notification from Miguel, her thumb pressing the glass harder than necessary.
It was the third message this morning from Spain — a relentless digital ghost from a life she had broken completely away from.
The familiar sting of old betrayal tightened her chest, and she tried to force her mind onto the Carnival.
Had the marquee suppliers confirmed Friday’s delivery?
She’d texted Sarah about the barbecue food, but Sarah was notoriously flaky.
Maybe she should just take the list back and do it herself.
The scent of fresh coffee drifted from the refreshment table, but the low hum of conversation felt loud today, pressing tightly against her temples.
She had barely taken two steps when she saw him.
Matthew — tall, dark-haired, a little leaner than before, with that familiar relaxed posture that always made her think of home. There was a new depth to him too, something she couldn’t quite name — the kind that came from months spent overseas, pouring himself out in places most people never saw.
He was standing with Mark and Lorna near the welcome table, smiling at something Mark had just said. When he turned and spotted her, his whole face lit.
“Lydia!”
She didn’t hesitate. She crossed the foyer quickly, and Matthew opened his arms just in time to catch her in a warm, familiar hug.
It was the kind of embrace shaped by years of growing up together in their father’s vicarage — steady, uncomplicated, and full of quiet affection.
For a brief second, the phantom buzz of Miguel’s texts in her pocket finally faded.
“You’re back,” she said as they stepped apart, though his hands stayed lightly on her arms for a moment.
“Got home last week,” he said with a grin. “Stayed with Mum and Dad for a few days to catch up on sleep and eat Mum’s cooking. Then I thought I’d come here for a bit. Mark and Lorna are putting me up for the next two weeks.”
“That’s wonderful,” Lydia said — and she meant it. Having him nearby felt like a gift she hadn’t realised she needed.
“Just in time for the Carnival,” Mark added. “Lydia’s organising it.”
Matthew laughed. “Of course she is. Still trying to orchestrate the entire county, Lydia?”
They moved into the hall together. The congregation was settling, the overhead screen glowing with the first worship lyrics. Lydia slipped into her usual seat beside Lorna, still feeling the echo of Matthew’s hug like a quiet reassurance.
The music rose — simple, heartfelt, the words clear on the screen. Lydia sang, though during the second song, her gaze drifted across the hall.
The Parkers were there. William stood with Mia beside him and Jake leaning sleepily against his side. Sophie sang softly next to Ollie, while Ethan was stationed at the sound desk at the back.
A sharp, unexpected knot tightened in Lydia’s stomach. William had explained what happened at the café. Hilary had approached him, and he had refused her invitation. Lydia believed him.
Yet the memory still unsettled her — not because she doubted William, but because her own reaction had revealed how deeply she had begun to care.
She forced her eyes back to the screen before the feeling could settle too deeply, her voice faltering on the next verse.
When the final chord faded, Matthew stepped up to the lectern, Bible in hand. He didn’t shuffle his notes or clear his throat; he simply opened the Scriptures and began.
“Luke ten,” he said. “Martha and Mary.”
Lydia felt herself settle, attentive.
Matthew spoke with the calm confidence of someone who had lived these truths long before preaching them.
He talked about Martha’s distracted heart — how her serving, good as it was, had pulled her away from the very One she was trying to honour.
He spoke of resentment creeping in when the heart grows overburdened.
Of anxiety tugging a person in a dozen directions at once.
Did you follow up on the marquee delivery? What if Sarah forgets the food?
And then Mary — anchored, still, choosing the one thing necessary.
As he spoke, Lydia felt the words press gently into the corners of her own life.
Her lists. Her careful routines. Her instinct to stay busy enough that nothing painful — not Miguel’s lingering, long-distance toxicity, not the confusing sting of seeing William with Hilary — could catch her off guard.
She wasn’t resentful, not really — but she recognised the tightening in her chest, the way she braced herself against the world by trying to control every moving part of it.
Matthew’s voice softened.
“If you’re running on empty,” he said, “hear Jesus tenderly calling your name. The dishes can wait. The plans can wait. The inbox can wait. Sit at His feet. Choose the one thing necessary.”
Lydia’s breath caught. He hadn’t said Carnival, of course. Her mind had supplied it — but the accuracy of the blow made her throat ache.
The hall fell into a thoughtful hush.
The closing song rose, warm and steady. Lydia sang, but her throat felt tight, as though something inside her had shifted — not painfully, just honestly.
After the service, people gathered in small clusters, chatting over coffee and biscuits. Lydia lingered near the side aisle, desperately avoiding looking toward the row where William and his family had been sitting.
Matthew found her anyway.
He approached with that same unhurried ease, weaving through conversations until he reached her. He didn’t hug her this time; instead, he just looked down at her, his hazel eyes reading her face with unsettling accuracy.
“You alright?” he asked softly. “You looked a million miles away during the sermon.”
She nodded, forcing a small smile. “Just thinking. You gave me a lot to chew on.”
“Good,” he said, bumping his shoulder against hers playfully. “Now come back to Mark and Lorna’s for lunch. Mum sent me off with enough food to feed half the county.”
Mark appeared at his shoulder, grinning. “She did. And Lydia’s coming too,” he added, as if it were already decided.
Lydia laughed, the tension in her chest easing. “Alright. I’ll come.”
Lunch at Mark and Lorna’s was simple and familiar — roast chicken, salad, fresh bread — eaten around the big kitchen table with the easy rhythm of siblings who didn’t need to perform for one another.
Lorna fussed in her gentle way, and Matthew told stories from his mission trip that made them all laugh and fall quiet in equal measure.
But as Lorna reached to clear the plates, Lydia automatically stood up to help.
“Lydia, sit down,” Lorna scolded lightly, patting her shoulder. “You’ve been running around for three weeks straight with that church committee. Let someone else hold the tea towel.”
Lydia hesitated, her hands still hovering over an empty platter. The urge to take over, to ensure the kitchen was cleaned her way, twitched in her fingers.
Matthew caught her eye from across the table. He raised an eyebrow — a silent, knowing reminder of his own sermon.
With a small, defeated smile, Lydia sat back down. She let out a breath she felt like she’d been holding since Friday. It felt like home. Not the vicarage they’d grown up in, but something close enough to stir a quiet ache of gratitude in her chest.
Afterwards, they lingered over cups of tea in the conservatory, sunlight warming the tiled floor. Matthew stretched out his legs with a contented sigh. “I’ve missed this,” he said. “All of us together.”
“So have I,” Lydia admitted.
Later, when she finally stood to leave, Matthew walked her to the door.
“Don’t leave it too long before you visit,” he said, pulling her into one last, brief hug that felt like a solid anchor against the chaotic week ahead.
“I won’t,” she promised.
She walked home in the late afternoon light. As she paused at the top of the hill, looking out over the sweep of the bay, her phone buzzed in her pocket again.
She pulled it out. Another text from Miguel.
Lydia looked at the screen, then looked out at the tide pulling back in a slow, steady rhythm.
The inbox can wait.
Instead of opening the message, she held down the power button until the screen went black. She slipped the dark phone into her pocket, took a deep, clear breath of the sea air, and walked down the hill.