Chapter Six
The door had barely closed before Maeve regretted what she’d said.
Not that she'd admit that to anyone. Not even to herself, really, beyond the vague, inconvenient ache that had settled somewhere in her chest the moment Iona Faith had walked back down the path.
The same path she'd walked up, bleeding and determined.
The same path that led to the village, to the train station, to London, to the life Maeve had spent fifteen years very deliberately not thinking about.
Eejit bleated from the garden, smug as anything.
"Don't you bloody start," Maeve muttered.
The sheep didn't dignify that with a response.
Maeve stood at the window for longer than was reasonable, watching the empty path. As if Iona might turn around. As if she might come back and argue harder, push through Maeve's defenses with that relentless sunshine energy she'd always had.
She didn't.
Of course she didn't. Maeve had told her not to. Maeve had been very clear. And Iona, for all her optimism, had always known when a door was truly closed. Which probably explained why this was the first time in fifteen years that they’d seen each other.
Maeve was good at building walls. Tall, towering, strong ones that were rude and obstinate. And occasionally, self-defeating.
The kettle clicked off in the kitchen. She’d put it on at some point.
Tea. Obviously the situation called for tea.
Didn’t every situation? Well, other than those that called for a strong drink and she wasn’t falling for that again.
The voice inside her that told her just one was an arsehole and she had long practice ignoring it.
She’d settle for tea. Less trouble all around.
The cottage felt smaller than usual. The walls pressing in. The silence that had always been a comfort now felt like something else entirely.
Like an accusation.
She was being ridiculous. This was her life. Her safe, quiet, carefully constructed life. Iona showing up didn't change that. Some conversations and an old wound being poked didn't change that. Nothing had to change. Nothing was going to change.
Maeve went to the kitchen to reboil the kettle, and the knock at the door nearly made her drop it.
"For the love of…" She set the kettle down with more force than necessary. If Iona had come back, if she was going to have to do this twice in one day… She was going to… what? Say no again? Say yes? Kiss her stupid mouth?
Now where had that come from?
But when she opened the door, it wasn't Iona.
Glinna stood on the doorstep, holding a casserole dish and wearing an expression that said she knew exactly what was going on and wasn't about to let Maeve hide from it.
"Saw your visitor," Glinna said cheerfully, pushing past Maeve into the cottage without waiting for an invitation. "Pretty thing. City clothes. Looked a bit lost. Also looked like she'd been crying on the walk down, but I might have imagined that."
Maeve closed her eyes briefly. "She wasn't crying."
"If you say so." Glinna deposited the casserole on the kitchen table with a thunk. "Anyway, I made too much shepherd's pie. Thought you could use it."
"You never make too much shepherd's pie. You have six children. They'd eat their own weight in shepherd’s pie if you let them."
"I made extra then." Glinna pulled out a chair and sat down, entirely at home. "Tea?"
"Was literally about to make some."
"Lovely. I'll wait."
There was no point arguing with Glinna when she got like this. Fifteen years of friendship and sponsorship, and Maeve still hadn't figured out how to get rid of the woman when she'd decided to stay. She pulled mugs out of a cupboard.
"So," Glinna said. "Old friend?"
"Something like that."
"The kind of old friend who makes you look like someone's died when they leave?"
"I don't look like someone's died."
"You look like someone's died and then come back to haunt you, actually. Which might be more accurate, given the circumstances." Glinna folded her hands on the table, patient as stone. "Do you want to tell me about it, or should I guess?"
Maeve focused very hard on finding two clean mugs. "There's nothing to tell."
"Maeve."
The single word carried years of friendship, of Glinna sitting with her through the worst of it, of AA meetings and long nights and hard conversations and gentle ones. It carried the weight of someone who knew her better than almost anyone left alive.
Maeve's shoulders dropped.
"It was Iona," she said. "From the band. You remember."
"I remember." Glinna's voice was carefully neutral. "The one you don't talk about."
"I don't not talk about her."
"I meant in passing. You mention Cam, sometimes. And Ellie. You've never once mentioned Iona. I suppose we’ve talked enough about all the reasons that I can sometimes see why."
Maeve didn't have an answer to that.
The kettle boiled. She made tea, going through the motions, and brought both mugs to the table. Sat across from Glinna. Wrapped her hands around the warmth and stared at the steam rising.
"They want to get back together," she said finally. "The band. They want to reform. Record an album. Tour. All of it."
"And they need you."
"Apparently."
"And you said no."
"Obviously."
Glinna sipped her tea, watching Maeve over the rim with sharp brown eyes. "Why?"
"Why?" Maeve snorted. "You know why. Because it's a terrible idea. Because I spent years putting myself back together after what happened. Because going back to that world, the music, the pressure, the performing, it could destroy everything I've worked for. My sobriety. My peace. My life."
"Your hiding, you mean."
Maeve's head snapped up. "That's not fair."
"Maybe not." Glinna set down her mug. "But it might be true. You've been up here fifteen years now, Maeve. And I love you, you're family, but have you ever asked yourself whether this is a life you've chosen or a life you've settled for because it's safe?"
"Safe is underrated."
"Safe is necessary, at first. When you're fragile.
When you're putting the pieces back together.
" Glinna's voice was gentle now, the voice she used when she was about to say something that would hurt.
"But you're not fragile anymore. You're strong.
You've been strong for years. And I'm starting to wonder if all this safety is protecting you or just keeping you small. "
Maeve didn't answer. Couldn't answer. The words felt like a hand reaching into her chest and squeezing.
"You've never lived anywhere else as an adult," Glinna continued. "Not sober, anyway. You came here when you were twenty. Barely out of your teens, still raw from everything that happened. And you've been here ever since. How do you know this is what you want if you've never tried anything else?"
"I know myself."
"Do you? Or do you just know who you are when you're hiding?"
The question hung in the air between them, heavy and uncomfortable.
Outside, there was a sudden commotion. A crash, a tearing sound, and then Eejit bleated in what could only be described as outrage.
Glinna frowned. "What was that?"
They both stood and looked out the window.
Eejit had somehow gotten tangled in Maeve's washing line.
She'd pulled the whole thing down, probably trying to eat one of the shirts, and now she was wrapped in rope and clean laundry, thrashing in circles and making the situation exponentially worse with every movement.
A pair of knickers hung from one horn like a flag of surrender.
"Oh, for the love of…" Maeve was already moving toward the door.
"Leave her, she'll sort herself out," Glinna said, but she was laughing.
"She absolutely will not sort herself out. She'll strangle herself and then I'll have to explain to your children why their sheep is dead."
The chase that followed was nothing short of absurd.
Eejit, despite being thoroughly tangled, could still move remarkably fast when she wanted to.
And she wanted to. She seemed to take Maeve's approach as a personal challenge, dodging around the garden with the washing line trailing behind her like some sort of odd parade float.
"Come here, you maniac," Maeve grunted, lunging.
Eejit swerved.
"I will turn you into a jumper, I swear to God."
Another lunge, another miss. Maeve's foot caught on a trailing end of rope and suddenly she was going down, hard, landing on her backside in a patch of mud that definitely hadn't been there this morning.
She sat there for a moment, stunned.
The cottage loomed above her, silhouetted against the gray sky. Stone walls, slate roof, the window where she'd sat this morning pretending not to see Iona coming up the path. Her home. Her sanctuary. The place she'd built her careful, quiet life.
This is what I want, she told herself firmly.
But unbidden, she thought of Iona's eyes. The way they'd softened when she'd said goodbye. The hope that had flickered there, even at the end. The way her name had sounded in Iona's mouth, like something holy. Like something lost.
What if she hadn't left? Fifteen years ago. What if she'd stayed, and fought, and figured out how to be broken and loved at the same time?
"Got her," Glinna announced.
Maeve blinked. While she'd been sitting in the mud having an existential crisis, Glinna had cornered Eejit against the garden wall and was methodically untangling her from the washing line. The sheep submitted to this indignity with poor grace, glaring at Maeve as if this was all somehow her fault. She was probably taking the shepherd’s pie personally, Maeve thought.
"You're free to make your own decisions," Glinna said conversationally, still working at a knot.
"About the band, about your life, about whatever you want.
But if you don't decide what to do about the cottage renovations, you're going to be sleeping on Charity's bedroom floor.
And she's going through a phase where she wakes up on the hour, every hour. "
Maeve let her head fall back against the mud with a groan.
Her life was being upended whether she liked it or not.
Above her, clouds gathered. Rain was coming. Eejit, finally free, trotted past her prone body with sheep-ish contempt.
"I hate everything," Maeve announced to no one in particular.
"That's the spirit," said Glinna.