Chapter Twenty-Eight
The path to the cottage looked exactly the same as it had when she'd left. Same stones. Same weeds pushing through the gaps. Same view of the loch in the distance, gray and flat under a sky that couldn't decide whether to rain or not.
Maeve had been gone for weeks, and absolutely nothing had changed.
The world had the audacity to just keep going, apparently.
The birds were still singing. The heather was still purple on the hills.
Somewhere in the distance, she could hear one of Neil’s tractors rumbling across a field.
Scotland hadn't noticed that her life had imploded. Scotland didn't care.
She was halfway up the path when Eejit bit her on the arse.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" Maeve spun around, clutching her backside. The sheep stood there, placid as anything, chewing on nothing in particular and looking enormously pleased with herself.
"You absolute demon," Maeve hissed. "I've been gone for ages, and this is how you welcome me back? I could have you made into a jumper. Several jumpers. A whole wardrobe of knitwear."
Eejit blinked slowly, unimpressed.
"Fucking hell," Maeve muttered, turning back toward the cottage.
"Fucking hell!"
For a second, Maeve could have sworn that Eejit had gained the power of speech whilst she was gone.
Then she realized that the small voice had come from over the stone wall.
Her stomach dropped. A ginger head popped up, freckled face beaming with the particular delight of a child who had just learned something new and forbidden.
Hamish. Of course it was Hamish. Seven years old and already possessed of the worst timing of anyone Maeve had ever met.
"No," Maeve said. "You did not hear that."
"Fucking hell," Hamish repeated, tasting the words with obvious joy. He drew out the vowels like he was savoring a sweet.
"Stop that. Right now."
"Mum says that word's only for emergencies."
"This was an emergency. I was attacked by a sheep."
Hamish considered this with the gravity of a High Court judge. "Eejit attacks everyone. That's not an emergency. That's just Tuesday."
"It's Thursday."
"See? Extra not an emergency." He paused for a moment. "Can I say it if I get attacked by a sheep?" he asked.
"No. Go home, Hamish."
"But…"
"Home. Now. Before I tell your mother you were spying on me."
Hamish's face fell, but he dropped back behind the wall. Maeve heard his footsteps retreating across the field, and she'd bet good money he’d be practicing the word under his breath the whole way.
Glinna was going to kill her.
She stood there for a moment, hand still on her arse where Eejit's teeth had connected, and tried to remember why she'd thought coming back here was a good idea.
Because London was worse. Because she couldn't stay in that hotel room another night, staring at the ceiling and replaying the moment when everything fell apart. Because this was the only place she had left.
She'd run away. Again. Just like she always did.
Maeve unlocked the cottage door and stepped inside.
It smelled of fresh paint and new wood, the renovation finally complete.
She dropped her bag by the door and sank into the armchair by the cold fireplace.
The silence pressed in around her, thick and accusing.
In London there had been noise. Traffic and sirens and people shouting and music bleeding through hotel walls.
Here there was nothing but her own thoughts, and those were worse.
Cam's voice kept playing in her head. Over and over, like a song she couldn't stop humming.
You punched her. You were so drunk you punched her and you don't even remember.
Was she really that person? Had she really done that?
She knew she'd been bad. She remembered the blackouts, the mornings of shame, the looks on everyone's faces.
But she'd never known about the punch. Iona had never told her.
Had carried it for fifteen years like a rock in her pocket, and Maeve had been stumbling around oblivious, thinking she knew the worst of what she'd done.
She'd hit Iona. The woman she loved. She'd hit her and then she'd left and she'd never even known.
No wonder Iona had looked at that whiskey bottle like it was a bomb about to go off.
GLINNA ARRIVED AN hour later, without children for once. She took one look at Maeve, still sitting in the armchair, and said, "Right. Tea."
"I don't want tea."
"Wasn't asking." Glinna was already filling the kettle. "Sweet tea. For shock."
"I'm not in shock."
"You look like someone's died." Glinna found the sugar bowl, frowned at its emptiness, and started opening cupboards. "Have you got any sugar at all in this place, or have you been living on spite and stubbornness?"
"There's some in the blue tin."
"The blue tin is full of biscuits."
"Behind the biscuits."
Glinna found it, spooned an alarming amount into two mugs, and brought them over. She sat down on the footstool across from Maeve and handed her a cup.
"Drink," she said. "Then tell me everything."
So Maeve did.
She told Glinna about the article, about Elijah's betrayal, about Cam's devastation.
She told her about Ellie's MS, the real reason for the reunion, the lies that had been told to get her there.
She told her about the fight, about things being said that couldn't be unsaid, about the moment when Cam had looked at her with tears streaming down her face and told her the truth about that last night.
She told her about hitting Iona. About not remembering. About fifteen years of silence.
When she finished, the tea was cold and Glinna was watching her with an expression Maeve couldn't quite read.
"Well," Glinna said. "That's a lot."
"I know."
"Be honest with me now." Glinna set down her mug. "How do you actually feel? Not what you think you should feel. What do you actually feel?"
Maeve stared at the cold fireplace. The ashes from her last fire were still there, gray and dead.
"Guilty," she said finally. "About Ellie. The way I reacted when she told us. She's sick and scared and I made it about me. I said things I shouldn't have said."
"And?"
"And she deserves an apology. A real one."
Glinna nodded slowly. "Good. That's good. Ellie needs to hear that from you. What else?"
"The rest…" Maeve shook her head. "I don't know how to feel about the rest. They lied to me. All of them. Even Iona knew things she never told me. And I understand why, I do. But it doesn't make it hurt less."
"And the punch?"
Maeve flinched. "I don't remember doing it.
I can't even picture it. But I must have, because Cam wouldn't lie about that, and Iona's never denied it.
So somewhere in my brain there's a version of me that hit the woman I love, and I can't find her.
I can't apologize to Iona properly because I don't even remember what I'm apologizing for. "
Glinna was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "You know, you can’t be a sponsor without being an alcoholic."
"I know that," Maeve said, though she’d never known the drinking Glinna. Glinna had been sober for years by the time Maeve came along.
"My mother’s engagement ring," Glinna said. She looked down at the floor, then up again, defiantly.
Maeve frowned. "I don't understand."
"I stole it." Glinna's voice was matter-of-fact, but her hands were tight around her mug. "When I was drinking. I was young, barely more than seventeen, and I needed money for booze. So I took my mother's engagement ring and I pawned it."
Maeve stared at her. In all the years she'd known Glinna, in all the meetings and the late-night phone calls and the cups of tea at this very kitchen table, she'd never heard this story.
"My dad went to buy it back," Glinna continued. "But it was gone, sold on for a hell of a lot more than I got for it. My mother cried for three days. She forgave me eventually. Said she understood, said it was the disease, said I wasn't myself. And she was right, I wasn't. But I still did it."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I'm forty-two years old and it's still the worst thing I've ever done.
" Glinna met her eyes. "I've been sober a long time.
I've raised six children, I've kept a farm running, I've done things I'm proud of.
But that ring is still there. I still think about it.
Not every day anymore, but often enough. "
"That doesn't help."
"I know. But here's the thing." Glinna leaned forward. "The only good thing about hitting rock bottom is knowing that the only way left is up. You can't fall any further. The worst has already happened. Now you get to decide what you do next."
Maeve shook her head. "I've ruined everything. That's what I do. I destroy things. First the band, then my whole life, now this. Whatever this was supposed to be."
"Maybe."
"Maybe?"
Glinna stood up, brushing off her skirt.
"Or maybe not. Maybe you just think you ruined things.
Or maybe you deliberately ruined things and you were looking for an excuse to come back to a safer world.
You've got some thinking to do, Maeve MacDonnell.
I'm not going to sit here and tell you what to feel or what to do, because frankly that's never worked on you.
But I'll be back in the morning, and we can talk more then. "
"You're leaving?"
"I've got six children who'll burn the house down if I'm gone much longer, and you need time to sit with this." She paused at the door. "Also, Hamish came home saying a new word and I need to have a conversation about when it’s appropriate to use and when it’s not."
Maeve winced. "Sorry."
"You will be. I'm sending him to you tomorrow for vocabulary enrichment. We'll see how funny swearing is when you're explaining the concept of appropriate context to a seven-year-old." She pulled on her coat. "Get some rest. Eat something. I'll see you in the morning."
The door closed behind her, and Maeve was alone.
THE SONG LAY on her desk, half-written lyrics scattered across three different pieces of paper. She'd been working on it for hours now, but hadn’t added a single thing.
She picked up her pen. Put it down again. Picked it up. Put it down.
The words wouldn't come. Every time she tried to focus, all she could see was Iona's face. The way she'd looked when Cam said it. The fifteen years of silence in her eyes.
After an hour of staring at nothing, Maeve gave up.
She went outside and sat on the front step of the cottage, looking out at the loch. The sky had finally decided on rain, a fine mist that settled on her hair and face. She didn't bother going back for a jacket.
Eejit appeared from somewhere, trotting across the garden with her usual air of having important sheep business to attend to. Maeve tensed, waiting for teeth.
But the sheep just walked over and stopped beside her. Stood there for a moment, as if considering something. Then, very gently, pushed her woolly head against Maeve's arm.
Not a bite. Not even a nibble. Just a soft, warm nuzzle.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Maeve whispered.
The tears came then, finally, hot and unstoppable. She sat on the step of her cottage with a sheep pressed against her side, and she cried.