by Alix Kelso
A hot shower, warm soup to eat afterwards, the smell of muffins baking in the oven, and someone running around to help her – it was exactly what she needed. As the water cascaded over her sore body – bliss, pure bliss – she wondered what had possessed Bruce to give up his Sunday for her. There was no obligation, no expectation. As she towelled off, she thought of the afternoon they’d spent at the food festival, just a week ago, although it felt far longer, and wondered at that moment they’d shared in the kitchen before he’d suddenly darted off.
Was there something there or not? Was he interested in her, her current state notwithstanding? Or was he just a nice guy doing a nice thing for someone who could use some help?
Drying her hair, she pushed the thoughts aside. She was in no fit state to start speculating about such things. The man was here and being sweet while she was ill. That was enough.
Back in the kitchen, feeling fresher and more like herself, she found him washing dishes, the previously messy countertops now cleared, while a saucepan of soup once more warmed on the hob.
“A man who bakes, cleans up after himself, and makes nourishing meals for the sick. Do you have your own superhero cape, too?”
Laughing, he set a bowl of soup before her. She tasted it and her hunger pangs instantly cried out for more. When the oven timer pinged, Bruce removed the muffins, laid them out to cool, and the sweet aroma of apple and cinnamon had Laura’s stomach growling. That had to be a good sign, she decided.
When you wanted to eat, the virus was in retreat.
Her mother’s little saying.
She was about to smile at the recollection, but in a flash so sudden it almost took her breath away, the memory of the nightmare that had gripped her so violently came thundering back. She shivered as its edges raked over her, and found herself once more standing at the edge of that dark, wet road, watching her parents’ car being obliterated by the speeding van, hearing the deafening roar of the collision, feeling the cold rain on her skin as the silent aftermath enveloped her.
As she jolted on her chair, her soup spoon clattered to the floor. Bruce leapt to his feet.
“What’s wrong? Are you alright?”
Not for a long time had she experienced one of these waking nightmares. First, there had been the nightmare while she slept. Now, she was having one while awake. And the sensation of it hurt so badly inside her heart that tears spilled uncontrollably down her cheeks.
“What’s the matter?” Bruce, now beside her, grabbed her hand. “Are you in pain?”
She managed to shake her head. “I’m fine, I’m okay.” She sipped from the glass of water he’d set on the table. “I just remembered a nightmare. I’m fine, really.”
“You’re not fine, you’re shaking. And you’re freezing cold.”
He left the kitchen, and when he returned he’d brought the blanket she’d slept beneath on the sofa. Wrapping it around her, he pulled his chair closer and took her hands and began rubbing them between his own.
She watched his hands move over hers, felt his skin against hers.
“Tell me about this nightmare,” he said, his voice soft.
“It’s nothing.”
“Tell me. Please.”
His eyes were on her, and she found she couldn’t look away, couldn’t do anything other than what he was asking, as his hands rubbed warmth back into hers.
Rain ticked against the darkening kitchen windows, and she found herself beginning to talk, talking like she’d never done before, not with anyone.
“I used to have nightmares about the car crash that killed my parents. I haven’t had them in a long time, but I had one last night, or this morning, I’m not sure. I wasn’t there when they died. But for a long time, I dreamt about what the police told me had happened. I used to daydream about it too, although daydream’s the wrong word. My brain would just start playing this film in my head of the final seconds before the crash. I haven’t had those nightmares, awake or sleeping, for years. But now I’ve had two, one while I slept, right before you came to my door, and one just now. I know that sounds crazy, a waking nightmare, but it’s the only way to describe it. I don’t know why it’s happening now.”
“Illness messes with the mind as much as with the body.”
She watched his hands moving more slowly now, almost caressing her.
“You don’t have to keep doing that.”
“Shh. You need to be comforted. Let me comfort you.”
She blinked back tears. “This bug’s turned me into a wreck. I’m a disgrace.”
“No, you’re not.”
More tears come to her eyes. She told herself not to start sobbing, because if she started, she thought she might not be able to stop.
“It’s just been a strange few days,” she said, clearing her throat against the emotions. “Natalie putting the restaurant up for sale. John dumping me. And I had an awful training run the other day and it made me feel completely useless. And now I’ve got this virus. God, listen to me moaning.”
“Things mount up. It happens.”
“Yeah, and now I’m …”
Now she was sitting in her kitchen, almost sobbing, while this perfectly lovely man who’d been looking after her all day patiently listened and rubbed her hands.
Hands which were now lovely and warm. But still he rubbed them. And it felt good. Very good.
Clearing her throat, she pulled away. “I think I ought to get to bed.”
He sat back in the chair and nodded. “You don’t want to finish your soup?”
“I’ve had enough.”
“Okay, we’ll get you settled and I’ll clear up in here.”
“No, you’ve been running around after me, baking for me, and ... God, I didn’t even ask to taste the muffins you went to the trouble of making.”
“You want one now?”
She shook her head. “Tomorrow, though, I’ll probably eat the lot. But you’ve been here long enough already, you don’t have to stay and—”
“I’m not letting you wake up to a messy kitchen in the morning, end of discussion.”
Resigned, she nodded. “You’re a good guy, Bruce.” She began heading towards her bedroom. “Before you go, could I ask one more favour?”
“Just one, then I’ll have to charge my standard hourly rate.”
Seeing him grin, she relaxed. “There’s an extra pillow on top of my wardrobe, but I’m too stiff and sore to reach up. Would you mind getting it?”
“Consider it done.”
In her bedroom, she pointed to the pillow and Bruce tugged it down from the wardrobe, but it caught the edge of a cardboard folder and sent it tumbling to the ground.
“Sorry,” he said, picking up the pile of documents and paperwork that had fallen out.
Realising what the folder contained, Laura darted over and began stuffing the papers back inside. But Bruce was already staring at the paperwork he’d scooped up.
“I didn’t know you’d gone to university,” he said, inspecting the degree brochure that had slid across the floor.
She sighed. “I didn’t. Or at least, I didn’t finish.”
Frowning, he picked up a couple of handbooks – Introduction to American History, Europe Since Napoleon – and flicked through them. “You decided you didn’t want to study history after all?”
She sat on the edge of the bed. “No, that wasn’t it, but …”
When she said nothing further, he looked up. It only took a moment for his confused expression to disappear as realisation dawned.
“Your parents died.”
She nodded. “A few weeks before the start of my second year. I suspended my degree while I dealt with the funeral and sold the house. I always intended to go back eventually, once I’d sorted everything out.”
She ran her hand over one of the university brochures, remembering that time and the pain that had come with it.
“I bought my flat and got the job at Valentino’s to pay the bills, and thought that once I’
d got over what had happened, I’d start my degree again. The first anniversary of the accident came and went, and I told myself that things would be better the next year, and I’d re-enrol. But then that next year came and went too. And time just got away from me, I guess.”
She looked at Bruce and he nodded.
“And then I ended up falling in love with Valentino’s. It was easy being there and I liked the work. And so long as I worked there, I didn’t have to put myself on the line, all alone, and go after something I might never accomplish.”
His gaze travelled to the wall and to her collection of certificates. She turned, looked at them as he did, and uttered a sad little laugh.
“You don’t have to be a psychoanalyst to work out what’s going on there. I never got my degree, so now I compensate with these useless things instead.”
“They’re not useless. Don’t say that.”
But she shook her head. Her little triumphs, she called those certificates. And maybe that’s what they’d been to begin with, a reminder that she could still achieve things, no matter how small. But didn’t those certificates just remind her of the degree she’d once longed for and had never completed? Didn’t they just remind her that she’d never been brave enough to start again?
“I had these dreams, once,” she said. “And then one day those dreams were gone, and I knew I’d never get them back again.”
Bruce turned, and his smile was so tender it almost brought back her tears. “That’s the virus talking. You’re ill, exhausted, and your mind’s being cruel. What you need is to get well.”
He gathered the rest of the spilled documents back into the folder and returned it to the wardrobe top. “You have to promise you won’t lie in bed thinking about this stuff.”
“I promise.”
“I mean it.”
“I know. And I do too. I promise. Or, at least, I’ll promise to try.”
Once he’d cleared up in the kitchen, she walked him to the door.
“Thanks for today, Bruce. It really means a lot.”
“You’ll go straight to bed?”
“If I don’t fall asleep here in the hallway.”
He paused, his hand on the door knob, as if considering something.
Then he moved closer and kissed her cheek, and the kiss was so soft and gentle that her skin hummed beneath his lips.
“Goodnight, Laura.”
When he leaned back and held her gaze, those storm-grey eyes were all she could see.
“Goodnight, Bruce.”
He stepped into the stairwell, pulled the storm door behind him, and was gone.
She stood for a moment, the kiss still tingling on her cheek, and only thought to move when the chill of the stairwell began sneaking around her aching body.
When she fell into bed, sinking into the pillows and pulling the duvet around her, she groaned with the comfort of it. But although all she wanted to do was sleep, she found her mind racing with the freshly disturbed thoughts about her parents and painful memories of her long-lost dreams.
So she tried to block the unhappy thoughts by thinking about Bruce instead. She thought about how kind he’d been. She thought of how his hands had warmed hers. She thought of his eyes and how they made her want to fall into their grey storm.
And she thought of the way his lips had brushed her cheek, and how her heart had begun beating faster because of it.
With these thoughts in her head, sleep finally came and claimed her, and it was a sleep so deep and peaceful that no nightmare could break through.
Chapter 11
The man could bake a muffin.
Standing at the kitchen counter in her pyjamas and bathrobe, Laura broke off a piece and savoured it. The apples were soft, the cinnamon warm and comforting, and the texture was melt-in-the-mouth perfection. By the time the kettle had boiled for tea, she’d already eaten an entire muffin and begun another.
It was partly hunger after more than thirty-six hours of near starvation. Mostly, though, it was because they tasted awesome.
Like a dark veil being lifted, she’d woken to find the virus had loosened its grip. Sunshine slanted through the curtains and the previous day’s summer rainstorm had passed. She felt better, lighter. And although far from recovered, she felt once more like herself.
Despite making these arguments to Natalie, her boss wouldn’t hear of her going into work and assured her that if she appeared at the restaurant, she would simply be sent back home again.
Laura sent a message to Bruce, thanking him for all he’d done and for the muffins, which she invited him to come over and enjoy before she ate the lot. When he replied that he was glad she felt better but would be gone for most of the day viewing pubs for sale, she was disappointed. She wanted to see him and thank him properly for his company and help. But also because ... well, just because.
The days that Natalie compelled her to take off work to recover passed quickly. Yvonne arrived home from her trip with Olly, bursting with stories she eagerly shared and commiserating with Laura over her illness.
“You should’ve called, and I would’ve come back,” Yvonne told her. “At least Mr Hottie was here to sponge your fevered brow.”
“Don’t call him that.”
“You’re blushing.”
“No, I’m not. I’m still getting hot flushes from the last of this bug.”
Yvonne rolled her eyes. “So what are you going to do about this?”
“About what?”
“About Mr Hottie? You ought to go round there and ask him out to dinner.”
“For God’s sake, I’m not going to ask him out to dinner.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“You’re so old-fashioned, Laura.”
It was a relief when Yvonne finally left again for work.
Yet Laura found herself sitting at the living room window in her father’s old armchair, peering down the street and towards The Crooked Thistle. Before going back to work, she’d go in there, she decided, and thank Bruce. That was all, just thank him. Make sure he knew how much she appreciated the time and care he’d taken with her.
Remembering how she must’ve appeared to him – the near hysterics over the awful nightmare, not to mention blubbering about that folder of old university paperwork – made her cringe.
He’d probably run a mile if he saw her again.
There wasn’t much she could do about the nightmare she’d suffered. But that folder of old university stuff? Why was she still clinging on to it?
Marching into her bedroom, she pulled the folder from the top of the wardrobe and strode through to the recycling bin in the kitchen.
And almost – almost – dropped it in.
Sighing, she returned to the bedroom and all but threw it back where she’d found it. She didn’t know why she couldn’t part with it, and supposed there were just some things in life that were hard to let go of.
She pulled on a jacket and left the flat. She needed fresh air. The sun was out, summer temperatures had returned, and a walk would do her good.
She wasn’t yet up to running, even if the ten-kilometre race was now perilously close. But walking, that would be good.
And it was.
After two days of searching, Bruce had found only disappointment.
Eight pubs. And not a single one ignited even the slightest interest.
Too small. Too big. Wrong price. Wrong location.
Keith, tagging along on a couple of the viewings, remonstrated with him about being too picky. Jack remonstrated with him for the same reasons.
Bruce tried to explain. He now had a vision in his head of what he wanted, but nothing he saw came close to matching it. He wanted a bright space with lots of potential, and maybe enough room for a beer garden, and a nice place upstairs where he could live, and some beautiful trees around the place, maybe even a little stream or river nearby, and ...
It was the place he’d dreamt of. That place with the tumbledown red sand
stone building, where he’d stood beneath the tree, with the stream bubbling nearby. The image was caught in his head, and he couldn’t get rid of it. It wasn’t what he’d been looking for when he’d returned to Glasgow. But ever since he’d had that dream, it had become all he wanted.
And there was nowhere that looked even remotely like it. He wondered if he was chasing a mirage.
Returning to The Crooked Thistle late one evening after yet another frustrating viewing, he installed himself behind the bar and began pulling pints for Jimmy Pearson and Big Kev, who were on their usual stools at the counter.
“No joy?” Keith asked, as he ferried a tray of dirty glasses to the kitchen.
Bruce shook his head.
“Must be hard,” Jimmy Pearson said, winking and elbowing Big Kev, “wondering what to do with your millions.”
“It’s a tough life for the wealthy,” Big Kev agreed.
“Give it a rest, boys,” Bruce said, serving them their pints. “I’m not wealthy.”
“So you didn’t make millions when you sold that last place of yours?”
He opened his mouth to reply, but realised there was no sense getting dragged into a conversation with them. He wasn’t in the mood.
“I’m taking Natalie out again this Friday,” Keith said, returning from the kitchen. “You’ll be okay to cover me?”
“No problem. You haven’t forgotten she’s—”
“Leaving? How could I, when you keep reminding me?”
Bruce pointed to a box on the floor. “You want these fresh bottles opened?”
Keith hurried over. “Not yet. These are the new whiskies I’ve brought in. They just arrived this morning. I want to clear some of these shelves and make a nice display.” He frowned at the bottles crowding the bar shelves, before picking one up and inspecting it. “I mean, when did we last sell advocaat in here? Or that disgusting banana liqueur? We need a clear out to make space for my lovely new Scotches. Bruce, have you looked at the new whisky menu I’m working on yet? Bruce? Earth to Bruce?”
“Hmm?” He turned and saw Keith looking at him in puzzlement.
“Just staring out the window at her won’t make anything happen,” Keith said.
