by Kate Hewitt
“Yes, it is. She’s doing well and I hope she’ll be happy here.”
“How are you getting to London and back?”
“I’m renting a car.”
He looked torn, and Emily knew he was thinking of suggesting he give her a lift, just as she knew he wouldn’t. “I should tell you,” he said after a moment, looking even more uncomfortable, “that I’m moving.”
“Moving?” She stared at him in shock. “Where?”
Owen shrugged. “Not sure. I kept going east from Cwmparc and ended up here. Maybe I’ll keep going—Oxford, London? Wherever I can find some work.”
“What about your house? And the pub?”
“I’m selling the pub, and I’m letting my house.”
Emily could scarcely take it in. He was just leaving? Because of her? “When?” she finally managed faintly.
“I don’t know. A few days, maybe a week. When I have everything in order. I’ve still got to finish the insurance claim for the pub, and arrange the house let. Not too long, though.”
“But…you’ve lived in Wychwood for fifteen years.”
Owen hunched his shoulders. “Time to move on, then.”
“I hope you’re not thinking of moving just because of me,” Emily blurted. “I’m not going to make a nuisance of myself or something, Owen. You don’t have to leave on my account.”
“It’s not just you.”
“Why, then?”
“It’s everything, Emily. I’ve lost everything.”
You haven’t lost me, she wanted to say, but couldn’t. She felt too shocked, and too stung by his news. He wasn’t just walking away, he was running. And she wasn’t brave enough to fight for him to come back.
“I should go,” he said as Emily struggled for something to say. “Ava and Jace are expecting me.”
She nodded, mechanically, and still stayed silent as Owen walked past her, down the lane, and then cut through the wood, until the trees swallowed him in darkness.
Chapter Nineteen
“You are a complete git.” Jace gave him a frank look over the rim of his beer bottle. “You do know that, don’t you?”
Owen shifted on the sofa in Jace and Ava’s conservatory with an irritable sigh. “No, I don’t.”
“Moving from Wychwood? You’re part of this community, Owen. You can’t just leg it when the first thing goes wrong.”
“The first thing? Try everything.”
“Even so. Why not stay? You have friends here to help you get back on your feet.”
But he didn’t want that help. He didn’t want to need it. Owen stayed silent as he took a sip of his seltzer water. He could have really used something stronger to drink, especially after seeing Emily just now, looking so fragile and beautiful and yet somehow strong. Wonderful, basically. He missed her more than he could put into words. More than he wanted to.
Jace leaned forward, intent now. Ava had made herself scarce as soon as Owen had walked through the door, which made him realise that this was a complete set-up. He was going to get a proper talking-to, whether he wanted to or not. The only reason he’d agreed to the meal was because he thought Jace and Ava deserved to hear it from him that he was moving on. He supposed a dressing-down was fair payment for his unwelcome news.
“Owen, don’t make the same mistake I did.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“When Henry Trent came back to Willoughby Manor, he was set to fire me. You remember? It was over two years ago now.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“And I was ready to hightail it out of here, leave Ava and everything behind, because I didn’t want her resenting me for holding her back. I had nothing, Owen. I had even less than you.”
“I don’t—”
“I didn’t have a house,” Jace cut across him, his voice hard. “Or a pub to sell, or a clean record. I was—I am—an ex-con. Remember?”
Abashed, Owen looked down. “I remember,” he said quietly.
“But Ava showed me that loving someone isn’t about getting yourself together so you’re good enough to love and be loved. It’s about finding the person who accepts you as you are: messy, complicated, broken. And then holding on to them because out of everything in this life, that is the thing most worth fighting for.” Jace sat back in his seat and took a long swallow of beer. “And that’s enough soppy emotion from me for one day,” he said with a quirk of his lips. “For one year. But come on, Owen. Don’t run away. Not just for your own sake, but for Emily’s and everybody else’s. We need you here, man.”
Owen shook his head. He appreciated everything Jace had said, his honesty as well as his emotion, but it was different when you were applying those home truths to your own situation, and the fact was he couldn’t.
“Really?” Jace said, eyebrows raised. “You’re just going to take everything I’ve said and toss it in the bin?”
“It’s different with me.”
“Yeah, because you’re not an ex-con.”
Owen sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Emily has enough to be dealing with already—”
“So did Ava. She was pregnant.”
“It’s different,” Owen insisted, because he didn’t have anything else.
“It really isn’t.”
Owen shook his head again. He didn’t want to explain everything to Jace, even though he suspected his friend would understand. He couldn’t tell him about his family, all the disappointments and failures he’d left behind, and how he couldn’t bear doing that again with Emily, even though he knew he already was. Better to run. To run and try to forget.
Even if he already knew he never would.
*
“And this is Willoughby Close.”
Emily kept her voice cheerful as she pulled the rental car into the little courtyard and parked. It had been a long day already, and it was only a little past noon. She’d arrived at the Huntley Centre for eight o’clock, which had meant getting up at the crack of dawn—not that she’d slept much, anyway—and then there had been several hours of paperwork and consultations in order for her mum to be released. An appointment had been made with a psychiatrist in Oxford for next week, and Emily had taken all her mother’s prescriptions along with her notes.
Naomi had been strangely docile, mostly silent, for the entire morning, so Emily had no idea how she felt about anything. But at least they were here now, and she could show her mother her room, find a rhythm to their new life together.
“We’re in number one, right here,” she said as she opened the car door. Naomi undid her seat belt and stepped out of the car. Her expression was bland, even blank, and she said nothing as she waited for Emily to unlock the cottage door. “Here we are,” Emily called out cheerfully, and she opened the door and stepped aside so her mum could go in first.
Naomi stepped into the cottage, taking in her surroundings with that same bland look. Emily tried to see the cottage from her mother’s eyes—it had changed a bit, since she’d first moved in six weeks ago. There was a jug of pink tulips on the table, and Cass’s feeding bowls by the French windows. Olivia had given her a colourful afghan throw that Emily had spread over her grey sofa, to make it look a little less utilitarian. She’d put a few of her mother’s pottery vases on the windowsill, and the effect, while still spare and tidy, was a bit more welcoming than it used to be.
“And your room is upstairs,” Emily continued, trying to fill the void of silence with cheer. “Would you like to see it?”
Naomi gave a tiny nod, and Emily led the way. “Here we are.” Once again she stepped aside so her mother could come into the little bedroom Emily had tried to make as homey as possible. Another one of Olivia’s afghan throws covered the bed, and she’d framed some of her mother’s watercolours—they were really quite good—and hung them on the walls.
There was more of her pottery on the windowsill, and a bookshelf with some of the books she’d left behind—a guide to essential oils, a few hippy how-to books. An
d last but definitely not least, Emily had lugged the rocking chair into the room and put it by the window. It was a little big for the space, but it had felt important somehow.
Naomi didn’t speak as she looked around the little room, and then, still saying nothing, she walked towards the rocking chair and laid one hand on the carved arm.
“Do you like it?” Emily asked hesitantly. “I borrowed it from the manor. They had a bunch of furniture in storage. I’m not sure why, but it reminded me of you for some reason.”
“There was a rocking chair in your bedroom, when you were small,” Naomi said, her voice so soft Emily strained to hear it. “I used to sit you on my lap and read to you there.”
“Goodnight Moon,” Emily whispered. Her eyes filled with tears she didn’t completely understand.
“That was one of your favourites.” Naomi turned around, a look of such despair on her face that Emily couldn’t keep a couple of tears from trickling down her cheeks. “We were happy then.”
“Oh, Mum. We can be happy now, too.”
Naomi shook her head, and then she covered her face with her hands. “I’ve made such a mess of things,” she said in a muffled voice. “How can you not hate me? I know I made your childhood a misery. I’ve known it all along.”
“Oh, Mum.” Emily’s heart ached to hear her mother’s confession. “I don’t hate you at all. I love you, and I don’t want there to be any regrets. Let’s live in the present, and for the future.” Emily crossed the room to put her arms around her mum. “I’ve made a mess of things too sometimes, but I’m learning not to, and to see my way through the mess. You can too, Mum. We can do it together.”
Naomi let out a shuddering sound. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”
“Together,” Emily insisted. “We can be strong enough together.”
Her mother remained in her embrace for a moment longer, as Emily held her gently, wanting to imbue her with her strength and love. Then Naomi moved away, wiping her face, trying to smile.
“What a pair we are,” she said.
“Yes,” Emily agreed. “We’re a pair.”
*
The next few days were challenging as both Emily and her mother tried to find a new normal. Emily worked half the day from home, to keep her mum company, and then spent the afternoons in the office.
Olivia had stopped by with several meals, a dozen freshly made scones, and an offer for Naomi to visit the day centre where her mother went—to do some watercolours.
Naomi had brightened at that possibility, and although it made Emily a bit anxious, she agreed her mum should at least give it a try.
A week slipped past without her seeing Owen; she didn’t even know if he’d left Wychwood already. Every time she thought about talking to him again, begging him to give her a chance, she told herself there was no point. It was already too late. Maybe that made her a coward, but then he was one, as well. Or, the far worse possibility, he was indifferent and over her.
On Saturday Harriet arranged for everyone to go out—Alice and Ava, Olivia and Ellie, Emily and Naomi. They all gave the shuttered façade of The Drowned Sailor a poignant look before heading to the only pub in town, turning their noses up at The Three Pennies’ la-di-da atmosphere.
“White truffle chips?” Ava said in disgust. “Who eats those?”
“Actually, I think they’re delicious,” Harriet admitted with a grin. “But the ‘roast cod loin with balsamic crumb’ is a bit much. Why not just call it fish and chips and be done with it?”
“I wish The Drowned Sailor had done food,” Ava said with a sigh. “Good, plain pub fare—that’s what this village needs.”
“I told Owen the same thing,” Emily said, even though it hurt to say his name. “Nothing fancy, just plain, good food.”
“Exactly.” Ava nodded her approval. “And I suppose he said no because he’s a man?”
“What does being a man have to do with it?” Ellie asked with a laugh.
“Men can be so stubborn. They don’t want to fail, or be seen as failures.” Ava shook her head. “Owen really needs to learn that lesson.”
A silence fell that made Emily shift uncomfortably in her seat. Her mum glanced at her, noticing her unease. “Who’s Owen?” she asked.
The silence stretched on as Ava gave her a significant look, and Alice, Ellie, and Olivia all waited to see how Emily would answer. The trouble was, she had no idea what to say.
“He owned the other pub in the village—” she began weakly, only to have Harriet cut her off with a strident tone.
“He’s only the love of your daughter’s life,” she pronounced. Naomi looked at Emily in surprise.
“What…? You haven’t mentioned him.”
There was a lot she hadn’t mentioned. Over the past week Emily and her mum had been making strides, finding a new and welcome intimacy to their relationship, but she hadn’t told her about Owen…or her broken heart.
“It’s over,” she said numbly.
“Only because you’re both as stubborn as one another,” Harriet flashed. “You’ve got to fight for him, Emily.”
“Perhaps he should fight for me,” Emily flashed back before she could think through her response.
“He has,” Ava said softly. Everyone turned to her in surprise. “All along, he has. Maybe now it’s your turn. Isn’t that how relationships—how love—is supposed to work?”
Emily was silent, her eyes stinging as she realised the truth of Ava’s words. All along Owen had supported her, encouraged her, been gentle and patient with her in so many ways. Yet at the first trial, when he’d been the one to falter, so had she. She’d taken her lead from him, instead of trying to fight, like Harriet and the others had encouraged her to.
“Owen’s planning to move on tomorrow,” Ava stated. “At least, that’s what he’s told Jace. He hasn’t found a buyer for the pub, but he figures he can handle that from afar. He’s putting his house on Airbnb.”
Emily stared at her. “What…what are you saying?”
“I’m saying tonight is your chance, Emily David,” Ava stated. “Your last chance. Go get him.” This was meant with a chorus of approval, and Emily pressed her hands to her heated cheeks.
“I can’t…”
“You can.”
Naomi put her hand on her daughter’s. “Love is worth fighting for,” she said quietly. “There are a lot of things I don’t know. Things I’ve done wrong. But I do know that. Don’t live a life with regret, Emily, like I have.”
“Oh, Mum.” Emily drew a shaky breath. For the first time she was actually, seriously contemplating doing something. Not in the hypothetical way she had before, but in an I-might-walk-to-his-house-right-now way. It made her heart race and her mouth dry; she had that swooping feeling inside she used to get as a child, when she was about to jump off a diving board.
I might really do this.
“Do it, Emily,” Ava said, her voice low and urgent.
“Do it! Do it!”
“You can, you know. What are you risking? A broken heart? You’ve already got one.” This, of course, from Harriet.
Emily looked around the table at all her friends—yes, her friends, and felt her heart fill and then overflow. Then her mother squeezed her hand and smiled, and Emily knew she really was going to do this.
“Okay,” she said, and everyone bellowed and cheered their approval, which caused the bartender to give them all a quelling look. Clearly they were not The Three Pennies’ desired—or usual—clientele.
Emily rose from the table on shaky legs, the one glass of wine she’d had swirling in her stomach and making her head spin. “I’m doing this,” she stated, and everyone cheered again, causing a waitress to tut.
“Go for it, girl!”
“Go get him!”
Naomi gave her a fleeting smile. “I’m proud of you,” she said softly, and Emily smiled.
“Thanks, Mum.”
Outside the pub the air was soft and warm, a sunshine-filled d
rowsiness left over from the afternoon. The high street was quiet, tumbling down towards the village green and The Drowned Sailor, and up towards the other side of the village, and Owen.
Taking a deep breath, Emily squared her shoulders and started walking. With each step she took, both her certainty and her anxiety grew.
Was it really only six weeks ago that she’d walked disconsolately up this high street, terrified to ask people if they’d be part of the fundraiser? Six weeks ago that she’d met Owen and the sparks had begun to fly?
What if he said no? What if he rejected her…again?
But like Harriet had said, that didn’t matter. Her heart was already broken. And, Emily realised, she needed to do this as much for her sake as for Owen’s. To prove to herself, as well as to him, that she was worth fighting for. Their love, fledgling though it had been, was worth fighting for.
Onward she went, as the sun sunk towards the horizon and golden light spooled across the sky. She’d only been to Owen’s house the one time, and as she came to the top of the village, she wondered if she’d even remember how to get there. Several residential streets branched off from the high street, all looking the same, with semi-detached houses of Cotswold stone and neat, narrow gardens in front.
She went down the first only to discover it dead-ended, and then a second that fell away to farmland on either side, not a garage in sight.
As she tried the third street, her courage began to fail. Was she ridiculous? Pathetic? Yet how she could turn around now? She had all her friends rooting for her. Her mother cheering her on. She needed to do this.
She ventured down the street, wishing she might see something familiar, but she’d been in such a tizzy when Jace had driven her last time, not to mention she’d had a lot of gin, and so now she didn’t recognise anything.
But she didn’t not recognise anything, either, and she knew his place was around here somewhere, and so she kept walking down the street, past neat houses with bikes and trampolines in the garden, a couple of kids still out who looked at her curiously as she passed. Emily had no idea what the expression on her face was; she probably looked constipated or something. One step, then another, and another.
