by Annie Dyer
Endless Blue Seas
Annie Dyer
Copyright © 2019 by Annie Dyer
writeranniedyer.com
All rights reserved. Apart from any permitted use under UK copyright law, no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
Sleighed is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.
Please note this book contains material aimed at an adult audience.
Proofreading by Suzanne Nelson
Formatting by Annie Dyer
Editing by Eliza Ames
Cover design by Murphy Rae
Cover image copyright © 2019
Contents
Also by Annie Dyer
About Endless Blue Seas
Endless Blue Seas
1. Anya
2. Gabe
3. Anya
4. Gabe
5. Anya
6. Gabe
7. Anya
8. Gabe
9. Anya
10. Gabe
11. Anya
12. Gabe
13. Anya
14. Gabe
15. Anya
16. Gabe
17. Anya
18. Gabe
19. Anya
20. Anya
21. Gabe
22. Anya
Have you met the Callaghans?
Tarnished Crowns
About the Author
Also by Annie Dyer
Also by Annie Dyer
The Callaghan Green Series
Engagement Rate
White Knight
Compromising Agreements
Between Cases
Changing Spaces
Mythical Creatures (November 2019)
Callaghan Green Novels (Spin offs)
Heat
Severton Search and Rescue
Sleighed
Stirred
Smoldered (September 2019)
Standalone Romance
Endless Blue Seas
Crime Fiction
We Were Never Alone
How Far Away the Stars (Novella)
About Endless Blue Seas
I started writing Endless Blue Seas about a decade ago, when I was struck with the idea of what we don’t know about our older relatives. After my great-great aunty died, I found out that my mother didn’t know a couple of things about her life - my gran did and enlightened my mum in a rather hilarious manner.
Initially, Endless was a mystery story and never finished, focusing on the diary Anya finds when she goes back home. Years later, the story still festered in my head and I realised that it was more than a mystery, it was about grief and what we’d never know. It’s the questions we don’t ask when someone is alive and we wish we have when it’s too late.
The characters in Endless are grieving; they all have their own barriers to overcome before they can find that sunny day where they allow themselves to forget.
If you are struggling, or there’s someone you know there is, there’s help there. And there’s always someone that understands.
My mother taught me that there’s always someone better off than you and someone worse off than you. And sometimes you’ve just got to work through it.
The setting - Anglesey - is a real life place and several of the places are real, including Llanddwyn Island, which is known as the Lovers’ Island and contains the relics of the Welsh Patron Saint of Lovers - it’s definitely worth looking up some photos as it’s a beautiful place.
I hope you enjoy Gabe and Anya’s story, and the stories that make them.
Annie xo
To the teachers who do more than just teach.
RHS - you know who you are.
Endless Blue Seas
The world is indeed full of peril and in it there are many dark places. But still there is much that is fair. And though in all lands, love is now mingled with grief, it still grows, perhaps, the greater.
- J. J. R. Tolkien
Anya
The drive approaching the village was filled with fields of farmland; rape and barley waving in the breeze that waltzed in from the sea. It was a sight I was familiar with, having grown up here, and it was the sight I dreamed about when I was in bed at night, sometimes wishing for home, even though homesickness should’ve passed given I was an adult.
Faint images of boats bobbed on the waves as I looked ahead, descending the hill that dropped down to sea level, proof that life was continuing as normal. I didn’t have to concentrate on the driving; this was a road I’d taken many times before. I passed a farmhouse, situated just off the winding road I was driving on; the same dog sitting outside, basking in the sun, the same tractor parked on the large drive. Nothing appeared to have changed and time seemed to have stood still, waiting for me to return home.
I slowed down and turned off the radio, let the sounds of the birds and the faint lull of the ocean be the music instead. It was different from the city with its restless continuum of humming. There was a sense of calm; the surroundings a constant, year after year, never changing, reliable. This time the familiar landscapes contrasted sharply with the heated feelings that burned inside, the usual fun of the journey home spoiled by what was ahead.
I spent summers back at home; the six-week break from school usually enough to make me feel human again; to remind me of who I was away from the demands of children and parents and the curriculum. This summer, the break was longer. While I was driving, another teacher was instructing my class about long multiplication and alliteration. Someone else would be doing my playtime duty, and my bedroom in my shared house in Clapham would be empty for at least two and a half months as I had no intention of going back until my head was empty of the shit that had happened.
The cottages became more frequent and the farmland lessened as the final few metres were covered. Seagulls soared up into the sky, calling like a band of town criers. I passed one of the many bars, the bricks painted bright white, freshly done for the summer season. A few benches and parasols were outside, in case any of the small number of tourists wished to stop there on their way down the narrow road toward the coast, where the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks would be the background music. Then the rough road broadened, exposing the view in front; a rocky coastline with the blue sea behind, a clear drop from the rocks to the sea.
A tall, white building stood between me and the sea; a garden in full bloom in front of it. I parked the car and climbed out, the warmth of the day hitting me. My luggage could wait. There were more important people to see. I put an arm up to my face to shelter my eyes from the sun and looked at the building, the old sign on the wall still announcing it as Blue Sea View. There were voices amongst the cry of gulls and the crash of the waves.
Familiar voices.
The building’s height dominated the view. It was a Victorian guesthouse, built over a century ago, its design reminiscent of an age gone by. The white was accentuated by the black paint work, wooden window frames, maintained to keep the house as it was.
I walked slowly through the garden, the scent of the roses carrying on the breeze and a black cat lazing in the shade, grooming. Very little had changed from the outside, but I knew that once I was in, things would be totally different. There would be an absence there that would be palpable, one I’d never considered having to deal with. I stopped, looking up to the room that had been Marcy’s in the annex nearby, mine next to it, like it had been sinc
e I’d been fifteen and I’d been considered old enough to live out of the main house.
The voices died away as I headed over to it, away from the guesthouse, not quite ready to face what wasn’t there. I could hear the sound of chopping; an axe hitting wood, coming from behind the annex where there was a larger garden, one Marcy had tended when she’d been able.
I wandered towards the noise, knowing it wouldn’t be my grandfather – he was too old for heavy work much to his disgust, and as far as I was aware, my brother-in-law would be at work in Bangor at the university, working on whichever research project was currently crucial to the sea.
The cat followed me, rubbing around my legs and purring. Becoming a trip hazard. I picked her up and snuggled her fur against my chest. The vest I was wearing was thin and strappy, comfortable for a long drive and at the moment, I liked having my skin exposed to the elements. It made me feel alive after experiencing numbness. A necessary numbness.
The fur was sweet against my skin, the vibrations of her purr soothing. Her ears pricked as the chopping became louder and I paused, surprised by what came into view.
Smooth golden skin, glistening over firm defined muscles; jeans hanging on narrow hips; tattoos covering both arms and his back, and long hair tied up out of the way. I tried to focus on all of that and not what he was holding, because if I looked too much at that, I’d dissolve into flashbacks I had no right to have, because I hadn’t been there.
Had it been last year, had I not been through events just after Christmas that had made me consider my place in the world and just – why – I would’ve had a list of comments to choose from, mentioning his biceps, muscles, eyes.
But I wasn’t the same person I’d once been.
My words were feathers on the breeze.
He stopped, aware of my eyes, and dropped the axe, small precisely chopped pieces of wood scattered around him. He said nothing, merely looking at me as if I was a stray dog that had wandered over in the hope of scraps.
I felt annoyance. Irritation. I felt more than I had more months.
“I’m Anya.” I still held the cat. “I live here.”
He looked at me again, standing up straight, the sun beaming down on him and making his skin look as if it was made from a precious metal. A spotlight from nature. Only his expression didn’t look as if he felt blessed right now.
“Hello.”
He turned around and picked up his axe. I watched his back as he lifted it and slammed it down, splintering wood. The muscles and tendons in his back rippled with the action, his hair loosening with the force of the movement. I tried to focus on that and not the tool, the weapon in his hands. I tried to breathe. Focus on his muscles, his body, the tattoos. His hair. He was stunningly beautiful. I looked at him, not the axe. Not its sharp blade. Not that.
The cat had stopped purring, her eyes wide, body tense. I figured she’d picked up on my hidden panic. Despite the warmth, the atmosphere was cold.
“I don’t need an audience.” He had paused, his back still towards me. “I’m not a freak for you to watch.”
I felt my shoulders tighten, my focus on his attitude and not the axe. “I apologise. I was hoping that maybe you had manners and would introduce yourself. I’m making an assumption that you’re either working for my grandparents or helping out.” I knew from my job that there was no point in arguing, or correcting him. He was angry about something, maybe me. For some reason that bothered me. I had done nothing, except maybe watch his naked back and chest a little too much.
He visibly stiffened and turned round, holding the axe. I took a step back.
Sharp object.
Blade.
Pain.
I moved further away and he immediately put the axe down. His eyes widened. Fear, maybe, or guilt.
“Fuck. I’m sorry. Really sorry.” He left the axe on the ground and moved towards me, stopping about seven feet away.
A blackbird started its song in a nearby bush.
I breathed. In and out. Counting the seconds of the inhalation, slowing the air as it went out. I hadn’t had a panic attack for three weeks, but then I hadn’t had someone walk towards me with an axe in that time. Or at any time.
Because I hadn’t been there.
I hadn’t been able to stop what happened. A small boy and his baby sister.
I breathed, smelling the brine in the air.
“It’s okay.” I heard the quiver in my words. “I should’ve just left you in peace. You made it clear you didn’t want company.”
He reached up and pulled the bobble from his hair, letting it loose about the most sculpted shoulders I’d ever seen.
“I shouldn’t have walked towards you carrying a fucking axe. What did you say your name was again?”
“Anya.” He hadn’t listened.
“Anya.” He made my name sound like he was playing with it in his mouth with his tongue. “It’s a pretty name.”
“Thank you.” His eyes were a pale blue. Pretty. I wasn’t sure what to say. Or what to do. I’d never been socially awkward; growing up in a guesthouse meant that you acquired social skills fast and well. I could always read people in the past, something that had made me a good teacher. I got body language and facial expressions – at least I had in the before, or thought I had. “I’ll leave you be. I might see you around – I’m here for the summer.”
“Helen’s granddaughter?”
I nodded. “One of them. The non-pregnant one.”
He smiled. It wasn’t a smile that drowned his face and shone. It was muted, shy. Tentative. As if he didn’t think he was allowed to smile.
“Are you going inside?”
I shifted a footstep closer to him, my heart rate almost back to normal after he’d walked towards me with the axe. “I probably should. They’ll have seen my car so they’ll be wondering where I got to.”
“You haven’t been in to see them yet?”
A chorus of seagulls dismantled the steady peace. “Not yet. I’ve never been here when Marcy hasn’t been. Sorry – you might not have known who she was.”
His eyes darkened and I saw his shoulders relax. He was now close enough for me to be able to see the detail on his tattooed arms; shaded pictures, words, symbols. They were a story of someone’s life.
“I met Marcy a few times when I first got here. I went to her funeral.”
Meaning I didn’t. Not knowing that I couldn’t. I was advised not to by my therapist and my family. But he didn’t know that and his words had an undertone.
“Thank you for being there.” My training kicked in. Do not show the chink his words have created. Don’t let him see the weakness.
His nod was short. “She was a good lady.”
“She was. I’d best see my family. Sorry to disturb you again.”
I felt his eyes on my back as I turned around, needing to get the hell away from him before I found myself confessing to a stranger why I hadn’t attended the funeral of the woman who had meant the world to me.
“Anya.” He used my name to pull me back.
I didn’t look at him.
“My name’s Gabe, by the way.”
I carried on walking.
I closed the door behind me after entering the guest house and rested back against it, watching my Nan near the stove kneading bread, an old apron on that I remembered buying her at least fifteen years ago, the pictures of various herbs now faded after many washes.
She stopped what she was doing and looked towards me, still continuing to knead.
“You’d be more use if you’d wash your hands and help out rather than stand there like a useless coat rack,” Nan’s blue eyes shone, contradicting the tone of her voice.
“You know I’m useless at making bread, Nan,” I smiled. I was. Kim, my sister, had inherited the domestic genes. I had been the social butterfly. I moved over to Nan, who was slightly shorter than me and a lot more rotund, and found myself wrapped in a warm hug that squeezed the air out of me and made me suspect tha
t in a previous life she’d been a cobra.
“That’s why you’ll never be a baker,” she released and moved back to her dough. “Your mother and Kimberley have gone to town to buy some bits for the baby and Kim needed something to wear for some event or other. They should be back any minute. They’ve been gone ages, but you know how long it takes your sister to choose clothes.”
I nodded. “How’s mum?” I asked, a timer ringing, letting my grandmother know that something had finished cooking.
“She’s coping. But she was close to Marcy, you know,” she leant across the stove and flicked a switch. “We expected it for some weeks – it was obvious she was failing, but your mam’s still taken it hard.”
“How are you?”
Nan up and laughed quietly. “It happens to us all. Nothing’s certain in life except death and taxes. Your Uncle Sam used to think taxes meant the ones that took you places. He may still do.”
I let out a slight laugh. It was typical Nan to make jokes when she probably shouldn’t. And to hide her feelings deep so we didn’t have to worry about her. “Speaking of Sam, is he here?”
“Your granddad would have something to say if he wasn’t now, wouldn’t he? He’s staying with a friend then going back on Saturday.” She put the dough into a deep tin, covered it with a towel and put another tin in the oven. I felt the heat as the oven door was opened and moved back slightly.
