Remember Me at Willoughby Close (Return to Willoughby Close Book 4)

by Kate Hewitt

  “I never thought you were.”

  “But Helen had this drive to do everything. Experience it all. I think, in retrospect, it was motivated by that ephemeral fear of missing out. But no matter how much she did she never seemed to feel like she wasn’t missing out, and after a while it started to grate on both of us. I wasn’t doing enough, whether it was going to the best restaurants or clubs on the weekend, or trying for a head teacher position before I hit thirty. I don’t even want to be a head teacher.” He sighed. “I wasn’t enough for her, and she was too much for me.”

  “But you still were going to ask her to marry you,” Laura remarked, and James nodded his reluctant agreement.

  “Yes, and in retrospect that was a very bad decision on my part. We would have made each other miserable in the long run, and we pretty much already were by that point. But in my family that’s what you do—you meet someone, you get married, preferably before you’re twenty-five.” He took another sip of wine. “My siblings really do make it seem so very simple.”

  *

  “How many of your siblings are married?” Laura asked as she took out the plates that had been warming in the oven. It had been slightly disconcerting to hear about Helen. She wasn’t jealous, not precisely, she was too old for that, but she felt…something. A little needling pinprick of discontent, although she wasn’t sure why.

  “Three,” he answered as he put down his wine and helped her lay the table. “My older sister who has just had a baby—her third—and my brother, who helps my father run the farm. They have two kids. Then my younger sister, Elin, married last year, when she was twenty-seven. She left it a bit late,” he joked.

  “Wow, you’d better catch up,” Laura teased back, only to see James smile back briefly enough to make her realise it was a bit of a sore point. Which of course made her wonder how she could possibly fit into this equation. What would his meet-to-marriage family think of their middle son bringing home a woman in her forties with almost two teenaged children of her own? The incongruity of it made her feel like wincing.

  “So your family seems quite traditional,” she remarked as she brought out the chicken, potatoes, and peas.

  “Well, they are farmers and have been for over a hundred years,” James replied. “I don’t know how they could be anything else. And my parents are staunch churchgoers. I keep promising my mum I’ll attend here, but I’ve only been once or twice.” He nodded at the table. “This looks delicious, Laura. Thank you.”

  “Well, like I said, it was a matter of much deliberation. But don’t worry, I won’t be crushed if you don’t like it. At least not much.” She was joking to hide how nervous she felt, how much she wanted James to like everything, especially her. It wasn’t quite so weird between them anymore, but the stakes still felt alarmingly high.

  “I’m sure I’ll love it.” Laura refreshed their wine—they’d both already nearly finished their first glasses, which said something about how nervous they were—and then they sat down.

  James took a bite of the chicken and pronounced it delicious, making Laura smile. Actually, she thought it was pretty good, which filled her with relief. Except now they had to find something else to talk about, and that seemed hard again. Why did dates have to be so…date-like? Everything became so deliberate, and therefore mechanical, and really she just wanted to be with James, the way they’d been before. The way they’d been on the bridge.

  Whoa, girl. Easy.

  Fortunately James was a bit better at small talk than she was, and he kept the conversation going, asking about the children’s ski trip, and which periods of history she liked, and whether they wanted to buy a house in Wychwood or stay in Willoughby Close.

  The conversation began to flow along with the wine, and Laura felt herself relax. By dessert she had that loose-limbed—and loose-tongued—slumberous ease that came from three glasses of wine. If she wasn’t careful, she’d say—or do—something stupid, but she hoped she had enough restraint and sobriety to keep herself from embarrassing herself.

  After dinner they washed the dishes together, standing side by the side at the sink, and then Laura made coffee and they headed over to the sofa, which they had done several times before, but now there were no kids upstairs and she still felt a bit buzzy from the wine and they’d already kissed once. Surely they would kiss again…

  “So what are your plans for the rest of the week?” James asked as he sipped his coffee. “A spa day? Sleeping in? Painting the house?”

  “I haven’t really thought much about it, to be honest.” The week stretched ahead of her, unsettlingly empty. “Catch up on housework, I suppose. Send my CV out at some point. Not much. What about you?”

  “Well, if I decide to be motivated, I’ll do some DIY. I bought a wreck of a cottage and it needs a lot of work, most of which I haven’t yet managed to get around to. So I’ll be painting my house.”

  He smiled wryly, and perhaps because of the wine or just because she wanted to, Laura found herself blurting, “I could help you. With the painting. If you wanted.”

  “Is that really how you want to spend your half-term?” He sounded dubious, and Laura wondered if he was letting her down.

  “I don’t mind.” She wanted, Laura realised, not to spend her half-term alone, and more to the point, to spend it with him.

  “If you’re serious…”

  “Sure.” She smiled and shrugged, as if this were a friendly favour and not her begging with puppy eyes, Please spend time with me. Please. Please.

  “That could be fun,” James said slowly. “I haven’t got any plans other than doing DIY, so…”

  He trailed off, but the suggestion was there, shimmering between them. Let’s spend the half-term together. Laura couldn’t think of anything better, and yet, even with the leap of her excitement low in her belly, she already felt herself start to panic. Where was this going? Where could it go? How and when could she tell her kids?

  “Laura,” James said gently as he put down his coffee cup, “stop panicking.”

  “What…?” She looked at him in surprised confusion. “How do you know I’m panicking?”

  “Because you get this deer-in-the-headlights look and a little dent in the middle of your forehead.” He reached over and touched the middle of her forehead with his thumb, and even that was enough to make her blood start to sizzle. “Your worry dent.” His fingers skimmed her cheek. “What are you worried about?”

  “Just, you know.” She swallowed hard. His fingers were still brushing her cheek, and a deep, molten yearning was spiralling up inside her. “Dating someone. It feels big to me, and I know it’s not the same for—”

  “It’s big for me, too.” He dropped his hand to her shoulder and gently enough so she could pull back if she wanted to, which she didn’t, he drew her towards him. “Haven’t you figured out yet that I’m kind of a geeky, old-fashioned guy?”

  “Well, sort of, I suppose.” She was very close to him now, practically on his lap, and his hands were framing his face as he smiled down at her, his eyes glinting like the Caribbean and the firelight from the wood burner catching the golden glints in his hair. Laura’s head was swimming.

  “I’m thinking about going in for our second kiss,” he murmured, and Laura gulped and laughed at the same time, which definitely sounded strange.

  “Yes, I realised that.”

  “Did you? Good.”

  And then he was kissing her, softly, sweetly, and her head was exploding and her heart was squeezing and oh, it felt lovely and overwhelming and strange.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d kissed someone like this, with such tenderness and yearning and hesitation, taking things so very slow because he knew that was what she needed.

  After a few minutes they broke apart, both of them grinning rather self-consciously. Laura’s lips were buzzing along with her head; she thought James must be able to feel the heavy thuds of her heart. Every sense was on exquisite overload.

  “I should p
robably go,” he said, and disappointment swamped through her, along with just a little bit of relief. This was starting to feel very intense.

  “Go…” she repeated, and James smiled wryly.

  “Before I get carried away.”

  In that moment Laura didn’t think she’d mind too much if James got carried away, at least a little, but she recognised the wisdom of his words. “Okay.”

  She clambered rather inelegantly off the sofa and took their coffee cups into the kitchen while James collected his jacket. His hair was a little mussed, and Laura had a vague memory of running her hands through it as they’d kissed. It was enough to send that sweet longing spiralling through her again.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asked as she followed him to the door. “To paint?”

  “Sounds good. Great, actually.” He paused by the door, a rueful smile on his face, and Laura wondered if he was finding it as hard as she was to end this evening. She didn’t want him to go, and yet the thought of anything else terrified her.

  “I had a lovely time,” she told him quietly, meaning it utterly.

  “So it wasn’t too weird in the end?”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Good.” He stared at her for a moment, and Laura stared back, and then somehow they were kissing again, a hard, urgent press of lips as he kept his hands on her waist and everything in her fizzed and fizzed.

  “Good night, Laura,” he said, and then he was gone.

  Laura sagged against the door, everything in her spinning now as well as fizzing. She needed to call Chantal and give her a rundown of the evening—well, most of it—but right now she just wanted to savour it all by herself. The conversation, the kisses, just…everything. It had been, despite the initial awkwardness, the most perfect evening. She was sorry it had ended, but at least she had tomorrow—and really, the whole week—to look forward to.

  With that thought foremost in her mind, Laura reached for her phone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  James’s house really was a wreck. He’d texted her directions that morning and armed with two cups of coffee and some freshly baked blueberry muffins, Laura had walked out of number three with a spring in her step.

  Lindy must have been watching for her, because she practically sprinted out of her cottage before Laura had even locked her front door.

  “How was the big date?” she’d demanded excitedly, and then she’d clocked the two cups and a knowing grin had spread over her face. “Looks like it must have gone quite well.”

  “It did, actually,” Laura replied. Last night she’d spent two hours on the phone with Chantal going over every aspect—well, almost—of her date with James, and then had had a very mini breakdown as she realised how much she was falling for him, and how much that scared her.

  Chantal had, as she always did, talked her down from the ledge and told her she needed to own this relationship, not tiptoe around it. Laura knew she was right, and so she gave Lindy a direct look as she informed her, “It went really well, as a matter of fact.”

  “Wow.” Lindy looked thrilled as well as intensely curious. “Can I ask who the lucky guy is?”

  Laura hesitated, because owning a relationship and blabbing about it all over the village before she’d even told her own kids were two very different things. “You can,” she replied finally, “but I’m afraid I’m not going to tell you. I haven’t told Maggie or Sam yet, and they deserve to know first.”

  “Fair enough,” Lindy agreed, her eyes sparkling, “but I think I can guess who it is.”

  Laura went a bit cold at that. She thought of how she and James had practically held hands in Tea on the Lea, walked up and down the high street, kissed on the bridge. Not to mention he’d also been seen having dinner at her house several times. Of course Lindy could guess. The grumpy man with a full sleeve of tattoos who ran the petrol station could probably guess, and the only words Laura had ever spoken to him were “Forty pounds on pump ten, please.” That was the kind of place Wychwood-on-Lea was. Which meant she needed to tell Sam and Maggie sooner rather than later. A lot sooner.

  “You might be able to,” she conceded, “but I’d rather you didn’t. This is very new and I really don’t know how Sam or Maggie will take me dating someone. Anyone.” Especially when the person was Sam’s teacher who was ten years younger than her.

  “I won’t say a word,” Lindy promised. “I don’t like gossip myself, and there was enough of it when Roger and I were circling around each other.” She reached out and touched Laura’s arm. “I’m happy for you, Laura. Really.”

  “Thanks.” Laura let out a little laugh. “I’m happy for myself, which is actually a really nice feeling. I forgot what it felt like, in this last year.”

  “I’m glad you’re starting to remember, then.”

  Laura’s good mood stayed with her as she walked from Willoughby Close into Wychwood; it was a fresh wintry day that held the faintest hope of spring, with crocuses poking their bright heads through frost-tipped grass, and the pavement sparkling with the morning’s diamond-bright dew.

  She found James’s house easily enough, because, as he’d said in his text, it was the one that looked as if it should be condemned. A terraced cottage sandwiched between two immaculately kept residences that both had the distinctive sage-green trim known as Cotswold Green, it looked like a very poor relation.

  The window and doorframe were clearly rotted through, the paint peeling off in long, dirty, curling strips, and the roof had boards of plywood nailed over where the slate tiles had fallen off. Laura stepped up to the rather battered door and knocked.

  “I know, I know,” James said before she’d even said hello. “It’s a wreck. You were warned.”

  “So I was.” She stepped inside and then felt a frisson of both pleasure and surprise as he took her by the waist and brushed a quick kiss across her lips. Was that where they were now?

  “Are we at that stage yet?” James asked, reading her thoughts perfectly. “Kiss hello? Or not?”

  “We can be,” Laura replied, and he kissed her again.

  Inside the cottage was even more dilapidated than it had looked from the exterior. Half the floor was covered in ratty old carpet in a hideous paisley pattern, the other half had been ripped down to very battered floorboards. The walls were a mishmash of ugly colours—burnt orange, dark brown, olive green.

  “I started scraping paint and realised that was a lost cause,” James explained. “So I thought I’d just paint over it all.”

  Laura stepped over a hole in the floor where some rotten floorboards had needed to be replaced, to peek into the kitchen, which was a living testament to the 1970s.

  “Wow, whoever lived here really liked their olive and orange.”

  “I know. You should see the bathroom suite. Utterly avocado.”

  She handed him a cup of coffee and put the muffins on the kitchen table. “Well, let’s get started, then.”

  “Or we could go for a walk,” James suggested hopefully. “Since it’s such a nice day.”

  “No, I think we’ll paint,” Laura told him with a laugh. “Let’s get this done.”

  “All right, if we have to,” James answered with a grin, and they got to work.

  The last time Laura had painted a room was when she’d redone Maggie’s bedroom in Woodbridge, when she’d turned twelve and had wanted something a bit edgier. She’d asked for a black statement wall and Laura had talked her down to deep purple. They’d painted it together, joking and having fun, and the bittersweet memory made her feel both happy and sad. Would they share that kind of laughter again? She hoped so. She hoped they were on their way towards it.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” James asked, and so Laura told him.

  “From what I’ve seen and heard, teenaged girls are tough, even without a bereavement in the mix. My little sister is coming up on seventeen and she’s only just starting to come out of it.”

  “You mentioned she self-harmed,” Laura said hes
itantly. “Do you know why?”

  James was silent for a moment, his face a study of thoughtful reflection as he carefully painted around a doorframe. He’d chosen a pale blue grey for the sitting room that Laura thought would look lovely when it was done. It would also need about six coats to cover up the dark paint underneath.

  “My family is wonderful,” he finally answered, choosing his words with care. “And we’re all very close. But like any family, I suppose, there are dynamics.”

  “Around the farm?” He’d hinted at as much, when he’d mentioned his brother.

  “Yes, in part. I think I told you last night that the farm has been in my family for a while.”

  “A hundred years or so, right?”

  “Yes. Bought by my great-grandfather. And farmers are proud people. It’s hard work, and it’s even harder to make a living from it these days, so there’s this whole narrative around the farm—keeping it—that keeps us together, as a family. Whatever happens, whatever the cost, the farm comes first.”

  Laura absorbed this statement silently, along with James’s tone. He didn’t sound bitter, not exactly, but something close to it.

  “And that affected your sister?” she surmised as they both continued painting, the steady, soft slap of their brushes against the wall the strangely soothing soundtrack to their conversation.

  “Yes, at least I think that was part of it. There’s the sense of tradition too, and we all rebelled against that as we grew up, each in our own way.”

  “And how did you rebel?” Laura asked with a smile.

  “I parted my hair on the other side,” James joked. “Seriously, I didn’t do much at all. Like I said, late bloomer.”

  “I’m going to need to see photographic evidence of this.”

  He pretended to shudder. “Please, no. You’ll never look at me the same.”