by Jojo Moyes
Jones sat down, removed his jacket, revealing his rain-wrinkled, blood-spattered shirt, and took off his shoes. Daisy, beside him, pulled her crumpled party dress one-handed over her head, suddenly unself-conscious about the possible exposure of post-baby bulges or stretch marks, even in the harsh light of morning. She replaced it with her old T-shirt and climbed in, the covers whispering against her bare legs.
The window was open, carrying in the warm scents of the salted summer morning, the curtains swaying languorously in the breeze. Jones eased himself down, facing her, his eyes black with lack of sleep, his jaw grayed and unshaven, yet all the tensions somehow ironed from his brow. He gazed at her, unblinking, his eyes softened, his hand gently tracing Daisy's bare skin.
"You look beautiful," he said from under his gauze dressing.
"You don't."
They smiled at each other, slow, sleepy smiles.
He lifted his finger and placed it on her lips. She kept her eyes on his, and raised her own bandaged hand, lightly touching his face, finally allowing herself the luxury of a touch she'd ached for for so long. Very gingerly, she placed her fingertip on his bandaged nose.
"Does it hurt?" she murmured.
"Nothing hurts," said Jones. "Absolutely nothing."
And with a deep sigh of satisfaction, he pulled her to him, wrapped himself around her, buried his big head in that cool, sweet place where her neck met her shoulder. She felt his soft hair and his stubbly jaw against her, the soft touch of his lips, smelled the distant echo of antiseptic on his skin. For a second she recognized the flicker of desire and almost immediately felt it swamped by something more pleasurable, a relaxed anticipation, a deep, joyous feeling of safety. She burrowed into him, feeling the weight of his arm, his leg, entwined with hers, his limbs already heavy with approaching slumber. And then, finally, pressed against the steady beat of his heart, Daisy slept.
THE RAIN HAD PASSED OVER MERHAM. IT LEFT PAVEMENTS silvered with water, glowing liquid peach and phosphorescent blue in the early light. Hal's footsteps, steady and even, splashed as he walked his charge finally toward the gate.
It was Rollo who first saw them coming up the road; through the window Hal saw him leap out from under the coffee table and scramble for the door, barking. Camille, jolted from a light sleep, rose awkwardly from the sofa to follow him, stumbling as she reached for her cane, and worked out where she was. But Rollo had not been the most alert. By the time Hal reached the gate, his father-in-law was already down the stairs. He walked out the open door and halfway down the path with the brisk gait of someone a fraction his age, straight past Hal--who at a slower pace stepped aside--and reclaimed his exhausted wife.
There was a short silence. Hal stood in the porch, and placed his arms around Camille, grateful after the long, long night simply to feel her there. Her whispered question he answered with a nod, close enough that she could feel his head against her own.
Then Camille took a step back, squeezing his hand. "We'll go now, Pops," she called tentatively. "Unless you want us to stay."
"Either way, sweetheart." Joe's voice was rigid, contained.
Camille made to move, but Hal stayed her. They stood in the doorway, waiting, listening.
Joe, several feet away, faced his wife like an old prizefighter. Hal noted that his hands, behind his back, were trembling.
"You must want a cup of tea," Joe said eventually.
"No," said Lottie, smoothing her hair away from her face. "No, I just had one up at the cafe. With Hal."
She glanced behind him and then caught sight of the two suitcases in the hall.
"What's this?" she said.
Joe closed his eyes briefly. Breathed out. As if it were an effort. "You never looked at me like that. Not in forty years of marriage."
Lottie turned to face him. "I'm looking at you now, aren't I?"
They stared at each other for some time. Then Lottie took two steps forward, and grasped his hand. "I thought I might take up painting again. I might enjoy doing a bit of painting again."
Joe frowned, looked at her as if she were not entirely in control of her senses.
Lottie glanced down at their hands. Let out a breath. "This silly cruise thing of yours. You're not going to make me play bridge, are you? I can't stand playing bridge. But I don't mind having a go at a bit of painting."
Joe stared at her, his eyes widening just a fraction. Then, "You know I'd never . . ." His voice broke off, and he turned away from them all for a minute, his head sunk into his shoulders. Lottie's own head dipped, and Hal, suddenly feeling like an intruder, turned away, his hand closing around Camille's.
Joe appeared to compose himself. He hesitated, looked at his wife, then moved forward, just one or two steps, and placed his arm around her shoulders. She moved in to him, a small gesture, but there nonetheless, and after a pause as short as a breath, together, slowly, they walked toward their house.
IT WAS TIME TO MAKE HIM HAPPY, SHE'D TOLD HAL WHEN he found her, down at the beach huts, sitting alone in the dawn. It had been enough to know that Guy had loved her, that they would have been together.
I don't understand, Hal had said. He was the love of your life. Even I could see that.
Yes, he was. But I can let him go now, she'd said simply. And although he could normally describe anything to his sightless wife, Hal struggled to convey the sense of release on Lottie's face, the way her expression, engraved with years of pent-up frustration and grief, had suddenly cleared.
"Sitting there talking to him. It made me realize--all these years wasted. Hankering after someone who wasn't there when I should have been loving Joe. He's a good man, you see."
Outside, two lobstermen had unloaded their boats, hauling their catch over the side with a well-practiced ease. Along the shore the first dogwalkers left meandering tracks on the sand, a temporary history.
"He's known. He's always known. But he never resented me for it."
She had looked at her son-in-law then and stood, a hand pushing back her graying hair, a girlish, tentative smile.
"I think it's time Joe got himself a wife, don't you?"
EPILOGUE
I had to stay in a hospital for a while afterward. I forget how many weeks. They didn't call it a hospital, of course, not when they were trying to persuade me to go there. They just said it would be a visit home to England, a chance to spend some time with Mummy.
A "little stay" would make me feel better, you see. Lots of girls had the same problem as me, even if no one really talked about it. It wasn't the sort of thing one talked about, even then. They knew that I never liked living in the tropics, that if it hadn't been for Guy I would have come home.
I had wanted that baby, you see. Wanted it so much. I used to dream that it was inside me; sometimes, if I put my hand on the bare skin of my stomach, I could even feel it flutter. I used to talk to it silently, willing it into life. Although I never told anybody. I knew what they'd say.
Because Guy and I never spoke about it. He was rather good like that, Mummy said. Sometimes the less attention one paid to something, the better. Less damage all around. Then, Mummy always was one to turn a blind eye. She never really spoke about it either. It was as if I embarrassed her.
When I came out, everyone pretended I hadn't been there at all. They just got on with things and left me to my dreams. I didn't tell them anything. I knew from their faces they didn't believe half of what I said. Why should they?
But you can't escape your past, can you? Just like you can't escape your fate. Guy and I were never really the same afterward. It was as if he carried it around, rotting inside him, and could never look at me without the smell of it, the taint of it, coloring his reaction. He was as full of it as I was empty.
Eighteen apples I did, the day that I told you. Eighteen apples.
And still they came out the same way.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JOJO MOYES is a British novelist and journalist. She is one of only a few authors to have twic
e won the Romantic Novel of the Year Award by the Romantic Novelists' Association and has been translated into eleven different languages.
www.jojomoyes.com Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
PRAISE
JOJO MOYES's
stunning and unforgettable first novel
Sheltering Rain
"This is a remarkable first novel, rich and deep
and full of wonderfully realized characters.
Oh, these women!"
--Anne Rivers Siddons
"[An] accomplished debut . . . fluidly paced and
cast with engaging characters . . . In style
and substance Moyes is a worthy addition
to [Rosamunde Pilcher's and
Maeve Binchy's] ranks."
--Booklist
"Impressive and absorbing."
--Sunday Express Magazine (U.K.)
"This perceptive debut novel does the
mothers-and-daughters thing
in page-turning style."
--Elle (U.K.)
"I enjoyed [Sheltering Rain] very much."
--Rosamunde Pilcher
ALSO BY JOJO MOYES
Me Before You
The Last Letter from Your Lover
The Horse Dancer
Night Music
Silver Bay
The Ship of Brides
The Peacock Emporium
The Girl You Left Behind
Sheltering Rain
CREDITS
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Cover photograph (c) by Sandra Cunningham/Arcangel Images
Author photograph (c) by Lizzie Sanders
COPYRIGHT
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the Society of Authors as the Literary Representative of the Estate of Virginia Woolf to reprint from Jacob's Room by Virginia Woolf.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
WINDFALLEN. Copyright (c) 2003 by JoJo Moyes. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
First HarperTorch paperback printing: April 2004
First William Morrow hardcover printing: May 2003
First William Morrow Paperback
ISBN 978-0-06-001291-9
EPub Edition JUNE 2013 ISBN 9780062311603
13 14 15 16 17 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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