by Kate Hardy
‘You’d have a boat coming to bring your mail and supplies once a week, and you could go fishing when you weren’t on duty in the lighthouse,’ he pointed out.
‘Yes, but you’d have hardly any fresh vegetables and fruit, except on the couple of days after the supply ship came, and think of the sheer isolation.’ She shuddered.
‘But think of the views—all the stars you’d see.’ He looked at her, remembering one of her big bucket list items. ‘Maybe even the Northern Lights.’
‘If you were in one of the lighthouses in Northumbria or Scotland, perhaps,’ she said.
‘And the birds you’d see. It would be great if you were an artist—Ruby would love it.’
Abigail laughed. ‘Your twin likes being smack in the middle of modern life. She’d enjoy the sketching for maybe a week, and then the isolation would drive her crackers. And imagine her with no phone coverage.’
‘True,’ he admitted.
‘I think it’d be too isolated for me,’ she said. ‘Though I guess for you it’d be like being in your lab.’
He smiled. ‘I’m not that isolated in my lab. Apart from the fact that I work as a team, I have to go to way too many meetings during the week.’
He parked the car and they walked down the track to the lighthouse; it turned out they were among the first to queue for the tour and were let up with the first batch of holidaymakers.
‘It’s barer than I expected,’ Abigail whispered when they were inside. ‘Obviously this bit must’ve been for storage because the lighthouse keeper had a cottage next door.’
There were colourful displays around the walls, with old photographs of the lighthouse and former lighthouse keepers, but when Brad looked up there was nothing between them and the very top floor of the lighthouse.
Their group followed the guide up the narrow stone steps that clung to the walls in a spiral, first of all up to a room full of maps, which showed all the shipping hazards in the area and the locations of other lighthouses nearby.
‘When the lighthouse was first built here, it took three keepers to run. And they had to be really good friends because they worked together and lived together for months at a time. It wasn’t so bad here on the mainland, but in somewhere like the Needles Rock on the Isle of Wight it meant living in a tiny room, with no running water or heating.’
Brad looked at Abigail, who grimaced at the thought of it.
Then they climbed up the steep ladder to the lamp itself; from the top, there were amazing views over the cornfields and the sea.
Brad was fascinated by the fact that the light was only five hundred watts but was visible eighteen miles out to sea, thanks to the angles of the glass slats around the lamp. But, as the guide talked, he thought about how much his dad would’ve loved this, and a wave of sheer misery and loss hit him. It felt like a wall slamming into him and he was barely able to pay attention to what the guide was telling them about how the lamps worked in the early days and what the keepers had to do, from lighting and checking the lights to keeping records of the weather and any shipwrecks.
* * *
Abigail frowned. Brad had gone very quiet and it was as if all the sunlight had been sucked from his face.
Something was definitely wrong. Was this something to do with his ‘unfinished business’?
Would he talk to her about it? Or would he block her off again?
She had to concentrate on going backwards down the steep ladder from the top, and going down the spiral steps was definitely more scary than going up them, but as they walked to the car she took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Sure.’
But his tone was flat. Years ago, she would’ve left it. Now, she called him on it. ‘You don’t look OK or sound OK.’
He sighed. ‘I was thinking about Dad. He would’ve loved this, all the stuff about boats in olden times. I could’ve brought him here and taken him out for a pub lunch or something afterwards.’
‘I know. It’s a shame you never got to do it.’ She turned to face him and splayed her hand over his heart. ‘But your memories of him are still right here and you’ll never lose them—and you can still share this with him in your head.’ She added quietly, ‘And today you’ve shared it with me.’
‘I know. Sorry. I’m not good company right now.’ He grimaced. ‘Do you want me to take you home?’
At least he was talking to her. ‘No, let’s go for a walk somewhere. It will clear your head.’
He was quiet all the way as they drove inland to a patch of woodland. He was quiet, too, when they walked hand in hand through the trees, and she didn’t push him to talk.
Eventually, he sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t want to bring you down with my mood, but I don’t want to shut you out either.’
Relief flooded through her. He wasn’t going to close himself off again. ‘It’s fine,’ she said lightly. ‘Everyone has good and bad days.’
‘Do you get bad days?’
She had when they’d first split up; she’d managed to pull herself out of it, but it had taken her a while. And she’d really needed the support of her parents and her best friend—support she guessed Brad either hadn’t had or, more likely, had refused. Support she should have given him instead of letting him down. ‘Yes. Obviously both my parents are still here, so it’s not the same thing that you went through, but I’m only human. I get days where just about everything seems to be wrong.’
‘So what do you do? How do you deal with it?’
‘Hit my kitchen,’ she said. ‘Baking always works for me. I think it’s the scent of vanilla that does it. Actually, I read an article saying it’s not just childhood associations with the scent that cheers people up—there’s something in the fragrance that’s calming and reduces stress, the same way as lavender works to help you sleep and lemon’s good for if you’re feeling sick or need to be mentally sharp. And that’s proper peer-reviewed science, not the woo-woo stuff,’ she added with a grin.
He smiled. ‘You sound a bit like me.’
‘It’s where I got it from,’ she said with a smile. ‘I kind of picked up from you what to look out for and what to ignore. But, seriously, do you want to skip the picnic and go back to my place for a baking session and see if it works for you?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you forgotten the time I made you pancakes and we couldn’t shut the smoke alarm off?’
She laughed. ‘No, but I’ll be supervising, and I promise it’s the easiest recipe ever. It’s also the best management tool ever.’
‘Management tool?’ He looked mystified.
She grinned. ‘I make them for my staff—they love me and will say yes to almost anything once they’ve scoffed the brownies.’
‘Got you.’ He nodded. ‘OK. I’ll give it a go. But it’d be a shame to waste the picnic.’
‘Let’s eat first, then.’
They headed back to the car, where he retrieved the cool bag containing their lunch, before finding an empty table at the picnic area.
Brad had chosen a wonderful selection of food: sourdough bread, Brie, tomatoes, ham carved off the bone, local crab and chilli pâté, local raspberries and smoothies from the local deli.
‘This is fantastic. Excellent choices,’ she said.
‘Glad you like it,’ he said.
On the way back to the car, they saw magpies. Three of them.
‘One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl,’ Brad said, recalling the old rhyme.
‘Maybe Ruby will have a honeymoon baby,’ Abigail said lightly.
She and Brad hadn’t discussed children when they’d got married; their tacit agreement was that they wouldn’t even discuss it until he’d finished his studies. By then, they’d been divorced, so it wasn’t an issue. Now, it might be. She’d barely dated since Brad, let alone met someone she’d think about settling down with and having a family with, and she was pretty sure it was the same for him.
But now they were on the verge of trying again...
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They looked at each other, and she knew both of them were thinking the same thing, wondering if the other wanted children.
It was a conversation they might need to have—but not yet. Not until they’d decided what was happening between them.
‘Let’s go make some killer brownies,’ she said.
She could see in his face that he knew she’d chickened out of the conversation—but that he was relieved she hadn’t made an issue of it.
* * *
Back at her house, she took the ingredients from her cupboard.
‘Do you always have ingredients for brownies?’ Brad asked.
‘These ones, I do.’
And it was so simple: weighing the dry ingredients into a bowl, measuring the wet ones into a jug, and stirring the lot together with a whisk.
‘See? It’s not so very different from lab work,’ she said.
‘Oh, but it is,’ he said with a smile.
But as the scent of the brownies spilled from the oven, she could see his mood change. He relaxed enough to make them both a mug of coffee—and funny how nice it felt to have him pottering around her tiny kitchen.
He kissed her when she’d taken the brownies out of the oven. ‘Thank you. You’re right. The scent of vanilla and chocolate has made me feel better.’
‘Of course I’m right. I have two X chromosomes.’ She gave him a cheeky grin.
He didn’t correct her; he just smiled and kissed her again.
‘Now go and take these to your mum, then take her out to dinner. You can return the pan later,’ she said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I have stuff to do,’ she said, ‘and I think you need some time with your family right now.’
‘Yeah.’ He held her close. ‘You’re wonderful, do you know that?’
‘I’m just me.’
But it warmed her all the way through when, an hour later, her doorbell went and the local florist handed her the most beautiful arrangement of flowers.
The card was in Brad’s handwriting and said simply, Because you make my world a better place.
Abigail had to blink back the tears. Today had been a little bit of a hurdle, but they’d overcome it. So maybe, just maybe, there was hope for the future.
CHAPTER NINE
BRAD CALLED FOR Abigail at seven on Friday evening and she greeted him with a kiss. ‘Thank you for the flowers. I know I texted you, but it’s good to say thank you in person, too. They’re gorgeous.’
‘You’re welcome.’ He looked slightly awkward. ‘Sorry I was a bit difficult yesterday.’
‘It’s fine. You talked to me.’ And that was the big difference between now and five years ago, she thought. The thing that gave her hope for the future. There was still stuff he was keeping inside, but she’d give him space and let him talk when he was ready.
‘Mum says thanks for the brownies.’ He handed her the now clean cake tin.
Abigail smiled. ‘She’s already texted me to say thanks.’
His eyes widened. ‘Did she ask...?’
‘Of course she did. She’s your mum and she worries about you. But I told her,’ Abigail said softly, ‘that we’re talking, that right now we’re not in a place to make any decisions, but she’ll be among the first to know when we do.’ She stroked his face. ‘And she’s not going to rush us. When we make the decision, it has to be right. For both of us.’
‘Agreed.’ He kissed her. ‘Come on. Let’s go and play.’
He’d got tickets for them to see a singer-songwriter in a tiny venue in Norwich, where the bar was lit by fairy lights and the stage was just about big enough for three people, two guitars and a piano. It reminded her of their years in Cambridge when they’d go to see a band in some tiny room and stand at the front, with his arms wrapped round her, swaying along to the music and enjoying the closeness as well as the atmosphere.
They couldn’t go back to the past.
But maybe they could move forward and bring the best bits of the past with them.
* * *
On Saturday night, they went to the cinema, and Brad even put up with a rom-com and held her hand all the way through it. He got his steam train trip on Sunday afternoon, and their seats were in an old-fashioned carriage with seats opposite each other and a corridor, with a uniformed inspector coming to clip their tickets. And Abigail had to admit it was fun, with the sulphurous smell of coal in the air and the sight of the steam wafting past the windows as they went round a bend in the track.
Monday felt like a honeymoon: a day to themselves in Norwich, where they went to an art exhibition in the castle and wandered through narrow streets full of quirky, independent shops. They had afternoon tea in a café where all the china was clearly vintage and none of the tables and chairs matched, but she loved the ambience: ancient pine dressers where jars of local honey and home-made jam were stacked for sale, the paintings on the walls were all by local artists and were for sale, and they had a kitsch cuckoo clock which gave the café its name. The scones were light and fluffy, the sandwiches were perfect and the red velvet cake was the best she’d ever tasted.
On Tuesday, Brad picked her up after work and they had a fabulous dinner on the terrace at his hotel before sitting on his balcony with a bottle of champagne, watching the sun set.
Two more days, she thought, and their speed-dating thing would be over. It would be time to make their decision about the future.
Dating him over the last few days had shown her that yes, she was still physically attracted to him and still enjoyed his company. Spending time together was fun.
And if she was honest with herself, she knew she was still in love with him. In love with the man he’d become rather than the memory of the teenager she’d married. Brad was thoughtful, kind, and he made her laugh. If he asked her to stay with him, she knew she would.
But how did he feel about her?
He’d sent her those flowers. He’d opened up to her—at least, he’d tried to. He’d said that she made his world a better place; that was how she felt about him, too.
So if he did feel the same way that she did... What then? How was it going to work, given that her life was here and his was in London? It wasn’t a commutable distance. How were they going to compromise?
‘You’re quiet,’ he said, his arms wrapped round her and his mouth against her hair.
‘Wool-gathering,’ she said, not wanting to push the point.
‘I was thinking,’ he said. ‘I know you have to be up early tomorrow, but right now I don’t want you to go home.’
Her stomach suddenly felt as if it were filled with butterflies. ‘You’re asking me to stay the night?’
‘Yes.’ He twisted slightly so he was facing her, and snatched a kiss. ‘I know we said we weren’t going to complicate things, but I want to wake up with you in my arms.’
She wanted that, too.
‘And I’ll drive you back to your place tomorrow morning at whatever time you like.’
‘It’ll be really early. Well before breakfast,’ she warned.
‘I don’t care, as long as you stay,’ he said.
In speed-dating terms, they were practically two months in to their new relationship. And although she knew they’d both held off sleeping together again because they hadn’t wanted sex to get in the way, she was already clear about what she wanted. The fact that he wanted it, too—and he’d talked about waking with her, not about sex—gave her hope.
And how could she resist those beautiful dark eyes? She took a deep breath. ‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ He kissed her, scooped her up at the same time as he got out of the chair they’d been sitting in together, and carried her to his bed.
* * *
Abigail was awake early the next morning. Brad was still asleep and the light was just starting to filter through the curtains. He really was beautiful, she thought as she watched him lying beside her. But more than that, she loved the man he’d become.
They’d find their compr
omise somehow. Even if it meant that she was the one who had to uproot her life and move to London. Maybe she could open a branch of Scott’s there, while putting a manager in to run the Norfolk side of the business.
She’d miss her parents, Ruby, her friends and her colleagues. She’d miss seeing the sea every day. She’d miss the tiny flint cottage she’d grown to love. Leaving here would be a massive wrench.
But it meant she would be with Brad.
No more loneliness, no more wishing that she’d done something different and managed to save her marriage.
Tomorrow, they’d talk about it and make their decision.
And please let him want the same thing that she did.
She woke him with a kiss. ‘Hey, sleepyhead.’
He was almost instantly awake. ‘I need to drive you home.’
‘I can get a taxi.’
‘I promised you last night I’d take you home, no matter how ridiculously early it is.’ He kissed her. ‘Good morning. I can try sweet-talking the kitchen staff into letting us having some very early breakfast.’
She smiled. ‘It’s fine. I’ll grab something after I’ve had my shower and changed.’
In the end, he drove her home and made her coffee while she showered and dressed, and instead of her usual morning run she made toast and had breakfast with him.
And how nice it was to do something as simple and everyday as having breakfast together. She’d missed that. Missed him making her coffee, missed doing the crossword together on Sunday mornings, missed waking up in his arms.
‘I’m afraid I have to go now, but I’ll be done at the café by ten,’ she said.
‘Sure. I’ll do the washing up while you’re gone.’
‘It’s fine. Leave it. A couple of crumb-filled plates and jammy knives really don’t matter,’ she said, flapping a dismissive hand. ‘But thanks for the offer.’
She let him drop her at the café on his way back to the Bay Tree.
