by Karen Swan
‘Everything, baby. We can get out of this shithole, buy someplace new—’
‘Someplace bigger?’
‘Much bigger. And without your mom spying from the windows.’ He kissed her again and this time she snaked her arms around his neck, holding him closer. The physical side of things had always been good between them. Too good. Too much.
He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘What was the thing you wanted to tell me?’
She swallowed, looking back at him, then shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ she smiled. ‘It’s not important.’
Wednesday 8 November 2015
Tuck was more nervous than he thought he’d be. In the intervening months since Mitch had died, they hadn’t spent one moment alone together and he knew that was deliberate on Meg’s part. In the past, he’d found her easy company – a ready smile, good sense of humour, loyal and pretty fearless on a board herself. How could he not have liked her? It was practically written in the stars; the two people in the world he loved most, loved her. And yeah, she was attractive too, he wouldn’t deny it. She had a great body but she didn’t flaunt it, which only made her the more intriguing as far as he was concerned, but she was Mitch’s girl, Lucy’s best friend. Perhaps without those connections, something might have happened once, but there was no chance of it now – not just because he was married or she was a widow, but because she blamed him for Mitch’s death. She’d never said the words out loud – she was too generous, too loyal to Lucy to do that – but he saw it in her eyes every time she looked at him.
It was why he’d gone out of his way to keep a low profile around her – not coming home early on the nights Lucy said Meg was stopping in for dinner, making sure not to walk past the window of Dolores’s store, pulling his baseball cap lower and pretending not to see her if he passed her at the movies.
And she did the same, he knew – he’d seen her double back on herself in the reflection of the meat counter at the supermarket, driving past without waving on the nights he worked late at the studio. It was a game they were both pretending not to play and they were very good at it, for no one suspected the gaping great hole that flapped in the tight weave of their friendship – Lucy hadn’t picked up on it, or Dolores; not even Barbara, who watched him like a hawk.
But he couldn’t avoid this. Lucy had been resolute that he had to tell Meg, saying it was still too early for her to be up and leaving the house, the baby was still so small, the temperatures had started to plunge. It was true that snow was in the air, the sky lowering itself onto the mountaintops in readiness for the first heavy fall of the season, but that wasn’t it – he knew she just didn’t want to be the one to tell Meg the news. Because there was no way she was going to take it well, no matter how logically Lucy argued it.
It wasn’t like Tuck even agreed with it himself. It didn’t sit well with him – on the contrary, in fact – but there’d been no arguing on it for once: the deed was already done, Lucy’s signature was already dry on the dotted line.
He wrung his hands together, feeling how chapped and rough the knuckles felt in his palms. Still, once Meg heard the good news he had to share with her about the Nordica offer, he was confident she’d come round about this.
‘Hey.’
He looked up. Meg was standing by the bar beside him, looking willowy in her plaid shirt and black dungarees, her hair held back in a loose braid. He twisted slightly on his stool. ‘Meg, hey. Thanks for coming.’
She pulled out the stool next to him.
‘Fancy a beer?’ he asked, holding up his own bottle.
She shrugged and sat down, smiling opaquely and nodding to a few of the other locals.
‘So how’ve you been?’ he asked. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘I know, right?’ she replied, without answering him, and he felt his nerves spike again.
‘Another two,’ he said to Jeff, the bartender who’d been working here since Mitch and Tuck had tried sneaking in, underage, all those years ago.
‘How’s Lucy doing?’ she asked, eyes everywhere but on him.
‘Great. Really good,’ he nodded. ‘She’s an amazing mother already – I mean, a real natural. It blows my mind just watching her with him.’
Meg shrugged. ‘You should have seen her during the birth. Most women would have freaked but she kept so calm.’
Tuck snuck a sidelong look at her, trying to tell whether the remark was a jibe for the fact that he hadn’t been there, but Meg was watching Jeff, her body language relaxed. ‘I don’t know how to thank you for what you did that day. I’m not sure I could’ve done it.’
Meg looked at him, doubt in her face too. Instead she shrugged. ‘Instinct kicks in.’
Jeff brought over the beers and set them down on mats. Meg gripped hers, the tips of her fingers white as they pressed the glass, and he saw she was more nervous – or stressed – than she wanted to let on.
‘I’ll swing by after this – see how she’s getting on and have a sneaky cuddle with the little man.’
‘You’ll be lucky,’ Tuck grinned. ‘I’ve barely held him yet. He’s always either feeding or sleeping.’
‘Really?’ Meg looked surprised. ‘I guess I’ve been lucky with my timings then. I’ve had lots of cuddles with him.’
‘She’s probably scared I’m going to drop him,’ Tuck joked after a pause.
‘Probably.’ Meg took a swig of the beer and glanced round the bar. It was surprisingly busy for a Wednesday afternoon, another small group of tourists walking in. ‘Looks like everything’s getting into full swing for the festival kick-off on Friday.’
‘Yeah.’
She looked at him again without making eye contact. ‘Are you nervous?’
‘About the film?’ He shrugged but looked into his beer. ‘What will be, will be, I guess. It’s out of my hands now.’ His fingers played with the foil on the bottle’s neck. In truth, he could hardly sleep. That film had been his lifeline in the immediate aftermath of Mitch’s death; he had poured everything he had into it and if it didn’t make the cut . . . he knew he’d never be able to better it. ‘Are you going to go to the screening?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’ It was her turn to stare at her beer. ‘Maybe.’
He hesitated, and then said, ‘Me either.’
‘You’re not sure? But all that time you spent on it? Months.’
He gave a hopeless shrug. ‘It’ll be different. In the editing suite, I could make myself believe he was right there beside me. But on the big screen, all those strangers watching . . .’ He sighed, cutting himself off. How could he tell her he was terrified it would feel like saying goodbye?
They sat in silence for a few minutes and Tuck could feel Mitch’s presence between them, like a balloon being inflated in the space between their arms until finally it touched them both and their thoughts merged, putting voice to her blame, his guilt.
He wanted to say it – tell her how sorry he was for ever picking up the goddam phone that day. If he’d only waited. Or left it till later; if only he’d gone home instead of to Bill’s – but her silence bristled like a wary animal, its hackles up, and he moved his thoughts away again.
‘So, what’s up?’ she asked, inhaling deeply as she looked down at the beer mat and holding her breath for a moment. Tuck was reminded of an octopus he’d seen out diving once – it puffed itself up and made itself look bigger when it felt vulnerable or under attack. ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’
‘There’s something I have to tell you.’
She frowned. ‘Sounds ominous.’
‘It’s not,’ he said quickly. ‘But we thought you should hear it first. From us.’
‘“Us”? You mean you and Lucy?’
He nodded and grabbed another swig of beer, just as someone came and stood by the bar behind her to place an order. Tuck regretted choosing here to meet – this was the wrong place to tell her after all. It was too public.
‘Well, go on,’ she prompted as he lapsed into silence. ‘What is it?’
‘Before I do, I want you to know the decision was made for the very best of reasons.’
She blinked. ‘OK, now I’m really worried.’
He inhaled deeply, his gaze catching hold, for once, of her elusive hazel-green eyes. They were so clear, like a sky after the rain, washed clean, and he saw at once in them all the pain and sorrow, hurt and loss she’d endured. She was far lovelier than she knew.
‘We’ve chosen the name for the baby.’
‘Oh, my God, is that all?’ she asked, visibly deflating, one hand over her heart. ‘I thought you were going to—’
He watched as she stopped in her tracks. Understood.
‘No.’ She stiffened, her hand falling away from her beer, her face draining of colour. She rose from the bar stool in a single fluid motion.
He reached a hand out to catch her wrist but she pulled it away before he could touch her. ‘Meg, it was Lucy’s idea. She feels it’s a fitting way to remember and honour him.’
‘Honour him?’ Meg repeated, beginning to tremble, the amber flecks in her eyes sparking like fire. ‘Where’s the honour in naming your son after the man you sent to his death?’
Tuck flinched as the words poured over him. They were the ones he’d been expecting ever since that fateful dawn knock at the door but still they burned, excoriating his flesh.
He hung his head.
‘What do you expect me to say to this?’ Meg spat. ‘Do you really think I’m going to call him by that name? Must I have what I’ve lost thrown in my face, day after day, by the very people who stole him from me?’
‘Meg, listen to me—’
‘No! You listen.’ Her face was up to his suddenly. ‘He is not having Mitch’s name. You change it, you understand me? This is not remembrance. It’s not honour. It’s torment. You are the reason why he’s dead. You don’t get to feel better about what you did by paying lip service to his memory. You don’t! I won’t let you do this.’
His mouth opened but it was another moment before the words would come out. ‘It’s too late. She’s already registered the birth. Lucy’s signed the birth certificate.’
Meg stared at him, her entire body trembling. ‘No.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. Tears were filling his eyes but he didn’t even care who saw. She was right in what she was saying. It was because of him that his friend was dead; he could never make amends, never make it right. Not with a film, not with a name.
Meg’s hand connected hard against his cheek, the slap carrying over the music and making every person in the room stare. Tuck knew what they were all thinking – lovers’ quarrel.
‘If I could change it, I would. All of it.’
Meg stared at him, nodding, agreeing. ‘So would I. It should have been you that night. You should have died, not him,’ she hissed. ‘You were right, what you said at the funeral – you never will be half the man he was. You’re a deadbeat, Tuck, just a waste of space. You clung to his coattails, desperate to keep up while he took you on the ride of your life. And now he’s gone and you’re lost, you’re nothing without him . . .’ She stared down at him, desolation in her eyes, all the fight leaving her suddenly. ‘Why couldn’t it have been you?’ she whispered, a single tear on her cheek like a dewdrop on a rose.
She turned on her heel and left, Tuck watching her go, her handprint like a tattoo on his face and marking out his shame. He hadn’t even had the chance to tell her the really life-changing news.
He looked around the bar and in its unnatural stillness and quietude, saw the way everyone was looking at him, looking down on him. He turned back in his seat, his eyes on the upended liquor bottles on the other side of the bar. It was the only way out he knew . . .
‘Get me a Scotch, Jeff, no rocks,’ he mumbled. ‘And make it a double.’
Chapter Twenty-six
Thursday 9 November 2017
‘I can’t actually believe he’s using the outdoor shower,’ Meg smiled, thoroughly bemused as she tucked the blanket tighter around her legs and looked out from the porch. The first snow of the year had fallen overnight and though it hadn’t yet settled on the slopes, the mountain crags and peaks were sugar-dusted. ‘Mitch always did that too.’
‘Typical city boy,’ Ronnie grinned. ‘He’s communing with nature.’
‘I bet he won’t be communing for long when he hears the wolves,’ Meg chuckled, taking another sip of her beer.
Ronnie laughed too, her eyes on the thick rafts of cloud that floored their privileged vista and muffled the town’s lights below. Behind them, inside the cabin, the stove threw out a golden light. The night sky was already stirring, stars beginning to peep from their hiding places and speckle the overarching black. Badger was at their feet, his head on his paws, although Meg knew he would have preferred to be sitting by the drowsy heat of the fire.
Meg turned her head to the side to look at her sister. She wore an expression now which underpinned all others. Meg thought it was peace. It was how she used to feel with Mitch, that in spite of all the adversities they might face, the world made sense. ‘So, have you chosen yet? His place or yours?’
‘Actually, neither. We’re going to buy somewhere new together.’
Meg arched an eyebrow, but didn’t rush to reply. She didn’t want to appear sceptical. ‘Joint mortgage?’ she asked carefully. The inheritances they’d received from their parents’ estate had been enough to put Ronnie through medical school and place a down payment on her flat; for Meg, it had bought them this cabin (built on the land Mitch had inherited from his grandfather) and secured the Titch office and store in town. But Meg was aware Ronnie couldn’t afford to put herself in an unequal financial arrangement.
‘Fifty-fifty,’ Ronnie smiled, reading her exactly. ‘Don’t worry, he’s a good guy.’
‘Oh yes, I know tha—’
‘He’s the One.’
‘Oh, Ron, do you really think so?’
Ronnie nodded. ‘I know it hasn’t even been four months, but I knew it when he kissed me hello at Soho House that night. It felt like coming home. Like “Oh, there you are.” . . . I guess I never knew that home could be a person and not necessarily a place,’ she sighed. Before suddenly catching herself: ‘Oh, God, Meg, I’m so sorry, that was tactless.’
‘No! Don’t be crazy. I couldn’t be happier for you.’
Ronnie smiled but she still looked awkward as she stared out over the floor of white tufted cloud below their feet. ‘Don’t you ever get lonely up here? It’s so beautiful but there must be times, surely, when—’
‘I crave lights, noise, action?’ Meg nodded. ‘Sure. Especially once the snow comes in properly.’ Her chest tightened at the thought of the landscape whitening again, dread following her like a shadow. The snows had been melting by the time she’d returned to the cabin after Mitch’s death – the trees had shaken off their white jackets, grass studding the acres of white ground, water rushing busily in the streams – so that the horror of that night had seemed to belong to another place, another country entirely. But with the return of the snow proper would come the memories of that night; she would become isolated and confined again, the cabin almost impossible to get to, the massive vaulted sky her companion far more than the twinkling lights on the valley floor as it was increasingly lost from sight by clouds. Yes. She often felt impossibly lonely. Especially now Jonas – her guardian angel in the sky – was no longer up there, doing laps as she worked and slept, looking out for her.
‘You know, Hap still asks after you.’
Meg froze at the mention of his name. ‘Well, he shouldn’t.’
‘I don’t mean he’s being intense about it. He knows what it was. He just enquires, that’s all. He really liked you.’
Meg nodded. ‘Good. I liked him.’
Ronnie shifted position, angling her knees towards Meg, her cheek resting on the back of the chair. ‘Anyway, that’s just a by-the-by. What I re
ally want to talk about is New York. How did it go?’ She leaned in closer towards Meg. ‘They loved you, right? Offered you the job on the spot?’
Meg blinked. ‘You really don’t pick up your messages, do you?’
‘Messages?’
‘I called you. Last week. Telling you what happened?’
Ronnie’s face fell. ‘You didn’t get it?’
Meg sighed. ‘I didn’t get the plane, Ron!’
‘What?’ Ronnie shrieked. ‘Why the hell not?’
‘Lucy had—’
‘Oh, Lucy, of course! Why am I not surprised? Of course it was Lucy!’
‘It was hardly her fault,’ Meg said defensively. ‘She went into early labour.’
Ronnie blinked back at her, stupefied.
‘Exactly. She was almost a month early. Hardly a scenario she would have chosen.’
A small silence bloomed. ‘Is the baby okay?’ Ronnie had the grace to look sheepish.
‘Yes. Fine.’
‘What did she get? Pink or blue?’
‘Blue.’
Ronnie smiled. ‘Name?’
‘They haven’t chosen one yet,’ Meg replied, stiffly. She couldn’t bring herself to talk about it with anyone yet, least of all Ronnie – her sister would fly to her defence, she knew, but that wouldn’t make her feel any better about it.
Ronnie frowned, deep in thought. ‘So . . . I still don’t get it. Why did Lucy going into labour early mean you missed your flight?’
‘Because she was up here when her waters broke.’
‘But it only takes twenty-five minutes to get up here from town. She must have known she was in labour before she left?’
‘She said she thought they were those false labour pains. What are they called?’
‘Braxton Hicks.’
‘Yes, those. But her waters broke on the quad bike on the way up.’
‘She drove a quad bike? Pregnant?’ Ronnie echoed.
‘I know! I know! That’s exactly what I said.’
‘So why didn’t she go back into town again?’
‘The contractions came on fast. It all happened really quickly. There was no way she could get back on the quad. I called for the paramedics, thinking they could bring her down on a blood wagon, but they took almost an hour to get here, trying to find a quad bike to get up here themselves.’
