“What are you saying?”
“Maybe you were right to do what you did. Maybe it saved us years of pain, because you clearly aren’t the type of person I want to tie my life to, just not for the reasons you initially thought.”
“Emma,” Brogan whispered.
Emma glanced at her watch, as if resetting some clock on grief. “It’s time for you to go.”
Brogan stood and reached out to her, but Emma walked purposefully toward the door. She had to end this. Now, before she fell apart again, before she began to question herself, before she did something she’d regret.
Brogan followed her, and when Emma swung wide the door, she stepped through, but then turned back to stare at her, green eyes so full of sadness Emma’s knees nearly buckled. “What do we do now?”
Emma shrugged and swallowed a lump of emotion before she could speak. “You said yourself, we have to move on. That’s probably the only thing you were right about all week.”
Then she softly closed the door, before Brogan had a chance to see her cry.
Chapter Fourteen
Brogan stood staring at the door for entirely too long. Or at least it felt like a long time. Then again, the last few months had felt like minutes, so what did she know, except that by the time she managed to turn around, several tourists were casting concerned glances at her as they walked slowly by. Could they sense her despair? She wasn’t crying. She was too stunned to form that cohesive of a response. Instead, she simply turned in a circle, searching for answers in streets she’d walked since childhood and in skies she’d gazed into her entire life. They suddenly felt more foreign than the American on the other side of the door. How could that be? Why did someone who’d spun her around for weeks seem so clear this morning? Or maybe Emma wasn’t clear so much as her assessment of Brogan had been.
Brogan had messed up. She’d misunderstood. She’d hurt Emma. There was no room for disagreement there. She felt her failure in her bones. Somehow, she’d always known she would come up short for Emma. She’d been holding her breath since their first meeting, expecting it to happen at every turn, and now it had. She should’ve at least been able to relax. The worst had happened, and she’d had her initial assessment of her own unworthiness confirmed. However, instead of feeling relieved or vindicated, she felt bereft.
She’d never wanted this, never wanted to hurt Emma, never wanted to fall for her, never wanted to kiss Caroline in the first place. She certainly hadn’t wanted to feel the hollowness that was now spreading through her chest and into her limbs. She wiggled her fingers in an attempt to keep the dread from paralyzing her fully. She’d only meant to rip off the Band-Aid, or cauterize a wound before it had a chance to bleed them dry. Instead, she’d opened an old one, for both of them.
She covered her face with her hands as if trying to wipe away the memory of Emma’s expression when Brogan said she’d “move on with whoever.” Or the betrayal in Emma’s eyes when Brogan said she’d pulled away because she was in love with her. In doing so, she’d confirmed Emma’s worst fears. She’d made her feel like she wasn’t good enough for Brogan when clearly the opposite was true. The complete mess she’d made over the last twenty-four hours proved Brogan wasn’t worthy and she couldn’t be trusted with someone so precious. She still tasted bitter bile in the back of her throat at the comparison to Amalie, but Emma was right about the bottom line.
Maybe that’s what ultimately mattered. Emma had seen the truth. Emma was free now, but Brogan had a sinking suspicion she never would be. The fear hammered in her chest as the grief of what she’d lost clawed at her insides. Despite her best efforts at distance and denial and self-restraint, she’d lost the battle and fallen in love with Emma Volant.
£ £ £
Emma stood in her small kitchen. How long had she been frozen by indecision? Minutes? Hours? The sun that had been high over the North Sea when she’d come in had now passed over the cottage and out of direct view. Beyond that, time had become a vague concept for her. She had no real use for a clock or watch. She hadn’t left her house in a week. She didn’t need to now. She had enough canned soup in her cabinet to survive the apocalypse. That would’ve been enough when she’d first arrived here, or the first time she’d grieved a mistake about who to trust. As the burn of shame and chill of inadequacy oscillated inside her now, at least she had some frame of reference. She didn’t really find that comforting. She didn’t appreciate the reminder that she’d done this to herself not once, but twice. Still, she took a cold sort of solace in knowing the humiliation of losing Amalie shouldn’t even be compared to Brogan’s betrayal. If she’d survived the former, she’d survive the latter . . . probably.
She’d been married to Amalie. She hadn’t laid even a casual claim to Brogan. She’d spent years of her life with Amalie and only a few months of friendship with Brogan. Amalie had dragged her name, reputation, their solemn vows through the gutters of New York. Brogan had merely kissed a stranger in an empty pub. The two shouldn’t even compare.
And yet, here she sat, day after day, night after night, replaying the way all her hope and faith and emotional progress had come crashing down around her, and the whole thing felt eerily similar. Grief kept her sluggish all day and restless all night. It ached in her muscles and joints. It undercut her ability to focus on work or reading or watching TV. She spent hours curled up under a quilt in her conservatory watching the waves and clouds roll in. How long would she have to mourn before she could restart the healing process once more, and did she even want to if she was merely destined to make the same mistakes time and time again?
Her stomach growled, reminding her what she’d come in here for in the first place. Food. Soup. She didn’t want any. And yet she was hungry, the real kind, not the empty kind she’d grown used to before. Furrowing her brow, she realized she missed real food. The fact might not have surprised most people, but it was the first difference she’d felt since showing Brogan the door a week ago. She missed something. That wasn’t exactly new. She missed so many things, but at the moment scones were definitely on this list, and safer to address than any of the other pieces of broken heart rattling around in her chest.
Scones would never hurt her. And she could get some any time she wanted. Right or wrong, she’d run away from all her problems in America and chosen to hide out in England. Scones were everywhere in England. She’d seen them in several places around town. Then again, Brogan had been in all those places, too. Even the place where she’d had scones in Warkworth was awash in memories of Brogan. Still, there had to be places that delivered scones. She smiled faintly at the memory of the local women huddled around a plate of scones on her doorstep.
The ladies delivered scones. They had to have gotten them somewhere. Or did they make them? She leaned back against the nearest countertop. Why hadn’t that occurred to her before? People made their own scones. She could make her own scones. She could fill one of her more basic needs. In theory. She laughed, a little bubble of a sound, but she liked the way it rumbled up from her chest and out of her mouth without an effort or strain. So, maybe she couldn’t make her own scones right now, but she could learn.
She’d learn.
The idea made her almost giddy.
She crossed the small kitchen in two steps and snatched up the note the ladies had left on their first visit. Then, picking up both speed and purpose, she headed to the living room and dug around the couch cushions until she located her long-dormant cell phone. She quickly dialed an unfamiliar number.
“Hi, Esther?” she said when the ringing stopped. “It’s Emma. Emma Volant, from the village. Yes, you said I could call if I needed anything . . .”
Within two hours, her kitchen was full of people and food and warmth and life.
Not only had Esther gladly rushed over, she’d brought Diane and Ciara and little Reggie. Not to mention flour and raisins and the culinary miracle of clotted cream.
“So, we whack them with this thing?” Emma asked, holding u
p the rolling pin.
“No,” they all called in unison, then burst out laughing. Emma got the sense they were wondering how she’d managed to stay alive without basic survival skills, but she didn’t feel judged. She felt . . . she didn’t know. Not quite happy. Her other problems weren’t solved or gone, but standing there with the heat of the oven, and the warmth of friends, and flour on every visible surface, the pain felt more bearable.
“What about the book club?” Reggie asked, apropos of nothing.
“What about it?” Diane asked, taking the rolling pin from Emma’s hand and nodding for her to watch as she ran it smoothly across a rough rectangle of dough.
“Aren’t we going to start one?”
Everyone sort of looked at Emma sheepishly. “What did I miss?”
“Well.” Ciara drew out the word until a bit of Irish accent came through, reminding Emma of her sister. She had to fight to keep her face neutral and her ears from echoing Brogan’s voice. “We’re all big readers, and we were thinking it might be nice to start a book club, but . . .”
“But?” Emma asked, wondering where this was going.
Ciara’s cheeks flushed nearly as red as her hair. “We don’t know how.”
Emma smiled. “Is that all?”
“We thought maybe you did, and you could show us, but we didn’t want to impose on you.”
“Or take advantage of your contacts,” Esther added.
“I’m not sure I understand how asking me how to start a book club would be taking advantage.”
“We aren’t either,” Diane admitted, “but we’ve never had a book club in the village, at least not that I remember. Do we have to order things or work through a store? Do we need to inform the author? Or get workbooks? Or have a board or publicity?”
“You certainly could,” Emma said. “Some book clubs function formally with dues and events and speakers, but the best ones I’ve been a part of consist of a few friends who agree to read the same book on their own, and then go someplace casual to talk about it.”
All three of the older women relaxed visibly, and Reggie excitedly offered, “We could meet at Barter Books. They have books and scones.”
“Books and scones?” Emma asked, genuinely interested. “Why have I not heard of this place?”
“Oh, it’s just up the road,” Diane said with a shrug, then passed Emma a silver ring with flour all over the rim. “Now use this to cut as many circles as you can out of the dough.”
“It’s a big bookstore in an old train station,” Reggie continued, while Emma tried to cut through the scone dough without smashing it too flat. “And they have a café with scones and bacon butties, and a full English breakfast.”
“What’s a full English breakfast?”
“The full English is what we call having everything you could want to start out right on one big plate. There’s eggs and bacon and bangers and beans and tomatoes and mushrooms.”
“And they serve all that in a bookstore?” Emma asked, her excitement building.
“I could get lost in there all day,” Ciara said wistfully, then tousling Reggie’s ginger mop added, “or at least I could before I had kids.”
“It does sound like everything I would need to be happy for a day,” Emma admitted.
“I’m surprised you haven’t been there,” Esther said, as she placed the last of the cutouts on a baking sheet.
“I didn’t know it existed. I don’t know much about the area outside the village.”
“Surely you’ve been up to the Holy Island of Lindisfarne,” Diane said as she collected the scraps of dough and gently rolled them out again.
Emma shook her head.
“Oh, they have replicas of stunning illuminated gospels and an exhibit of how the monks used to make them.”
“And a Viking museum!” Reggie added.
“Plus, it’s beautiful,” Ciara said. “But not as beautiful as Cragside.”
The other two women made little hums of agreement.
“What’s Cragside?” Emma asked, realizing it wasn’t just scones she needed a lesson in.
“It’s a manor house built by a great inventor. It was the first house in the whole world to have hydroelectricity, but as impressive as the house is, it pales in comparison to the gardens.”
“You could be there for days and not see them all,” Diane agreed, as Emma cut a few more scones from the remaining dough. “I make Tom take me down there every spring. If I’d known you’d never been, I would’ve asked you along.”
“It’s not too late for her to go,” Esther said, finally sliding the baking sheet into the oven. “Though for summer walks, I do love Hadrian’s Wall.”
“I’ve heard of that one,” Emma said, with a little prick of excitement. “Is it far from here?”
“You’re less than an hour from some of the best stretches.”
“And forts, and a Roman Legion museum with real weapons.” Reggie hopped around excitedly, like she had a sword in her hand.
“I didn’t know,” Emma admitted. “I never thought about Northern England being part of the Roman Empire, and I’ve never left the village except to go to the grocery store, or the two trips to the castle.”
“You haven’t even been to Edinburgh?” Ciara asked, sounding surprised. “I’d have thought someone like you would enjoy visiting all the Harry Potter sights and do some proper shopping.”
Emma realized she would indeed enjoy taking that trip, and wondered why she hadn’t even considered it until now. Depression? Lack of knowing what was available? Or had she simply been too afraid to branch out of her cottage and beach? She didn’t feel right mentioning any of those options in the midst of such a lively conversation. She didn’t want to slip back into the darkness that had paralyzed her all week, so she tried to offer a more practical excuse. “I don’t have a car.”
“You could take the X18 bus right to Barter Books,” Esther offered, “and the trains to Edinburgh run from north of the estuary every half hour.”
“I hadn’t even considered taking a train to Scotland.”
Diane chuckled. “You Americans never do, but you’d need a bus to get to Holy Island.”
“The X18 North will get you up to the causeway,” Ciara said. “That’s the one I take up to Berwick, but even with the tide out, I don’t think you’d want to walk all the way across.”
“Unless you’re a pilgrim.” Diane giggled. “But I think there’s a shuttle.”
“Only in the summer,” Esther added.
“Are you sure? I think they got so tired of numpties getting stuck out there at high tide that they started running it year-round. I could do a little research for you,” Diane offered.
“Or she could buy a car,” Reggie said matter-of-factly.
They stopped their bus planning and turned to Emma, eyebrows raised.
She bit her lower lip and pondered what did seem to be the obvious solution. “I hadn’t thought about it before.”
“Why not?” Reggie asked.
“I, well, I don’t . . .” She didn’t know the answer. Since driving with Brogan had gone better than she’d feared, she probably should have considered becoming mobile much sooner. Why hadn’t she tried to drive? Why hadn’t she tried to explore?
Brogan.
The answer hit her chest like a hot poker. She’d relied on Brogan. She’d assumed Brogan would always be there to help, to teach, to show her things filled with magic and wonder.
“Maybe Emma doesn’t want to go through the hassle of buying a car until she knows for sure she’s staying here,” Ciara told her daughter softly.
“Don’t you want to stay here?” Reggie asked, a twinge of hurt and fear in her voice.
Emma’s heart constricted, and not just at the emotion behind Reggie’s words, but at the emotions it sparked in her. She glanced around her kitchen, at the women who filled it with food and kindness, then out across her garden to the sea, set in gray and green as the afternoon light faded behind the villag
e. Did she want to leave?
This place wasn’t without conflicts for her. The pain she had felt thinking of Brogan only seconds earlier should have given her more pause. She’d come here to get away from feelings like those. She’d run away from her home and her friends and the life she’d built there, all to escape the feelings that shot through her in that moment. Closing her eyes she could still isolate the hurt and the embarrassment and the sense of betrayal she’d felt at seeing Brogan kiss someone else, or hearing Brogan say she was attracted to her but didn’t trust her enough to share those feelings. The anger and shame and sadness still swirled inside her, but this time she felt no desire to run.
That was different. That was new. That gave her hope.
Opening her eyes, she smiled faintly and threw her arm around Reggie’s shoulder, turning the girl slightly until they both faced the window overlooking her garden. “See that lavender growing out there, and the way the chives have already sprouted? Or the little shoots of green on the rosebush we moved out of the shadow from the hedge? They remind me I have roots here. They run generations deep, and I have to believe they still carry a bit of wisdom for me. I don’t want to lose those ties any more than I want to sever the roots we put down ourselves.”
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The boat cut smoothly through the easy, rolling waves where the narrow river met the vast expanse of sea. Brogan barely noticed the little rise in the bow, or the titter of giggling children as the sloop slid down the backside of the crest.
“I’m going to hoist sail,” her dad called.
She nodded absently and kept her hand light as a slew of kids hopped up, all clambering to help. She was glad for the extra hands. Lily and James were both old enough to find their way around the boat, or at least keep an eye on the younger ones, which allowed Brogan to keep a hand on the tiller as she turned to look back over her shoulder at the village growing smaller behind her.
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