by Kate Hewitt
Roger had stepped forward and put his arms around her before he was fully aware of what he was doing. He knew it was the right thing to have done when Lindy clung to him, her head on his shoulder, her tears soaking his shirt. He didn’t say anything, in part because he didn’t know what to say but also because he didn’t think there were any words. Sometimes, he knew, you just needed to cry.
He remembered his mother telling him the same thing soon after his father had died; he’d been keeping it all in, a pressure building in his chest, a rage taking over him that was fuelled by fear. Fear of what happened if he stopped being angry. Fear that if he let himself cry, he’d never stop.
She’d told him he needed to cry, that every tear he shed was one he wouldn’t have to shed again, but ‘they had to be got out.’ And in her arms, twelve-year-old Roger had wept, hot, rage-filled tears that had emptied him out like a husk. Exhausted, he’d slumped on the sofa and fallen asleep for three dreamless hours.
He thought Lindy needed something similar now. Her tears kept coming, her body shaking with the force of them, and Roger just held her. After an indeterminate amount of time—an hour or a minute, he didn’t actually know—she eased back and looked up at him with a crumpled, tear-washed face.
“Don’t leave me.”
“I won’t,” he said, because of course he wouldn’t. It was absolutely out of the question. “Perhaps we should get some sleep, though.” It was after eleven, and he thought they were both exhausted.
“Yes…if I can. I don’t know if I’ll be able to.”
“You can try, at least.” He nodded towards her bed. “If you take the bed, I’ll kip on the sofa downstairs.” The bed in the master was currently unusable, thanks to the rough sleepers; although downstairs was freezing, due to the broken windows, and smelled rather nasty, it was preferable to the alternative.
“No.” Lindy shook her head, her expression resolute. “I don’t want you to sleep there.”
Roger gazed at her, nonplussed, wondering if she thought he’d somehow desecrate her parents’ space by sleeping on the sofa.
“Would you…” Lindy paused, looking hesitant. “Would you stay with me? Here? I don’t want to be alone.”
Stay with her? Roger stared at her blankly. Did she mean actually in the bed? It looked very narrow. And while staying with Lindy was unquestionably at the top of his priorities, Roger feared it would be an uncomfortable and potentially embarrassing night. But perhaps she didn’t mean the bed, just in the room. That made more sense, and was certainly possible. In any case, he knew there was only one answer to give. Only one answer he wanted to give.
“Of course I will,” he said.
Chapter Eighteen
Lindy stared at her gaunt face in the bathroom mirror, amazed at how weary, how old she’d looked, as if she’d aged in a matter of hours. Perhaps she had. Certainly it felt as if a lifetime had passed since Heloise had first called her. Even in her worst imaginings, Lindy had not pictured the extent of havoc that had been wreaked on her parents’ home.
She swallowed down the need to sob—she’d cried enough, surely—and turned away from the mirror. She’d changed into her pyjamas, including thick socks and a fleece, because the house was freezing, and she was going to at least try to go to sleep. She had no idea how Roger felt about sharing the narrow bed with her; she only knew she needed him there. She couldn’t bear to be alone, not tonight, with so many memories flocking around her like ghosts.
As she came into the bedroom, she saw he’d already changed—plaid pyjamas bottoms, a woolly jumper, and thick socks like her. It really was freezing. He also, she saw, had taken some blankets from the airing cupboard and laid them on the floor.
“You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” she blurted, and Roger looked flummoxed.
“Oh. Er.” He lapsed into silence, and Lindy wished she knew what he was thinking. Did he not want to share a bed with her? Surely he knew she’d have no romantic designs on him tonight of all nights? She was hardly going to seduce him when her heart felt as if it had been shattered.
“What I mean is, I don’t want you to sleep on the floor,” she said stiltedly. “I…I want to be held.” She flushed at how needy she sounded, but she couldn’t keep herself from it. She simply felt too desperate for human comfort, for arms around her.
“Okay,” Roger said, but he still looked uncomfortable, and the knowledge stabbed Lindy.
“Unless you don’t want to? I mean, if you’d rather…”
“N—no,” he said quickly, stammering slightly in his unease. “I wouldn’t rather. I just didn’t want to presume…”
“Presume away,” she replied, and peeled back the covers. They were stale-smelling, with the faintest aroma of lavender to cover the more unpleasant smells of dust and damp, but she didn’t care. She slipped beneath the sheets as Roger took the blankets from the floor and laid them on top of the bed.
“It’s rather cold,” he explained, and then he paused, looking down at the bed. Lindy looked at it too. It was very narrow. Were all single beds this narrow? She hadn’t slept in one since her uni days. She took well over half of it now.
“Sorry,” she half-mumbled, and scooted over to one side, so she had a full butt cheek off the bed. Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea, and yet she didn’t want to do something different.
Gingerly Roger lowered himself onto the bed and stretched out. He wasn’t a small man, and Lindy suspected his feet and even his ankles were hanging off the end, although he didn’t complain. He lay rigidly next to her, and she thought he must have only one butt cheek on the mattress just as she did. Really, this wasn’t sustainable.
“Held,” she reminded him, and he gave her a look that was a mix of desperation and terror. Then, awkwardly and clumsily, he put his arms around her. He jabbed her in the eye with his elbow, and Lindy had to bite her tongue to keep from crying out. Still, with his arms around her she was able to snuggle in closer to him, her cheek on his chest, her arm around his waist. This was what she’d been talking about. Oh, yes. This felt very nice indeed. His heart was thudding under her cheekbone and he smelled like bay rum. His chest was wonderfully solid, his waist decidedly trim, everything about him steady and comforting and right.
And yet she realised she wanted to get even closer, if that were possible, in a non-sexual way…well, mostly. She slipped her knee between his so their legs were twined and then she hooked her other arm around his neck so their bodies were just about as close as they could be, her breasts pressing against his chest, her face nestled in the lovely, warm curve of his neck. He was solid warmth all around her, a cocoon of safety and comfort. She felt her body relax for the first time since that phone call. Here was another kind of home.
“Is this okay?” she whispered and Roger’s voice was only slightly strained as he replied, “Yes. Of course.”
“Good,” Lindy murmured, and then snuggled even closer.
*
This was torture. Pure, perfect torture. Roger didn’t think he’d ever actually been as physically close to another person as he was with Lindy—not even the women he’d dated. He’d never lain with someone with every single body part touching, feeling practically fused together, her lips pressing against his neck…so many things pressing. He felt all of her, and he suspected she was very shortly going to feel all of him.
He was doing his best to keep that embarrassing prospect from happening, thinking of all manner of things that were not Lindy’s body against his. Lindy’s lips on his skin. Lindy’s…
Stop. Stop.
He drew a quick breath as quietly as he could, and that’s when he felt a droplet of damp on his neck, and he realised Lindy was crying.
“Hey.” He eased back so he could see her face, although the room was so dark he couldn’t see anything but the faint gleam of her eyes. “You’re crying.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
“I didn’t expect…” She drew a hitched breath.
“I didn’t expect this to affect me so much.”
“I think this kind of destruction would affect anyone,” Roger replied quietly. Somehow, seemingly of its own accord, his hand had begun stroking her hair. Lindy didn’t seem to mind.
She was quiet for a moment, the only sound the gentle draw and tear of her breathing, as Roger kept sliding his hand over the silky, tumbling mass of her hair.
“It’s more than that, though,” Lindy said after a moment. Roger stilled his hand for a second, and then kept stroking. “After my parents died,” she continued slowly, “after the funeral, I came back to this house and I tidied everything up—I hoovered, I spritzed and sprayed, I filed all the papers my father had left on his desk. It felt like grieving, to go through all their things that way. And when I was done, I walked out of the house, locked the door, and rented a flat in Manchester. I’ve only been back here a handful of times since, and always just to see that things are fine, never to stay.” She drew a hitched breath. “And yet all along, it was so important that this house was here, that it remained just as it was. It felt…crucial.”
Roger remained silent, in part because he didn’t know what to say, and also because he didn’t think there was anything he could say. He just needed to listen. “Now…” Lindy said hesitantly, “I wonder if, when I locked that door, I locked my grief inside. I refused to let it out.” Another shuddering breath. “And now that the house has been broken open, so has my grief. My heart.” She twisted against him so she could peer up at his face in the darkness. “Does that sound crazy? Maudlin? Both?”
“It’s an interesting way of looking at it,” Roger said after a moment, and Lindy let out a muffled laugh against his chest.
“That’s your polite way of saying it’s mad.”
“Not mad—”
“It’s okay, Roger. It is mad. And yet I think it’s true.” She sighed. “I didn’t even realise I was doing it. I just wanted to be happy. I thought that if I acted happy, I would be happy. And lots of times I was. But all the while…there was this grief. And I wasn’t dealing with it.” She nestled closer to him, burrowing her face into his chest, which was quite a lovely feeling. “And so it all came spilling out now.”
“Better out than in,” Roger said pragmatically, and Lindy laughed again. He hadn’t meant to be funny, but he liked making her laugh.
“What about you?” she asked. “When your dad died? Did you keep it in?”
“Yes, for a while. But my mother told me I needed to cry, and that every tear I shed was one I wouldn’t have to shed again. And I was a child. Crying didn’t feel as unnatural, perhaps, as it does as an adult.”
Lindy was silent for a moment. “Do you miss him?” she asked unexpectedly and Roger stiffened slightly before he tightened his arms around her.
“Yes. Every day.”
“Sorry, that was a stupid question. Of course you do.” She sighed. “As I do. Every day. Even if I tried to act or even feel as if I didn’t, as if I was absolutely fine.” She let out an unhappy little laugh. “Who knew I was so messed up?”
“I didn’t,” Roger said honestly, and she laughed again, this time with genuine mirth.
“Oh, Roger.” She sighed and nestled again. He liked the nestling. After a few sweetly silent moments, Lindy let out an enormous yawn. Roger felt it vibrate against him. “I think I might actually fall asleep,” she said slowly, with surprise, and then a few minutes later her breathing evened out. She let out a soft sigh and her body relaxed bonelessly into his and Roger knew she was asleep.
He, however, was not. Even though he was exhausted, eyes gritty, muscles aching, Roger didn’t think he’d be able to sleep. His heart was too full, his body too aware. He felt too much…in all sorts of ways.
As carefully and quietly as he could, he let out a slow breath and adjusted his position; the movement just caused Lindy to cling all the more tightly to him, wrapping her body around his like a vine. A very lovely vine. Her hair was tickling his lips. She smelled like vanilla. Despite the devastation all around them, he didn’t think he could remember a moment when he’d ever been happier.
*
Lindy woke slowly to sunlight and warmth all around her. Wonderful, sleepy masculine warmth. She was still cocooned in Roger’s arms, and she’d slept deeply and dreamlessly for several hours, at last. She didn’t feel refreshed, not exactly, but she felt…good.
She stirred slightly, shifting in Roger’s embrace, and he stirred too, and a sudden hot flare of pure physical yearning shot through her. Roger might not be awake, but he was…awake. In the most fundamental and masculine way possible.
In the next second he’d jerked away from her and rolled out of bed, raking a hand through his hair as he muttered something about needing the loo.
Oh-kay. Lindy rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling, as the bathroom door slammed and then locked. She might be very inexperienced for the average thirty-five-year-old; in fact, she knew she was, but she’d also known what she’d felt and it didn’t displease her. Of course, it was just a man’s basic, bodily function, she knew that too, and yet…
Lindy smiled. The thought that Roger might react to her physically was…thrilling. There was no other word for it. Of course, the fact that he’d hightailed it to the bathroom might be a slight cause for concern.
A full five minutes later Roger returned to the bedroom, giving her a tense smile. He’d brushed his hair and he looked like he should be going to work, except he was in his pyjamas. Somehow Lindy liked that.
“Sleep well?” he asked in a slightly croaky voice, and then he cleared his throat.
“Yes, like a baby.” She smiled at him, feeling shy. “Thank you.”
He waved a hand in dismissal. “It was my pleasure.”
She hoped he meant that sincerely. She couldn’t tell, in the predictably awkward silence that ensued.
“I suppose I need to start sorting all that out,” Lindy said with a sigh, nodding towards the rest of the house and all the mess that still waited. Her stomach clenched at the thought.
“And you should call the police. This really is an atrocious crime.”
“Yes.” She leaned her head against the pillow, not wanting to deal with any of it.
“Look, why don’t I get dressed and get us some supplies? Something to eat for breakfast, and some coffee.”
Lindy’s mouth curved. “I thought you didn’t drink coffee.”
“Tea, then. Something to get us going, and then we’ll tackle everything else.”
“Okay.” A wave of exhaustion crashed over Lindy just at the thought of tackling ‘everything else,’ but she appreciated Roger’s unstinting offer of help.
“I’ll just get dressed,” he mumbled, and grabbing his bag, he beat a retreat back to the bathroom. Lindy half-wished they were still both in bed, cuddling.
What was the status of their relationship? she wondered as she listened to the sounds of the tap and flush from the bathroom. Surely you couldn’t sleep entwined with someone all night and still just be friends. Yet the memory of the awkwardness and embarrassment that had descended on them that morning as soon as they’d both woken up made Lindy think that you could.
Except she didn’t want to be, and yet she felt too frightened and fragile to risk telling Roger how she felt. Perhaps she’d just see how today went, focus on the house, and then go from there.
Roger emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, freshly dressed and shaven, smelling as usual of bay rum. Goodness, but she loved that smell.
“Be back in a few ticks,” he promised, and Lindy took the opportunity provided by his absence to have a long, hot shower—the bathroom was, thankfully, the only other room that had been untouched by the intruders—and then get dressed. With her damp hair pulled back in a ponytail, and wearing sensible jeans and a fleece, she felt ready to tackle another look at the destruction, and this time in broad daylight.
It was worse, Lindy discovered, in the harsh glare of the wintry sun, than she�
��d realised last night. They’d smashed everything. Her heart felt strangely hollow as she took in the extent of the damage—seashells they’d collected in Cornwall, her mother’s set of Royal Doulton china shepherdesses, the delicate tea set of Chinese porcelain they’d bought at a street market in Jingdezhen. All of it was in pieces on the floor—pieces too small to glue back together, nothing more than crushed fragments, some of it ground into veritable dust.
“I’m sorry.”
Lindy glanced up to see Roger standing in the doorway, holding a paper bag and looking regretful.
“Daylight doesn’t improve matters,” he remarked quietly as he closed the door behind him.
“No, it definitely does not.”
“I took the liberty of stopping by the police station in Hathersage and notifying them about what happened. I hope that was all right.”
“Yes, of course. I know they need to be involved.”
“They mentioned there have been several houses in the area that have been similarly vandalised,” Roger continued, “so at least it’s not personal.”
“Yes, there’s that at least, I suppose.” She sighed and stooped down to retrieve one of the larger shards of pottery—the arm of a shepherdess, the remnant of a pink sleeve. “It’s just all so wanton, so pointless.”
“I know.”
“Do you think they had fun doing it?” she asked as she chucked the shard away. There was no point in keeping it.
“I shudder to think that they did.”
“They’ll never be found, you know.”
“Perhaps not, although if they continue with other houses, there’s a greater chance they will be.” With a small smile, he withdrew a can of Coke, dewy with cold, from the bag. “Drink up.”
“You remembered.” Bizarrely and embarrassingly, she felt near tears. Again. And all because of a can of Coke.
“Of course I remembered. It was, after all, somewhat of an oddity.” He moved past her towards the kitchen. “I think I’ll give the kettle a good rinse before I use it.”
“Wise idea.”
