Saving Sara (Redemption #1)

by Nicola Marsh

  Cilla puffed up like an outraged bullfrog. “Now you listen to me, young man. You did not kill anyone. Accidents happen. You’re not to blame. You hear me?”

  He appreciated his aunt’s protectiveness but he was to blame. He’d bowed to pressure from his superior, who demanded they get all flights that day out on time. So he’d ignored a niggle in his gut that one of the routine checks, one he’d done a thousand times as an aircraft mechanic, wasn’t quite right, despite being unable to pinpoint where that niggle came from.

  He’d cleared the plane for takeoff and it had crashed.

  That faulty plane hadn’t taken eighty-nine innocent lives.

  He had.

  He’d killed those people. A horrific nightmare he confronted every single day.

  Being cleared of wrongdoing by the aviation authority hadn’t helped. For Jake knew the truth. His actions—or inaction—that day had impacted the lives of countless people and he’d never forgive himself for it.

  Cilla stood, towering over him, hands on hips. “You think I don’t know what guilt is? I live with the thought I drove Vernon to his death every single day. I’d had it with his perpetual moaning about how he was going to kill himself, so I plucked up the courage to finally answer back.”

  Her chest heaved with the breaths she dragged in. “I told him to go ahead and do it. To stop whining and do us all a favor and follow through on his hollow threats. I taunted him . . .” She pressed the pads of her fingers to her eyes. “When I learned he’d driven his car into that tree deliberately, I beat myself up over it.”

  Blown away by her confession, Jake stood and enveloped her into his arms. Cilla let him comfort her for a moment before pushing away.

  “But you know something? Guilt can eat away at you. It can stifle your future.” She patted her chest. “After all I’d been through because of that man, I decided I wanted to embrace a new future. He owed me that much.”

  Jake could see the point she was trying to make but Cilla’s actions, or words, more precisely, had inadvertently resulted in the death of one man. Jake’s recklessness had killed way too many.

  “Promise me you’ll use your time here to put the past to rest and let go of your guilt.” She cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to eyeball her. “Promise me.”

  Jake gritted his teeth. “I won’t make promises I can’t keep, but I’ll try to work through my stuff.”

  She frowned but released him. “As for your father, your argument didn’t drive him to drink. He did a fine job of that on his own most days.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “When Mom died, he hit the bottle pretty hard. Do you remember that time?”

  Cilla scrunched up her eyes, thinking. “You were eight and Rose was four?”

  “Yeah. Mom had always been a buffer between us and Dad when he drank, but with her gone . . .” Jake had taken on that role. He’d turned into a rebel on purpose, to take his father’s attention off Rose. He had happily borne the brunt of his dad’s nasty streak if it meant Rose was safe.

  “You did what you had to do to protect Rose,” she said, staring at him with an admiration he didn’t deserve.

  He nodded and she continued. “I did the same with Tam.” Sadness twisted her mouth. “I did anything I could to take Vernon’s focus off her.”

  “We did what we had to do to survive,” Jake said, wishing for the umpteenth time since he’d arrived earlier today that he hadn’t lost touch with his aunt. A strong, resilient woman who’d had it as tough as he had, probably tougher, with the Mathieson men.

  “Gardening was my savior,” she said, glancing out the window into the inky darkness of a country sky. “Kept me sane.”

  “Tinkering with engines was mine.” He had no idea why he was telling her about his past, but in a strange way, it felt cathartic. “Our neighbor was a mechanic and he took pity on me. Probably heard our arguments but never mentioned it. Instead, he taught me everything he knew. Used a contact at the airport to get me into aircraft mechanics because he knew I loved planes. He’s a good guy.”

  “I’m glad we had our special go-to places to escape,” she said. “We’ve come a long way, you and I.” She blinked several times and Jake hoped to God she wouldn’t cry. He hated tears. Didn’t have a clue how to handle a woman when she cried.

  “Right, I think it’s time for bed,” she said, suddenly brusque. “If Olly’s like other kids, he’ll be up at the crack of dawn, starving and eager to explore.”

  Which was testament to how lousy he was as an uncle, considering Olly had had to be all but dragged out of bed this morning and hadn’t even wanted to walk down to the bakery for fresh bagels.

  “Okay.” Jake hugged his aunt again. “I can’t thank you enough for letting us stay with you.”

  She squeezed him tight before releasing him. “I get it. You both need some time to heal.” She glanced around the room fondly. “This place is perfect for that.”

  He hoped she was right.

  11.

  For the next two days, Sara fell into a routine. She woke early, ate a bowl of porridge drizzled with maple syrup, strolled through the herb garden, and spent countless hours cleaning out Gran’s things, before having a light dinner of toasted cheese sandwiches, taking a shower and falling into bed, too aware of every single muscle in her body.

  Cleaners had been through Gran’s place when she died, but Gran’s personal things had needed to be boxed, a job Sara needed to tackle and complete before she could feel like the house truly belonged to her.

  Thankfully, Gran hadn’t been much of a hoarder. Sara had all the books, knick-knacks and clothes boxed for charity on the first day. She’d dithered on the second day because she’d spent hours sorting through Gran’s filing cabinet filled with paperwork and mementos, caught up in memories of times spent here.

  She’d always wanted to live here, not be a gypsy like her mother, and thanks to Gran’s generosity, now she could.

  But on the third day, when she sat at the dining table contemplating her empty porridge bowl, she knew she couldn’t avoid the inevitable.

  She had to open the parcel.

  It had arrived after she’d got home the other day and the largish brown box had taken pride of place on a sideboard ever since.

  Sara had cited the clean-out as her excuse not to open the box but now that she had time, she still couldn’t do it. Crazy, considering she’d ordered new tools and materials online because she wanted to try pyrography again. So what was holding her back?

  She knew. Fear. The same fear that haunted her every waking moment: that nothing she did would ever make her feel good again. It was like Lucy’s death had sucked all the hope out of her. That nothing was important anymore.

  If pyrography, the art that had once been her world, failed to provide a spark, Sara would have to admit she’d hit rock bottom and nothing could save her.

  She glared at the box and stood. She would open it today. She’d force herself to. After she took her morning walk.

  A stroll through the herb garden couldn’t be classed as a walk so she ventured farther today, striding out toward the small dam. Sure, it was an avoidance technique but hopefully the clear air would help her headspace and make her face that box on her return.

  She followed the path along the hedge that bordered her property and Cilla’s. She liked having no fences, liked the feeling of freedom that came with having trees and shrubs rather than wooden palings.

  Sunlight dappled the ground and she was so busy studying the patterns it made she didn’t see the child until it was too late. Too late to pretend she hadn’t seen him and avoid any contact, which is what she would’ve done if she’d been more aware.

  She couldn’t face kids. Not yet. The pain was too raw, the gaping wound in her chest from losing Lucy unfixable.

  “Hey,” he said, his big, brown eyes fixed on her. “Whatcha doing?”

  Sara swallowed, trying to ease the tightness in her throat. She couldn’t speak.

  The chil
d didn’t seem fazed by her lack of response. “I’m Olly. I live over there.” He jerked his thumb toward Cilla’s. “My mom’s sick and my uncle Jake isn’t very good at taking care of me, so he brought me here to stay with Cilla.” He stopped, and clapped his hand over his mouth. “I mean, Aunt Cilla. Uncle Jake said I have to call her that, even though she’s not my real aunt. She’s too old. She’s Jake’s aunt.” He rolled his eyes. “Uncle Jake, I mean.”

  The kid talked. A lot. Listening to him should’ve been painful, but as he rambled, the tightness in Sara’s throat eased. She remembered Lucy talking like that, like she couldn’t get the words out fast enough, tumbling over one another in a rush to be heard.

  “You’re quiet.” Olly tilted his head, studying her. “What’s your name?”

  Sara cleared her throat. “Sara.” It came out a squeak but it was a start.

  Olly giggled at her high-pitched voice. “Do you have any kids I can play with?”

  Sara felt her face crumple at Olly’s innocuous question and tears filled her eyes as a man appeared through the hole in the hedge where Olly had wriggled through.

  “Olly, why don’t you head back? Aunt Cilla has a snack waiting for you.” The man stood and dusted off his jeans, staring at the kid like he was as terrified of him as she was.

  “Okay,” Olly said, his gaze solemn as he looked up at the man. “Don’t be mad, but I made Sara cry.”

  The man turned his attention to her and damned if she didn’t want to cry harder.

  He reminded her of Greg.

  Something in his clear blue eyes . . . an inner confidence, a knowing, like he could take on the world and still come out on top.

  It made her bristle and she clamped down on the urge to yell at him to follow the kid and to not come back.

  “Run along, Olly, it’ll be okay.” The man gave Olly a gentle nudge toward the hole in the hedge. “See you soon.”

  “Sorry, Sara,” Olly said, before scrambling through the hedge and disappearing from view.

  For someone who hadn’t wanted to converse with the child, Sara suddenly wished he’d hung around. For now she had time to study the man who, in turn, was staring at her with a little curiosity and a lot of caution.

  On closer inspection, he was nothing like Greg beyond the same self-assured gaze. He was tall, a good five inches taller than her, with wavy light brown hair the same shade as her favorite caramel. He had incredible eyes, the kind of blue that was digitally altered for advertisements of the Caribbean. Tanned, with light stubble covering his jaw, he exuded the rugged handsomeness associated with sports stars. With the body to match, if her quick glance at his chest and the way the navy cotton molded to it was any indication.

  The fact she noticed how damn physical he was annoyed her anew.

  “I’m Jake Mathieson.” He held out his hand. “I’m staying next door with my aunt for a few months. Olly’s my nephew.”

  “I know. He told me,” she said, managing a brief shake before releasing his hand, disconcerted by how warm it felt. “I’m Sara Hardy. This was my gran’s house and I moved in a few days ago.”

  If he noticed the past tense, he didn’t say so and she was glad. Last thing she needed on the heels of Olly’s devastating question was to discuss how she’d inherited the house after Gran’s death.

  “I’m sorry if Olly upset you,” he said, eyeing her the same way he would a jittery filly, like he expected her to kick him before bolting. “He’s a good kid but going through some tough stuff at the moment.”

  “Aren’t we all?” she said, the response slipping out before she could censor it.

  “Yeah, you got that right.” As he continued to eyeball her with that same hopeful yet wary expression, she wondered what had made him so sad.

  Because he was. Sad. He wore it like an invisible cloak, draped around his shoulders, too heavy to bear. She recognized it because she felt the same way.

  Disgruntled, not wanting to empathize or have anything else in common with him, she crossed her arms and glowered, hoping he’d get the message to leave her the hell alone.

  “Anyway, sorry to intrude.” He backed away, almost having to bend double to squeeze through the hole. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  “Maybe.” Like never.

  Sara had no intention of following through and didn’t know why she said it, but when Jake smiled, a tentative smile that lit his face and transformed him from handsome to gorgeous, she couldn’t help but think maybe wasn’t so bad after all.

  As she headed back to the house, she pondered her reaction to him. That jolt she’d felt when he smiled had been sexual. The flush of warmth. The odd tingle. Reactions she hadn’t felt in a long time.

  When was the last time she’d had sex? She’d been separated for twelve months—and was officially divorced as of yesterday. Before that, Greg had been too busy chasing partnership in his firm and she’d been too tired at the end of each long workday followed by caring for Lucy to even think about it. Eighteen months, maybe? Longer?

  If she couldn’t remember, it had clearly been too long. And while she had no intention of doing anything about the lack of intimacy in her life, she couldn’t help but appreciate a fine male when he looked like Jake Mathieson did.

  For a split second, when he’d stared at her and smiled, she wondered what it would be like to be with a man again.

  She clomped indoors, kicked off her boots at the back door and spied the box. It still taunted her, beckoning with its crisp brown paper wrapping and shiny label featuring a pyrographed feather and inkpot. She liked the analogy, associating etching and burning into wood with old-fashioned writing. What she didn’t like were the nerves making her stomach churn with dread.

  “This is crazy,” she muttered under her breath, stomping across the kitchen to lift the box off the sideboard and place it on the table.

  She rummaged in the junk drawer, found scissors, and carefully slit into the paper and tape. Opened the box flaps. Inhaled.

  She’d always loved the smell of wood. Birch. Maple. Cherry. Each unique in its own way. It had been so long since she’d touched a piece of specially prepared wood that her hands shook as she lifted several pieces out of the box and laid them carefully on the table.

  When her fingers wrapped around the solid-point tool, some of the tension in her stomach dissolved. She pulled it out of the box, staring at the state-of-the-art, electrically heated implement, whose temperature could be adjusted to produce a greater range of shades. Subtle. Bold. Various tones achieved by changing the temperature, pressure, type of wood and tool point.

  After her earlier reticence, she couldn’t wait to get started.

  Her hands drifted over the wood until she settled on a piece. Birch. And as she waited for the tool to heat, she flipped open her wallet and extracted the picture she would attempt to burn into the wood.

  Lucy, with her chin resting on her hands, smiling at the camera, fairy wings protruding over each shoulder in the background. It was Sara’s favorite picture. Whimsical and cheeky and happy. Lucy all over.

  Tears slid down her cheeks as she picked up the tool and swept it across the wood. Again and again and again. She didn’t stop. She couldn’t. All her pent-up helplessness and frustration and sorrow flowing through the soldering iron onto the wood until she sat back, exhausted.

  She stared at the piece of birch, stunned. She’d captured Lucy’s likeness in a way she’d never thought possible after being away from her craft so long.

  The quirk of her lips. The tilt of her head. The glint in her eye.

  Lucy.

  Drained yet exalted, she rested her forearms on the table, laid her head on top, and bawled.

  12.

  I met Sara,” Jake said, helping Cilla hoist two baskets brimming with herbs onto the bench in her work shed. “What’s her story?”

  Cilla cast him a funny sideways glance as she slipped off her gardening gloves. “If she has a story, it’s hers to tell.”

  She tur
ned her back on him, busying herself with firing up the burners to simmer or boil or do whatever she did to the herbs to make her concoctions.

  Her evasiveness piqued his curiosity. “She definitely has a story, then?”

  “Don’t we all?”

  Eager to learn more, he propped himself against the workbench so he could see his aunt’s face. “She got pretty upset when Olly asked if she had any kids he could play with.”

  Cilla dropped the pipette in her hands and it hit the bench with a clatter. “Olly was with you?”

  Jake nodded. “We were exploring the garden. He found a hole in the hedge and climbed through. I was content to let him go ’til I heard him talking to someone. When I followed, that’s the question I heard him ask and she looked like she was about to burst into tears.”

  Cilla sighed, rested her hands on the bench top and hung her head. “Sara had a daughter, Lucy, who died about a year ago. Sara’s grandmother Issy owned the place. Then Issy died last month and left the house to Sara, and she moved in earlier this week.”

  When Cilla raised her head to look at him, her sharp gaze skewered him. “That girl needs time to heal. Seeing Olly probably isn’t the best thing for her, so keep your distance.”

  Jake gaped at his aunt. Was she warning him off Sara because she sensed his hidden motives for asking questions?

  If so, then damn, she was good. Because Jake did have other reasons for asking about the ethereal blonde who had captured his attention from the moment he’d poked his head through that hedge and caught sight of her staring at Olly like she’d seen a ghost.

  Losing her daughter must’ve been tough. But the stark fear he’d glimpsed in her eyes spoke to other demons and he’d felt a connection. Tenuous at best, but still there, linking them in their . . . sadness?

  Because that’s what he felt every day when he opened his eyes, an all-pervading sadness that tainted everything he did. Food didn’t taste the same anymore. Jogging had lost its appeal. Reading or movie marathons did little to distract. But he did them all anyway, moved through his life by rote, unable to dodge the constant guilt that gnawed away at any potential he had for happiness.