Page 112 of Carry Me Home

My throat closes. I press my thumb into the edge of the table, hard, and breathe through it. Ellen doesn’t let go. She just holds my hand and waits, the way people who understand grief always do – without rushing, without fixing, just present.

She lets go of my hand. Picks up the menu.

‘Now. I’m starving, and I’ve been craving your cheese scones for eight months. Feed me, and then we’re going to look at this boat of yours. I want to see where my son spent all those hours pretending to fish.’

I laugh. It comes out rough. Unpractised. Like a door that’s been closed too long and sticks when you push it.

‘He was actually fishing. Sometimes.’

‘He was hiding from the world and calling it fishing. I’m not stupid.’ Ellen smiles. ‘But I loved him anyway. That’s what you do with the people you love. You let them be ridiculous, and you love them anyway.’

‘Ellen, wait.’ I stand before she can flag me down for scones. ‘I’ve got some of his things. Upstairs. I packed them a few weeks ago. His books, his binoculars, some clothes. I thought you might want them.’

Ellen looks at me for a moment. Then she taps her forehead with one finger.

‘I’ve got all the memories I need up here, love. An old jumper won’t make them any clearer.’ She pauses. ‘Keep them, if they bring you comfort. Donate them, if they don’t. But don’t hang on to things for my sake. I’ve got photographs. I’ve got thirty-two years of him driving me mad. That’s enough.’

‘Are you sure? The binoculars were expensive. And his bird book⁠—’

‘Give the binoculars to someone who’ll use them. The bird book too.’ She shrugs. ‘Objects are just objects, Nina. They’re not him. He’s—’ She presses her hand flat against her chest. ‘He’s in here. For both of us. That doesn’t need a drawer.’

I nod. My eyes sting but nothing falls.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Okay.’

‘Good. Now. Scones. I wasn’t joking about being starving.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

NINA

It’s two weeks since Ellen came to visit and the idea of Lavender Dreams arrived. I’ve been thinking on it. Mulling, I guess some would call it.

I’m doodling a sketch on a napkin when the door crashes open and Kit Harding stands in my café, wild-eyed, hair like he’s been running his hands through it for hours. He’s still wearing his fishing boots. There’s a smear of engine grease on his cheek.

‘Nina.’ He’s panting and I’m instantly heading around the counter.

‘What is it? Has there been an accident? Brynn? Jude?’

‘It’s time. The baby.’

My feet falter. ‘Now?’

‘Now.’ He doesn’t move. Just stands there in the doorway, hands clenched at his sides, looking like a man who actually doesn’t know how to move. ‘She wants you. Said to come get you.’

‘Is she okay?’

‘She’s—’ He stops. Runs a hand through his hair again. ‘I don’t know. She’s making sounds. Lots of sounds. I don’t—’ He breaks off. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

This is Kit Harding. The man who once sailed through a force nine gale to rescue a stranded yacht. The man who pulled three tourists out of a riptide without breaking a sweat. The man whose default expression is stoic disapproval.

He looks terrified.

‘Let me grab my keys.’ My fingers are jelly as I grab them and run after Kit to the door. Isla’s baby is coming. Isla’s baby is coming…

With trembling fingers I lock the café behind me, not worrying that I’ve left the lights on, and the coffee machine will have a sulk over its neglect the next time I try to use it.

Out in the street, I call to Bill. ‘You’ll have to move your van.’ I point at his and Frankie’s supply van, the one they’ve parked along the side of the curb that is blocking the way.