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“Thank you,” Agnes said with pride. “Do you want to come back to the apartment and stay there tonight?” she asked Donna.
“No, I need to be here early tomorrow to make sure the caterers can get in.” Although, the thought of sleeping in her empty flat, and empty bed, made her ache.
“Okay, if you change your mind, just drive on over and let yourself in.”
“I will.” She gave her sisters a hug and watched as they climbed into the van beside Keir. Sean and his friends, who’d turned up to help carry boxes, honked the horn of their car as they followed.
She watched them head down the drive until they were out of sight before turning back to the building that had been her home these past two years. The sun was setting over Kintyre, and the warm glow made the grey stone seem almost welcoming. There was no denying that it was a lovely building, if a little on the sterile side. Still, she’d cared for it, and its owner, with everything she had to give. But neither the house nor the man had ever truly belonged to her.
“Watch over him,” she whispered. Unsure if she was talking to the house or the spectre of Fiona’s memory that clung to it.
She lifted the small bag she’d brought downstairs with the last load and walked around the building, following the path to the carriage house. Cook had already stocked the fridge for her, and she’d left the lamps on so that she wouldn’t walk into a dark house.
Donna had decided to spend her last nights, not in the mansion, but in the one place she felt belonged to her and Duncan—if only a little. She placed her bag on the table, smiling at the covered chocolate cake that sat there with a note stuck to the top: Don’t eat it all in one go, or you’ll be sick.
After taking a can of Irn-Bru out of the fridge and her book out of her bag, she curled into the corner of the sofa, facing the windows that looked out at the trees between the carriage house and the mansion. The builders had suggested chopping down the trees so that the guests had a view of the house, but she hadn’t agreed with them. Somehow the wooded area made the retreat seem more secluded. Now, she was grateful for her decision because she didn’t want to look at the building that had taken over her life these past two years. The one that owned the man she loved, just as much as the memory of his dead wife did.
***
Duncan had declined an invitation to meet up with the art college faculty when he arrived in Glasgow. He wanted to wander the city on his own, and he had a visit he needed to make.
As he walked up to the cemetery on the hill overlooking Glasgow’s city centre, he remembered the last time he’d taken this route—the day he’d laid Fiona to rest. He hadn’t been back since because that had felt too much like admitting she was gone forever.
The day they buried his wife, the sun had been shining, and the breeze had been brisk. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten to the funeral, or if he’d said anything when he was there. Nor could he remember who else had attended, or even who took the service. But he did recall the way the sun filtered through the leaves to form patterns that danced on Fiona’s grave. And he remembered the birds singing in the trees, the smell of the flowers all around her grave, and the colour of the sky.
Most of all, he remembered wishing he had been in the hole alongside his wife.
The sun was setting as he wended his way along the paths between the graves. He watched as the markers became less ornate and more modern. There was something comforting about the moss-covered headstones that were worn with time. As though the earth was welcoming the person resting there back inside of it.
Fiona had picked out her own headstone. The same way she’d planned her funeral before she’d left him. All Duncan had done was stand guard over her wishes and make sure they were carried out to the letter.
He spotted the stone as he rounded the corner into a small clearing beside some trees. It was a block of soft pink marble that was rough and unpolished at the bottom but smooth and perfect at the top. She’d told him it symbolised the things she’d left unfinished. The inscription was simple: her name and the dates of her short life, with the words Well Loved beneath them. She’d joked that the words could be taken several ways, one of them being that he’d taken excellent care of her in bed.
Duncan stopped beside the stone and rested his hand on top, feeling the smooth marble under his touch. There were fresh flowers on her grave: pink roses like the ones she’d loved. He knew they were from her parents, two more people he’d cut from his life when he’d lost her.
He sank to the grass beside the stone and, bringing his knees up to rest his arms, he looked out over Glasgow. Dusk brought a flicker of lights, springing up throughout the city, as the place finally came to life.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, or even what went through his mind while he did. But it was time spent remembering, instead of wishing for something different. He wasn’t a man for flowery words—Fiona used to say that he saved that sentiment for his art, and she always knew how he felt by looking at his paintings. He smiled at the memory but didn’t say a word. Some might find comfort in talking to the graves of their loved ones, but Duncan knew she wasn’t really there. Her soul had gone home, and her body had returned to the earth. All that remained was a pink stone and the memory of something that had been beyond description in its perfection.
As the sky turned black over the city, he got to his feet and wiped off his jeans. He wouldn’t be back, visiting graves wasn’t something he did, not with his parents and not with his wife. There were other ways to pay respect to the dead, and Duncan preferred to do it through his art. Fiona would live on in every painting he made. His love for her would sne
ak into the work through the colours and the brushstrokes. He wouldn’t be able to keep it out, because Duncan painted everything he loved.
This visit had been a chance to lay to rest the vows he’d made. It was time to move on with his life—without Fiona. Slowly, he tugged off the ring that sat on his wedding finger and looked at the weathered gold. There was no inscription inside—there hadn’t seemed any need when they could look into each other’s eyes and say what they felt.
He crouched down and dug a small hole at the foot of the pink stone, placing the ring inside and covering it over before patting the dirt down firm. It belonged with Fiona. He’d taken the ring from her as a symbol of the promises he’d made to her, and now, those were fulfilled. He’d loved her until she died, and then beyond. He’d loved her in sickness and in health. In wealth and poverty. He’d loved her with all of him and cherished everything she’d had to give.
Until death they did part.
He stood and headed back down the path to the city, never once looking back.
Chapter 25
“I say we play rock, paper, scissors to see who’s going to kill those three old bats,” Agnes said as she stalked into the mansion’s kitchen.
“Nobody’s killing anyone,” Grace said from where she was talking to the caterer, as waitstaff scurried around them.
“Can we at least add Metamucil to their food?” Mairi asked as she followed Agnes into the room.
