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Rachel scrambled to think of something to say, how to respond. She felt flayed, and worse, utterly exposed. She hadn’t realised that was how Ben saw her—shallow, self-important,annoying. How Harriet saw her too, probably, and maybe everyone else in Mathering she’d left behind. She didn’t think she’d eversaidas much, had she? She hadn’t droned on like an absolute prat about how busy and important she was back in London, had she?
Except, maybe she had, out of the defensiveness and insecurity that came roaring back every time she came home. She cast back over the admittedly few interactions she’d had with Ben over the years, and had a sudden, squirming recollection of when she had told him about the demands of her job. Six or seven years ago, when she’d come home for Christmas and seen him at the midnight service at the parish church on Christmas Eve. He’d looked so crisp and clean in a forest-green flannel shirt, pressed jeans; cleaned-up farmer was a really good look for him. And she’d felt vulnerable and lonely, remembering how he’d rejected her all those years ago, and so yes, she’d acted as if she was far more important than she was.
But not just that, Rachel knew. She couldn’t excuse her braggadocio on insecurity alone. She’d wanted him to be sure she’d forgotten him. She’d wanted to make certain he knew just how much she’d moved on. She had a sudden, scorching image of her sliding out her phone mid-conversation and thumbing a quick text, just to look important. Tofeelimportant.
For heaven’s sake, she must have beeninsufferable.
Rachel realised the moment had stretched on, the only sound the crackling of the fire. She tried to think of something to say, and came up utterly empty.
“Well,” she finally said, her voice faint, her tongue feeling thick and dry in her mouth. “It’s not actually as demanding as all that.”
Ben let out a soft huff of laughter. “Has it changed, then? Have you?” he asked, and there was an intimacy to the questions that made Rachel blush, even as part of her resented him asking it. Was she the one who had to change?Improve, while everyone in Mathering got to stay the same and like it?
“I don’t know if I’ve changed or not,” she told him. “Maybe you have.”
“Maybe I have,” he agreed easily enough, and just like that her twinge of annoyance evaporated.
She stared at him openly, honestly. “I suppose I was a bit insufferable,” she said, trying to sound wry, but the words came out a bit bleak.
Ben smiled and shrugged. “We’re all insufferable, in our own ways, aren’t we?”
“That’s generous of you.”
“I can afford to be generous. A lot of time has passed. It’s water under the bridge, right?”
Which was exactly what she’d said to Harriet, and yet somehow Rachel realised she didn’t like Ben saying it. Was he talking about them, as a couple, or just life in general? Well, there was only one response she could give, and so she gave it. “Yes,” Rachel said, managing a smile even though she feared her voice rang hollow. “Water under the bridge.”
Ben rose from his chair. “I think that casserole’s probably ready to eat,” he said, and he reached out a hand to help her up from the sofa. Rachel took it, trying not to react visibly to the slide of his warm, dry palm against hers, the way his fingers tightened over her hand as he hauled her to her feet. The scent of his spicy aftershave that made her senses swim,still.When he was so close, she could remember exactly how she fit in his arms, how her cheek had rested right above his heart, against his broad chest.
Stop. Stop this right now.
Swallowing with what she feared was an audible sound, Rachel turned and followed him blindly back into the kitchen.
She reached for the pottery jug on the windowsill by the sink that Diana Mackey had always used for water, and filled it while Ben took the casserole out of the Aga, bubbling away in its Le Creuset stockpot that had to be at least thirty years old, a deep, burnt-orange colour, and one Rachel remembered well from the many meals of her childhood that had been spent in the Mackey kitchen.
“So,” Ben said once they’d sat down and he was dishing out a generous helping of lamb and carrots and potatoes swimming in rich, rosemary-scented gravy, “you came over here to talk about your dad.”
It felt like a reminder as well as a repositioning of their conversation, of themselves. No more semi-deep stuff about the past. Well, good, Rachel told herself, even though she felt, weirdly, considering how painful and awkward that conversation had actually been, disappointed.
“Yes, I did.” She cleared her throat the way she did before she started a business meeting. “Harriet mentioned that my dad took out a mortgage on the house, and that you helped him with it.”
Ben blinked, unrepentant, matter-of-fact. “Yes, I did,” he parroted back at her.
“Why did he take out the mortgage?”
Ben raised his eyebrows in a faintly well-duh sort of way. “Because he needed an influx of cash.”
“What for?”
“He sold off half his herd a couple of years ago and once that money was gone, he wasn’t making ends meet, so he needed to figure out something else.”
Rachel looked down at her plate, toying with her fork as she speared a piece of succulent lamb, seasoned with rosemary. “Surely there are other ways of raising capital,” she said. “Taking out a mortgage on a property you own free and clear is generally not advisable.”
“Well,” Ben said, and now his tone possessed that slight edge again, “it was his choice.”
“But the repayments—”
“He was planning to pay it off when he sold off the rest of the herd,” Ben cut her off. “It was about the same amount, so it would all work out in the end.”
