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His gaze caresses my face, and then he pulls me into an embrace with his free hand, and kisses my forehead. “How do you always know the right thing to say?”
“It’s very rare. Usually I’m the first to screw things up.”
He gives a short laugh. I slide my arms around his waist, and we stand there like that for a while, as he sips his whisky, the seagulls crying around us.
“You said ‘It’s those who share their lives with someone who are the lucky ones,’” he comments. “You know I’m going to want to talk to you about that later, don’t you?”
“Yes.” I bury my nose in his T-shirt, trying not to cry. I feel such a sense of hope mixed in with the sorrow. He still wants me. There’s so much promise here, as if we’ve planted seeds in the spring and are waiting for signs of growth. But those new shoots are vulnerable to the elements. Can I bear to hang around and see if they take?
“I want to wait, though,” he says. “Get this out of the way, get the funeral done. So I can think clearly.”
“That makes sense.”
“You’ll think about it, too? I know what you told me originally, that you wouldn’t let yourself fall for me, but I hope you really think about us, and what we’ve had this week. I think we could have something really good, and I hope you agree.”
I nuzzle his neck, breathing in his scent. “I know we could.”
“Loving isn’t easy,” he says. “Loving people is hard. It means being open and vulnerable, and letting yourself be in a position to be hurt. It doesn’t matter if that person is a lover or a friend or a relative.”
“I know.”
“Just… think about that. Because the question is coming, and I’m going to want an answer.”
“I know.”
He finishes off his whisky. “All right. Come on then, let’s get to the airport and get it all done.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Poppy
The next ten days pass agonizingly slowly for me. I try to be there for Marc as much as I can, but after Izzy gets home on Sunday, the two of them decide to take a week off and fly back to Hamilton to make the final arrangements for the funeral, and to go to Jocelyn’s house and sort through all her stuff.
I’d like to have gone with him, but I sense it’s a time for brother and sister to reconnect and grieve together, and Hal’s staying at the Ark, so I don’t feel as if I can offer to go with Marc.
He does call me every night, when he gets back to the hotel—neither he nor Izzy wanted to stay at Jocelyn’s house. We talk for a while, and he tells me about the state of the house—that it’s full of junk they’re having to sort through, and I tell him what’s been going on at the Ark. I’d love to chat for longer, but he sounds exhausted, so I don’t keep him for long. He finishes by softly telling me he loves me, and I tell him I love him too, because it feels awkward not to say it back.
Do I mean it? I ponder on it after I hang up. I’m not sure. I miss him beside me at night, curled around me, his chest to my back, his arms holding me tightly. His hand stroking my back in the early morning, before dipping lower, waking me up in the best way possible. I miss sitting on the two-seater sofa in the living room of the lighthouse, watching TV while we sip our whisky, or looking out at the stars up in the viewing room, in the darkness. I miss his kisses, the way he taught me so tenderly to accept him, and to explore my own pleasure. I miss his low chuckle, his wry sense of humor, his quiet, solid manner. I miss him.
But there’s no time to talk about it, and so I know I’m just going to have to wait until he gets back, when we can talk about it further.
He and Izzy return for a couple of days, during which he’s super busy at the Ark. He doesn’t ask me to stay at his place, and so I don’t mention it either. We catch up at work a couple of times, but he’s brisk and businesslike, and I don’t push it.
It’s Noah who tells me that Marc and Izzy have decided to have a private cremation for Jocelyn in Hamilton, to give Jocelyn’s neighbor and Luke a chance to say goodbye, and then they’re going to have the wake in the bay, at Noah’s house, at his suggestion. He tells me that, this time, Hal’s flying down with her for the funeral. Marc doesn’t ask me to go, though, and I don’t offer because I’m not sure I can face the rejection.
