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Did all conversations with old friends go this way, she wondered, with both of them insisting they hadn’t changed, when of course they had?
“Well, I’ve gone gray, that’s for certain,” John replied, running a rueful hand through his hair. “Or really, white. But as Izzy tells me, it’s better than being bald.” He gave a little, apologetic grimace. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being bald, of course!”
David had certainly had a thinning spot before he’d died, Gwen acknowledged with a small smile. “No, indeed,” she agreed. “But in any case, you look…” Somehow, she found she wasn’t quite sure how to finish that sentence.
“Let me get you a coffee,” John said, filling the silence with an easy gallantry. “What would you like? A latte? Americano? Mocha?”
“Just a tea, please,” Gwen replied. She didn’t think she could take any more caffeine; her nerves were already jangling.
“Tea, it is.”
She headed back to the table he’d pointed out while he went to order her drink at the counter. Gwen was glad for a few moments to compose herself. She didn’t know why she was feeling so nervous, but the plain fact of the matter was that she was. She took a deep breath and let it out, smoothing one hand over her neat gray bob. She hadn’t lost her hair when she’d had her chemo, thankfully, but its texture had changed, and she wasn’t entirely used to the thicker, coarser strands. She hadn’t mentioned her battle with cancer in the email; it was the kind of thing she didn’t really want to go into, but not going into it felt dishonest. Well, who knew what they’d actually end up talking about? Maybe they’d just keep it to pleasantries.
“Here you are.” John set down a tray with a teapot, cup, and little milk jug, as well as an Americano for himself, before taking the seat opposite her.
“Thank you,” Gwen murmured, taking the tea things, conscious of his speculative gaze upon her. It felt as if he was studying her, and she couldn’t quite make herself meet his eye.
“I was trying to think how long it’s been since we’ve seen each other,” John remarked at last. “And I think it must have been Izzy’s wedding—ten years ago now, and we were barely able to exchange hellos.”
“Yes,” Gwen murmured, “I think you may be right.”
John shook his head slowly. “How did the time get away from us so badly? I’m ashamed that I haven’t reached out more since David died. I should have.”
“Life gets busy,” Gwen replied with a small smile. “And with the B&B as well as trips to America to see Matthew and his family, I’m afraid I didn’t have a lot of spare time to visit friends—or have friends to visit, for that matter. I think I’ve probably lost touch with a lot of people.” Old university friends, or neighbors from when they lived out near Swansea, before buying the inn. In truth, she didn’t have that many close friends anymore—a few women in the village, some neighbors, and her family, of course. She hadn’t felt the need for more… at least she didn’t think she had.
“Still.” He pursed his lips. “We never even talked properly at Izzy’s wedding. I have an awful feeling you were parked at a table with my cousins, and probably had a miserable time.”
Gwen let out a little laugh, surprised and gratified that he’d remembered such a detail. “Well, it’s always hard to go to those kinds of events on your own,” she replied diplomatically, and John gave a little hoot of laughter.
“Especially when you’re seated with my positively po-faced cousins. They don’t have a shred of humor between them, I’m afraid. I should have swapped your place.”
“It hardly matters now,” Gwen said with a smile. “It was ages ago.”
John’s own smile faded. “Yes, it was.”
It felt like the right time for her to say, “I really was so sorry to hear about Michelle.”
John nodded somberly. “Thank you. I know you know what it’s like. Like missing half of yourself, really. For the first few months afterwards, I kept expecting her to appear. Nonsensical, I know, and maybe because it happened so fast, I struggled more to cope, but I’d turn around to tell her something—something silly, likepass the milkordo you know if we need to pick up the dry cleaning—and then I’d realized that she wasn’t there.” He shook his head, his mouth twisting wryly, although his eyes were shadowed with deep sorrow. “The funny thing—well, the terrible thing, really—is that every time it came as a little shock, a proper jolt, even, like I had to remember all over again that she was gone. You’d think it would stop surprising me, and eventually itdid, but you know what? That actually made me feel sadder. Daft, eh?”
“No,” Gwen replied quietly. “Not daft at all.” They certainly weren’t keeping to pleasantries, and she realized she was glad, because she knew exactly what John meant about losing someone, and was grateful he’d articulated the sense of grief so clearly. “I remember I didn’t want to wash the blanket we kept on the sofa because it smelled of David,” she confessed. “And one day I realized it had lost that scent, and that felt like its own loss.”
“Yes.” John nodded, his face filled with sorrow but also warmth. “I kept a container of pineapple juice in the fridge for months, because Michelle drank it. I didn’t—never touched the stuff—but every time I looked in the fridge and saw it there, it made me feel better. Eventually, when Izzy came to visit, she threw it out, without telling me, and I was—well, I was furious.” He let out a little laugh. “I tried not to show it, but I was absolutely raging that she’d thrown that rancid juice out. Now thatisdaft.”
“Well, maybe a little,” Gwen dared to tease, and John gave another little laugh, his smile wide and infectious. “But I understand it,” she assured him. “You want to hold onto the past even as it slips away from you. When it finally slips away completely, and you know there is nothing you can do about it, it does feel like another loss, but in time it can come to be something of a relief. We aren’t meant to hold onto these things, not that tightly, anyway.”
“No,” John agreed quietly. “You’re right.” He took a sip of his coffee and then put it down again, smiling at her as he shook his head.
She was a little surprised at how much she was enjoying his company; she hadn’t known him as well as David had, and she’d been a bit worried that with only the two of them, the conversation would dry up. “I was nervous about coming here today,” she admitted a bit recklessly, busying herself with pouring out her tea so she didn’t have to see how he took that confession. “I know it’s silly, and I don’t even know why—”
“So was I,” John replied. “It’s been so long… and well, loss changes you, doesn’t it? You’re not sure if you’re the same person that you used to be, or if people will notice.”
“Yes,” Gwen agreed feelingly. She’d been changed by David’s death, but she’d also been changed by her cancer diagnosis. She realized she wanted to tell him about it now. “I’ve had cancer myself,” she said, ducking her head a little. “Stage four breast cancer. I’ve been in remission officially for about six months.”
“Gwen, I’m so sorry.” To her surprise, John reached over and briefly touched her hand. “That must have been incredibly difficult.”
“Well, it wasn’t easy, but I’m grateful for coming through it. And Matthew and his wife Ellie were absolutely wonderful, and my daughter Sarah as well. Everyone rallied around, and in the end, I think it brought us all closer.”
“Illness can do that, can’t it?” John remarked. “It reminds you of what’s precious in life, and to hold onto it—if you can.”
