Now and Then Friends (24 page)

“I'm sorry.”

He shrugged aside her apology and reached for two mugs. “So am I.”

Claire watched him make them both mugs of tea even though she hadn't asked for one. There was something natural and comforting about sitting in his kitchen, sharing a meal, accepting a mug of strong, sweet tea. “You know,” she said when they were both sitting down with their mugs, “you could still try here. Make friends, a life—”

Dan shook his head wearily. “I don't really see the point.”

“But you came here for a reason. And life does go on—”

“Does it?” Dan interjected, his voice sharpening. “I lost four men in Afghanistan. We were doing a search-and-clearance operation in the Nad Ali District and a hidden bomb exploded in an area I'd already swept. It was my fault. Completely my fault that those men died, and two of them had children. Three were married.” He glanced away, his face set hard.

“Oh, Dan . . .” Claire whispered. She had no idea what to say.

“Life doesn't go on for everyone,” he finished, and drained his mug of tea. “Why should it for me? Now you'd better get out there. I'm sure someone will come in soon.” He rose from the table, taking their dishes to the sink, and then started upstairs. Claire watched him go, wishing she could say something, yet having no idea what to say or how to comfort a man who had far more depth and sensitivity than she'd ever realized.

Alone in the kitchen, she tidied up and then went out to the shop. It was raining steadily now, a thick mist lying over the high street. Claire doubted they would get many customers in such weather, and she decided to brave the mist and rain to take Bunny for a walk. She could deliver Eleanor Carwell's paper and milk while she was at it.

She locked the front door and hung up the
BACK IN AN HOUR
sign and then whistled for Bunny, who came quivering towards her. She'd gotten used to the dog in the last month, but she'd never walked her before. Although she didn't want to incur Dan's wrath again, she decided to ask his permission and tiptoed up the stairs.

“Dan . . . ?” she called, and received no answer. She went all the way up, Bunny at her heels, and crept down the narrow passageway, conscious that she was invading Dan's privacy and setting herself up for a serious smackdown. “Dan . . . ?” The door to what had to be his bedroom was ajar, and after tapping nervously on it, she poked her head around.

Dan was stretched out on the bed, fast asleep. Claire stood there for a moment, watching him. In sleep the grim set of his features was softened, his breath coming out deep and even. He slept like he'd been laid in a coffin, flat on his back, his hands folded over his chest. Maybe it was a military thing.

Claire glanced around the room, shamelessly looking for clues about this man, but the Spartan bedroom gave nothing away. Nothing on top of the bureau or bedside table, no photographs or books or even loose change. The only thing she learned about him was that he was very neat. That was probably a military thing too.

After another moment of watching him, strangely transfixed by the sight of him asleep, Claire tiptoed back downstairs and whistled for Bunny, who came scampering joyfully to her side.

It took Rachel only about ten steps towards the Manchester side of the bridge to realize she was overreacting. She stopped, taking a few deep breaths, needing to control the emotion that had been bottled inside her. A few pedestrians slipped by her, clearly annoyed that she was standing there unmoving while they were forced to break their purposeful stride.

Finally, when the bridge was empty, save for her and Andrew, she turned around. Andrew stood a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, his expression unruffled. The man
never
emoted.

“Fine,” she said. “I'm scared. Of course I am. Who isn't?”

“There's nothing wrong with being scared. It's when you let the fear control you—”

“Oh please. What self-help book did you steal that line from?”

“There's nothing wrong with self-help books, either.”

“You know, I have thought about it,” she said. Her chest felt tight again, and she took a few more deep breaths. “Of course I have. But it isn't fear that's kept me from trying to do something more with my life.”

“What, then?” Andrew asked. He took a step towards her, and Rachel turned to look out at the river. It was easier to stare at the gently flowing water than at him.

“Exhaustion, for one. I feel like I can barely get myself through each
day most of the time. But beyond that . . .” She braced her hands on the bridge's railing, her fingers curling over the cold metal. “I don't want to
settle.
I don't want to be the person who has to be thrilled she got a place at University of Cumbria's night school, doing some adult ed course on data entry or hospitality management. Yes, I've looked at the courses online,” she said, cutting him off before he could say anything. “I haven't been completely paralyzed. But . . .” Her hands tightened on the railing, her gaze firmly on the river. “I was accepted on academic scholarship to
Durham
. I know it's not Cambridge or Oxford, but it's still one of the best universities in the country. I had plans. Dreams . . .”

“What were you studying at Durham?” he asked quietly.

“Chemistry.” Her throat thickened alarmingly and she swallowed hard. “I wanted to go into research. I was going to get a PhD, find the cure for cancer. . . .” She let out a laugh, the sound just a little wild. “Oh, well.”

“You're only twenty-eight, Rachel.”

“Give it up, Andrew. I don't have the money for all that. The part-time chemistry course at West Lakes College was too much for my pocket. Anyway,” she finished with a shrug, “it doesn't matter. I can't skip off to uni even part-time with my mother in hospital and my sisters needing me.”

“Maybe they don't need you as much as you think they do.”

She turned to face him. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“I admit, I'm only seeing this from the outside, but you've done everything for them, Rachel. Meghan only works three nights a week, but you've let her. You've never demanded she have a full-time job, or that Lily help more with the housework. You've been doing it all, all the time, and I don't think you need to.”

She felt a blush sweep over her body, hot and prickly. How had he seen all that? He'd barely stepped inside her house once. He didn't know her or her family at all. “I want Lily to study, not do dishes,” she said stiffly. “She has so much opportunity. She could go to Durham—”

“So could you. Or if not Durham, then somewhere else. The University of Lancaster has loads of decent courses. It doesn't have to be settling, and frankly, settling for something is better than having nothing at all.”

“Why do you care so much?” she blurted. “Am I your pity project or something?”

He held his hands up. “No pity. If anything, I admire you, chipped shoulder and all. But I've stood by and watched Claire waste her life.”

“Because she's working in a shop?” Rachel interjected sharply.

“No, because she's been unhappy, letting other people make her choices for her. Don't do the same thing.”

Shock made her jaw drop before she snapped it shut. “I can't believe you're comparing me to Claire.”

“You have some surprising similarities.”

Another rush of pedestrian commuters was starting down the bridge, and Andrew took hold of her elbow to move her to the side. “Come on. We have time to get a drink before your train.”

Rachel let him lead her off the bridge and to a quiet wine bar near Piccadilly Station. They sat in a deep booth with huge glasses of wine and, thankfully, Andrew didn't continue with his pep talk. She'd had enough. She felt both raw and invigorated, and she was painfully aware that in less than an hour she'd be back on the train; in three hours she'd be in Hartley-by-the-Sea, cleaning up the kitchen, nagging Lily, and probably putting Nathan to bed. She leaned her head back against the plush booth and sighed.

“Tired?”

“More than you could possibly know.”

Andrew placed his hand over hers, a deliberate act, his palm warm and dry. “Think about what I said.”

Rachel glanced down at their hands, his covering hers. She wanted to ask him what was going on between them, if anything. Had this been a date? Would they see each other again? But she couldn't face the nonanswers she suspected he'd give, and she didn't know what her
own answers would be. She didn't know what she wanted anymore, or what she was capable of.

An hour later Andrew walked her to the train and kissed her cheek before she got on board, a gentlemanly peck that still managed to make her skin buzz.

She sank into a seat, leaned her head against the window, and thankfully, after only a few minutes, fell asleep.

The house was quiet when she let herself in three hours later. Rachel tiptoed upstairs, not wanting to wake Nathan, and peeked in Lily's room. She was curled up on her bed, drawing.

“Adventures of a Mad Scientist?” Rachel guessed as Lily covered the paper with her hand.

“Yes . . .”

Rachel nodded. Words rose to the tip of her tongue about studying and having only two weeks until her first exam, but she felt too tired to say any of it. “Where's Meghan?” she asked instead.

“Asleep.”

“Really? It's only nine.”

“She'd had a few late nights.”

“True.” Rachel leaned against the door. She'd dozed most of the way back to Hartley-by-the-Sea, but she still felt tired. Tomorrow she was meeting with Mr. Greaves to discuss her mother's “next phase of rehabilitation,” whatever that would be. She also had to clean three houses.

“You okay, Rach?” Lily asked, and she managed a smile.

“Yeah, just tired.”

“Did you have a nice day out with Andrew?”

Rachel thought of the museum, the bridge. “Mostly.”

“He seems nice, to me.”

“He is nice,” she said slowly. She remembered his hand on hers, the intensity in his voice when he'd encouraged her to do something. “He's very nice,” she said, and turned from the room.

It was strange to have the house so quiet, even peaceful. The kitchen
was actually clean, and someone had switched the dishwasher on. Rachel stood in the center of the room for a moment, savoring the stillness, Andrew's words running through her head, and then turned and went upstairs to bed.

On Monday morning she sat in Mr. Greaves's office and listened to him drone on about cognitive function and rehabilitation options and best-case scenarios. She felt tense and edgy; she hadn't slept well to begin with, and then Nathan had woken up crying at five in the morning. Rachel had stumbled out of bed when he hadn't stopped after several minutes to find Meghan lying with a pillow clutched over her head and Nathan sniffling next to her.

“Meghan. Seriously. Can't you get him to stop?”

“No, I bloody well can't. Don't you think I've tried?” Meghan yanked the pillow off her head and glared at Rachel with bloodshot eyes. For the first time Rachel noticed how awful her sister looked. Admittedly, no one looked their best at the crack of dawn with a toddler screaming next to them, but Meghan looked . . . on the edge. She'd lost weight, so her body was stringy rather than svelte, her hair in a greasy clump, her face pale and streaked with last night's makeup. But beyond all that there was something desperate and reckless about her that made Rachel lean forward and scoop Nathan up into her arms.

“Come on, sweetheart. You can sleep with me.”

Meghan rolled over and Rachel went to her bedroom, tucking Nathan up next to her. She thought of Andrew telling her how maybe she didn't need to do everything. Right then it felt like she bloody well did.

Now she tried to focus on the consultant's spiel, but all she really wanted were bottom lines. “So we'll have help. Day nurses . . .”

“Yes, you'll certainly be entitled to at least a few hours of home nursing each week, but you'll need to think about who will have the burden of care.”

The burden of care.
It was an awful phrase. And a few hours each week didn't sound like much help at all. “But there are forty hours in a
working week,” Rachel said. Not to mention mornings and evenings and weekends.

Mr. Greaves's expression tightened. “The National Health Service is very stretched financially. We will do all what we can, of course.”

Of course. Fifteen minutes later Rachel sat next to her mother's bed and tried to listen as the nurse went through Janice's daily physical exercises. In the two weeks since the stroke, Janice hadn't progressed much, if at all. Her face and body were still mostly paralyzed, although she could twitch her muscles occasionally. Speech was garbled and limited, and cognitive function was, as one nurse had put it, “not operating at full capacity.” Which made her mother sound like a machine that had more than a few rusty bits.

“Hey, Mum, you're doing so well.” Smiling, Rachel took Janice's limp hand in hers. She forced herself to meet her mother's gaze; the frustration and fear in her mother's faded blue eyes both chilled her and made her want to cry.

She, of all Janice's children, could remember when her mother had been busy and hassled, banging saucepans on the stove and clipping kids on the ear. She'd been too stressed and frantic to be one of those nurturing, hands-on mothers, but Rachel had never doubted that Janice had loved her children and she'd worked hard to provide for them financially. Now she lay in bed, a terrible desperation in her eyes, and Rachel only wanted to back away. And she thought
she
was trapped.

After half an hour of murmuring encouragements while the nurse rotated Janice's limbs, Rachel finally cried off. She had Emily Hart and her terrible twins waiting for her.

When she arrived at the Harts', Emily was standing at the sink, staring out the window while Riley and Rogan sat on the floor and banged pot lids together. Rachel covered her ears for a moment as the clanging reverberated through the kitchen, and when Emily didn't so much as move, she swooped down and took the makeshift cymbals out of the boys' chubby toddler hands.

“That's enough of that, I think.” She glanced at Emily, who was still staring into space. “Tea?”

“Pardon?” Emily turned around, blinking as if she'd been asleep. “Oh, yes, that would be lovely.”

Rachel hustled the boys into the sitting room and turned on the TV. They sat down in front of
Thomas the Tank Engine
, immediately docile, their faces slackening as their gazes became glued to the flat-screen in front of them. Thank God for the CBeebies channel.

Back in the kitchen Emily was drifting around like she didn't know what to do with herself, and Rachel filled the kettle, steeling herself for another moan about the purposelessness of life for the middle-class British housewife.

“So,” she said as the kettle started to hiss. “Should I ask how you are?”

Emily let out a wobbly laugh and sank into a kitchen chair, dropping her chin into her hands. “Probably not.”

“That bad, eh?” Rachel reached for the tea bags that Emily kept in a ceramic jar shaped like a rooster. “Oh, dear.”

“Well.” Emily released a shuddering breath. “I'm pregnant.”

“Oh.” Rachel handed Emily a mug and sat down across from her. “This isn't a congratulations type of situation, I'm guessing?”

“Not really.” Emily took a sip of tea, her face pale, her eyes downcast. “I wasn't . . . We weren't trying. Obviously.”

“And?” Rachel asked cautiously. “What are your . . . ? What are your thoughts?”

“My thoughts?” Emily looked up, her forehead wrinkling. “My thoughts are I really am not looking forward to being pregnant again.
Bowking
for twelve weeks and then turning into a bloody beached whale . . . not to mention the varicose veins, the hemorrhoids . . .”

Rachel held up a hand. “Really, I get the picture.”