Saturday 18 November 2017
It was a pale dawn, as though the sun was sleepy too. Meg shivered in her favourite chair on the porch, the sheepskins and blankets tucked tightly around her, and Badger – oversized though he was – curled across her feet. It was a rare treat but on such a cold morning as this . . .
The snow had stopped falling sometime around five and the landscape was more beautiful than ever, the mountains’ sharp crests softened into rounded hillocks, the valley floor tucked tight and white like a sheet; streaks of red were painting a sky which had billowed upwards and stayed there; trees had become monuments – decorated frosted pillars with the interplay of snow and leaf like the fretwork of an intricate lace . . . Meg stared into the void, the moon still visible, a fingernail in the sky.
Twenty-four hours and he’d be gone.
A week ago everything had been fine. She’d been fine – finer than she’d been for a long time. He’d been a voice in the dark, a page on a screen, an idea of a person, and now he’d ruined it. Ruined her. Because in that week, it was as though her world had shifted, so that although she had the same life, the same view – this view – she had a new perspective. He had reminded her what it was like to have a friend, a lover, someone to talk to, confide in, laugh with . . . even fight with.
She dropped her gaze as she remembered last night again, how awkward she’d made it for him when he was leaving – her smile fake, her body stiff as she waved him off. She’d seen the confusion in his eyes, known he hadn’t understood what had just happened, oblivious to the fact that he’d just walked through a minefield. Of course, he couldn’t know what Tuck really was or what he’d done. Infidelity to her friend was the very least of it.
But that wasn’t Jonas’s fault—
A creak made her jump.
Ronnie, wrapped in about ten layers of Jack’s clothes, it seemed, crept onto the porch and gave an apologetic smile. Another one. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’ Her voice was short and she looked away again.
‘Room for a little one?’ Ronnie asked, walking to the side of the swing chair and sliding herself next to her sister. She carefully shuffled her feet beneath Badger’s slumbering body. ‘Oooh, he’s warm.’
‘Mmmm.’
Ronnie snuck a sideways glance at her. ‘Meg . . .’
‘I know.’
‘But I really am.’
‘I know.’
‘I never should have started on that topic.’
‘I know,’ Meg said pointedly, shooting her a stern look, before looking back out to sky again.
They sat in silence for a bit.
‘Listen, Meg, I just want to say . . .’ Ronnie began, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant.
‘It’s better if you don’t.’
‘No. I wasn’t meaning about last night.’
Meg arched an eyebrow. ‘What then?’
‘I was going to say, don’t put any store by those things Lucy said – about Hap, I mean. I’m not having a go at her,’ she said quickly, defensively. ‘But she’s got no right to make you feel guilty for wanting to be happy again.’
‘You’ve told me that before.’
‘I know! Because it’s true, especially . . .’ She hesitated again.
‘Yes?’ Meg asked impatiently.
‘Especially because, I do feel – and so does Jack – we both think it . . . that Jonas makes you happy— Wait!’ she said, seeing how Meg instinctively turned away.
‘Ron,’ Meg said, stopping her. ‘I appreciate you saying this. Really I do. But he’s going to be gone from here this time tomorrow – he’s flying to DC and then on to New York and then after that, back to the ESA headquarters in Cologne, and then God knows where, before he will finally go back to Norway for Christmas. And I . . . I will still be here. OK?’ She shook her head. ‘I know what you’re saying but there’s no point in it; there’s no way forward from this. Pen pals is as good as we’re gonna get.’
Ronnie slumped under the dead weight of her words. ‘There’s always a way if you want there to be.’
Meg snorted. ‘Since when did you get to be such an optimist?’
‘Since I fell in love, that’s when. You’re only living half a life if you’re living without love.’
Meg felt suddenly exhausted by her little sister’s impassioned conviction. Talk about the zeal of the converted . . . From the moment she’d put her relationship with Mitch before art college, she had had nothing but grief for choosing love over a career, but now that Ronnie had bitten from the apple, love was the answer? ‘Look, I’ve had my love, Ron. I’ve been where you are. I was a week from getting married and then he died. I’m sorry that I can’t just move on from that.’
‘I know how much you loved Mitch. He was a great guy, and you were a brilliant couple. But just do me a favour, OK? Don’t idolize the man. Don’t turn him in death into something he never was in life.’ Meg’s mouth parted but Ronnie carried on. ‘He wasn’t perfect, because no one is. But try to remember that as well as all the good times – and there were loads, I know – you guys also used to argue a lot. He drove you mad when he’d stay in town with Tuck and not tell you till he was too drunk to stand, or when he drank the juice from the carton – and he could be a right grumpy bugger.’ She blinked, looking both fierce and frightened at the same time. ‘All I’m saying is, just keep the balance, OK? Because if you hold him up as this shining beacon of perfect love, no one else will ever be able to compete. And that would be a real shame because Jonas is brilliant.’
Meg was quiet for a very long time, the words spinning round in her head as she tried to keep the tears from coming. Her gaze was on the distant sky again. It seemed curiously empty now, without him in it. ‘Saying goodbye never gets any easier, does it?’
Ronnie watched her. ‘No,’ she murmured. ‘It never does.’
He could see her through the glass. She was chatting to a little girl as she fitted her for ski boots, laughing at something the child said.
Jonas pushed the door open, seeing how she froze as she looked up and saw him coming through, her smile fixed on her face but seeping from her eyes.
‘Hi . . .’ she began, and he could tell from her tone what she was going to say. ‘It’s not a good time.’
‘I’ll just browse,’ he said quickly, turning his back to inspect the rows of skis and boots, gloves, hats, goggles . . . Badger, who must have been snoozing somewhere, trotted over on hearing his voice and gave a low whine for a cuddle, his tail thumping on the floor as Jonas obliged.
The little girl’s voice was sing-song to his ear as he picked up a ski mask. It was top-spec, with a built-in camera and infrared capability. He replaced it and wandered over to the helmets, listening all the while to her conversation – hearing the kindness in her voice as she asked if the heel slipped or if the little girl could wiggle her toes, marvelled at how tall she was for her age as she measured for poles, gave her a free lollipop for being so patient when they’d tried on thirteen different helmets.
Eventually, to his relief and Meg’s discomfort, the girl and her mother left; Jonas turned to face her as he heard the bell jingle above the door. Meg was standing by the till, trying to look occupied, her mouth pulled into a flat line.
He didn’t hesitate. There was no time. ‘Meg, I’m sorry.’
‘You have nothing—’
‘Yes, I do. It was tactless of me to suggest that a scientific theory could ever best what you’ve learned from years of friendship.’ He watched her blink, saw the tension in her chest as she took only half-breaths, her gaze flighty as her hands sought to busy themselves, settling finally on fiddling with a paper clip on the counter.
She shook her head. ‘I’d had too much to drink. Besides, you were probably right. I’m not Tuck’s biggest fan right now.’
Right now? But Jonas didn’t push it. Frankly, he didn’t care who thought what about Tuck right now. Nineteen hours from now he would be gone – gone from here, gone from her. That was all that was in his head.
‘But if he is sleeping around, then he is a shit.’ He saw Meg’s surprise at his language, a hint of a smile come to her eyes. ‘And that would explain why Lucy is angry and insecure and depressed.’ He shrugged. ‘So you were right. I was wrong.’ He grinned. ‘Astronauts know everything about space and nothing at all about the human race. Everyone knows that. Why do you think we’re always looking for Martians?’
‘That sounds like one of your jokes,’ she muttered, but a smile escaped her – it was only a tiny one, but it was still like the sun emerging from behind clouds.
‘Have brunch with me,’ he said, walking towards her.
But her smile faltered and she looked away, the moment gone again. There was something else.
The jangling bell of the door behind him signalled new customers and his spirits sank. Dammit! He turned to find an older woman coming in. She was wearing a trapper hat, a beaten-up puffa jacket and a beautifully old pair of chestnut-brown hiking boots with decades-old tide marks on the leather. She looked at Jonas with a clear, concise gaze, her brown skin deeply lined and yet firm at the jaw, her short, straight haircut of the DIY variety.
He turned. ‘Dolores,’ he smiled. He had somehow missed her all week – any time he’d stopped by the store to see or pick up Meg, she’d been out.
‘Jonas,’ she replied in recognition, walking over to him and assessing him with a frank scrutiny, much like a farmer in the market for a bull. She put a hand to his cheek and nodded. ‘So you are flesh and blood after all.’
‘I am.’ He stood still as she looked at him in the way that only his mother had ever looked at him – seeing him fully, in the round, and accepting everything she saw.
‘Sorry – have you two met already?’ Meg interrupted.
Dolores dropped her hand and turned to Meg, unzipping her jacket. ‘No. But who else could he be? One look and you can see he’s a man who stepped off the world because he wanted a better view.’
Meg looked at him, as though trying to see him through Dolores’s eyes. But that was impossible. Too much had happened between them already for either to see the other clearly.
‘So, what are you kids up to today?’ Dolores asked, walking out back and hanging up her coat.
‘I was just trying to convince Meg to have brunch with me,’ Jonas said, leaning over and calling slightly so that Dolores could hear. He sensed he had an ally in her.
‘But as I was just about to explain,’ Meg said in a too-patient voice, her eyes on him, ‘I’ve got to work.’
‘Nonsense,’ Dolores said dismissively, walking back through. ‘You go.’
‘Dolores, really, it’s been insane all morning – I’ve barely stopped. And the eleven a.m. from Calgary has just pulled up. As soon as all those people have checked in, they’re going to be straight over here, wanting—’
‘I said, you go. I’ll deal with it.’
‘Dolores, no.’
‘Megan, yes,’ Dolores said firmly.
Meg inhaled deeply, casting an anxious glance between her and Jonas. ‘I’m not hungry.’ She seemed to be shooting Dolores some sort of meaningful look.
Dolores looked back at Jonas. He shrugged his eyebrows, feeling increasingly awkward. It was patently obvious Meg didn’t want to eat with him. She turned back to Meg again. ‘Fine. You’re fired.’
Meg gasped. ‘What?’
‘You heard me. Go.’ Dolores crossed her arms over her chest.
‘What? No!’ she half-laughed, half-cried.
‘I’ll call the police on you if you don’t.’
‘Dolores! You can’t . . . you can’t do that!’ Meg cried, watching as Dolores disappeared out the back again and returned a moment later with her bag and coat.
‘On the contrary, I should have done it years ago. Your performance has been below par for months now. You’ve been getting sloppy with the customers recently and you over-ordered on the Oakley account so now I’ve got to find a way of shifting three hundred pairs of four-hundred-dollar sunglasses.’
‘But—’
‘No, leave the dog with me. You can collect him on your way back.’ Dolores was pushing Meg towards the door. ‘Go. Just go.’
‘But—’
Meg stumbled out into the street, looking back into the store with an expression of utter shock and disbelief. ‘I did not over-order the Oakleys,’ she cried, throwing her arms out.
‘Chicken, you are without doubt the worst assistant manager I’ve ever had.’
‘I’m the only assistant manager you’ve ever had!’
‘That’s all well and good, but I should have done this years ago. It’s only my affection for you that stopped me. Now don’t make a fuss – it’s vulgar and my mind is made up.’ Dolores turned away from her.
‘What the hell . . . ?’ Meg asked, aghast; she looked as though she was about to burst into tears.
Dolores handed the bag and coat over to Jonas, her back to Meg. ‘Blueberry crêpes at Melissa’s Missteak,’ she murmured. ‘And she likes her coffee with hot cream,’ she whispered – sending him off with a wink.