“Tea for the walking wounded.” Daniel was in the hall, carrying a tea tray, just as Annie emerged from the bathroom. He followed as she limped into the bedroom and set a mug of tea on the nightstand beside the bed. “Chamomile.”
Annie pressed her lips into a weak smile and murmured, “Thank you,” before sinking gingerly onto the bed. She scooted herself over the duvet until she could brace her back with pillows and slowly brought her legs up, easing them straight in front of her.
He held out a small plate with two pieces of buttered toast. “Honey or raspberry jam?”
Annie shook her head and bit into a piece. Her eyes closed, as chewing was almost too much. She swallowed with effort. “This is perfect,” she said, then sighed.
Daniel pulled out a straight-backed chair from the small desk under the window and allowed silence to fall between them. He sensed they both needed the moment to gather their thoughts and Annie, her breath.
“How do you feel?” he asked. She’d finished one slice of toast and got halfway through the other before setting down the plate and picking up the mug of tea from the nightstand. “Really.”
“Like an idiot. Really,” she said. “An idiot run over by a train. You’d think once would have been enough.”
“Sorry?”
“I’ve done this before,” she replied, with a half-smile that ended in a grimace. “The first time ended my running career. Fortunately this time around, I think my pride is more wounded than my leg.”
“That scar on your knee,” he said.
She halted her tentative shifting on the bed, where she seemed to be seeking the least uncomfortable position. “When did you—”
“When you were in my studio.”
Annie nodded, then leaned her head back to rest against the wall and closed her eyes. “I’m not sure what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.”
“As stubborn as you are? You would have limped into town.” He hesitated but decided to risk the question. “I noticed a different car at the cottage. Should we let someone know you’re here?”
She raised her head to answer him with open eyes but an unreadable expression. “I returned from Dublin on my own. That’s a rental.”
A useless nod, as if he understood what she meant. He waited for her to elaborate, but she turned her focus to the mug, worrying her fingers around the warmth. As though answering a question only she could hear, Annie shook her head slowly and returned the mug to the small table beside her.
“Why did you take off from my studio the other day?” he asked, filling the silence. “What happened?”
She moved to wrap her arms around her body, shrinking back into the pillow behind her, as though to protect herself. Then she winced, as if anticipating the pain in her ribs. She held her hands loosely in her lap instead. “What do you mean?”
“Friday night,” he began, “after you dropped off the girls, you were in such a hurry to get away. I chalked it up to a need to retreat after we’d met in the pub. I get that. You can only share so much, and then it’s as though you need to regain your strength. But when you just vanished Saturday morning, I’ll admit I was a little bewildered. Then worried.”
“Have you appointed yourself my guardian angel?”
“Maybe in a way I have. I’ve been clean long enough to know that every single day is a battle against what I want—which is to give in—and what I need—which is not to drink. You are so raw, the hurt just seeps out of you. It’s hard to watch that and not want to step in—”
“And save me,” she finished.
“Save you from yourself, maybe,” he agreed.
“Did you hone that savior complex in prison, or is this a more recent development?”
Daniel’s jaw clenched, and his teeth clicked in a syncopated rhythm of irritation. “So, you’ve heard. Don’t know why that surprises me. You switched off like a light after the return trip on Friday. I should have guessed my niece said something.”
“Don’t blame her,” Annie said. “Ironically, she was showing you off. To your niece, it’s ancient history. It’s part of the legend of Uncle Daniel.”
“Ha. The legend of Uncle Daniel. That’s rich. A tragedy in three acts.”
“But your tragedy is over. You’re alive and with your family.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Annie’s eyes rounded in horror. “Daniel, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Yes. You did mean. You’re right to think I’ve been trying to make up for living ever since I killed that boy. But I never will. We both know that.”
“You don’t understand.”
“What’s there to understand? It couldn’t be more simple.” He stood and pushed his chair against the desk. “I killed a child. I live a peaceful, productive life despite what I’ve done, and I don’t deserve to. I’m aware of that every waking moment of my day and plenty of the sleeping ones as well.”
He turned and left her sitting there. This woman who had pulled apart the scars he thought had closed.