MALCOLM HAD JUST SENT young Jimmy Corcoran home with stitches in his knee (he’d attempted to jump three cardboard boxes on his bike) when his phone rang.
He glanced down and his heart stopped.
He stepped into his office immediately and closed the door.
“Jemima.”
“Malcolm. The Trust voted to sell.”
His breath left him in a gust. His vision blurred in shock for an instant.
He lowered himself into his chair, gingerly.
“Sorry to come right out with it like that, but I thought you’d prefer it. And I wanted to you to hear it from me first, rather than in an email.” She said it gently.
He could do this. He could form words.
“You were exactly right not to hedge. Thank you. Was the vote close?”
“One vote.”
He closed his eyes and bit his lip stop from saying “Fuck” out loud. The next breath he drew in scorched his lungs.
He wished he could speak. His silence felt too revealing. He understood with blinding clarity had never felt entirely safe being exactly who he was with Jemima.
“Mal...I voted against selling. I know you want to stay here.”
“Thank you, Jemima. That means a lot.”
Did it?
He was familiar with the physiology of shock. It would be done with him in a moment. He’d get the feeling back in his limbs. His gut would un-knot.
“Was it Argosy?” he said shortly. Gruffly.
“I doubt it will make you feel better about it if you knew how everyone voted.”
Which was true.
But he knew it was Argosy. It was likely more about money than any masculine pride or chest beating about having his date stolen. But then, one never knew.
Malcolm wouldn’t have done anything different. He would have still gone to the Riot, plucked Isabel from that crowd, and ferried her off.
“I’m so sorry, Malcolm,” Jemima said gently. “But I just had a hunch all along it would go this way no matter how you tried to persuade them. The current board members are less about sentiment than maximizing profits, which they think they can put to even more constructive use.”
‘Sentiment’. Was that how they saw his life, his livelihood, the lifeline for so many of the people here and in the surrounding towns? What could be “more constructive” than a local medical center? He didn’t say the words. He knew they’d be rhetorical and pointless. What was done was done.
He re-congregated his wits.
“Kind of you to call, Jemima,” he said stiffly. “Thank you.”
“Wasn’t it?” Jemima said lightly, dryly. “I do wish you well, you know, Mal,” she said. He knew she meant it. “And life’s a long game, after all,” she added. Somewhat archly.
He wasn’t certain what she meant by that. But if she knew he’d been shagging an American on holiday—and doubtless she did—she’d likely decided it couldn’t go on forever. Which was in fact true. Jemima probably found it difficult to conceive of a world in which she didn’t eventually get precisely what she wanted.
“I suppose it is.”
But was it?
He of all people knew life could be both urgent and shockingly finite. He stared out his office window at the street. It was a small thing, but he’d come to love that damn view, and the people and animals who strolled by. And he loved the view from his apartment window upstairs. He didn’t want the weight of grief on him now, when he’d been buoyed for days.
He also loved the view of the ceiling in Isabel’s flat.
But that had a lot to do with the naked woman next to him.
“If you can get up to London tomorrow, that practice I told you about would love speak with you—Daddy mentioned it yesterday. I’ve told you about them. A fine group of medical professionals. I’ll text you their contact information if you’d like to set it up. It really does have to be tomorrow, however. One of them is off to the Maldives for a month after that.”
Fuck. Tomorrow?
And yet it wasn’t as though he was independently wealthy and could rusticate for weeks while planning his future. And it wasn’t as though big empty buildings were available all over Pennyroyal Green.
“All right. Thank you. I’ll let you know.”
“If you need to talk, Malcolm, or anything else...”
“Very kind of you, Jemima. I better go break the news to Finn before our exceptional town grapevine gets to him first.”
She gave a little laugh. “All right. Take care.”
“Likewise. I’ll be in touch.”
He pressed the call to an end.
He took a breath and let it go slowly.
Damn. He closed his eyes again.
He dreaded walking into the next office to tell Finn the news. Finn, the first O’Flaherty in history to own his own property in Pennyroyal Green. His life was here, too. It meant everything to him.
When Malcolm needed an ear, he sometimes turned to Geoff, or Finn, or even his sister. But more often he turned to himself. On a long walk or drive in Pennyroyal Green, a lot could be sorted out.
But now he found himself reaching for his phone, as if it were a lifeline, or a drug.
“Tonight?” He texted to Isabel .
He didn’t move until her text pinged in.
“Can’t wait.”
The knot in his stomach loosened; shock and numbness eased in a sweet flood of anticipation. Still, he found himself resisting the peace those words brought. In this moment, it felt a bit like weakness.
Or even—of all things—need.
He’d never anticipated it getting to this point, but then he’d never anticipated Isabel at all.
* * * * *
When she was old and looking back on her life, she was pretty sure those moments between the time she first heard Malcolm’s motorcycle coming up the road and the time her doorbell sounded would stand out as some of the most erotically charged she’d ever known
He was still in the habit of cutting the engine before he reached the house and walked his bike the rest of the way. Which was rather sweet, given that half the town probably already knew what they were up to. He figured there was no point in downright advertising his arrival, or waking up the neighbors unnecessarily.
She went downstairs to fetch him. She loved that first kiss after he arrived, too, the contrast of his cool cheeks and nose with his hot, sweet mouth.
Tonight the kiss, while not perfunctory, felt distracted. Maybe even a little brief. Malcolm wasn’t one to wear emotions like a banner. But while his eyes kindled as usual, and his mouth smiled as usual, there was something taut about his features.
Something was on his mind.
And instantly she was on guard. The weird little blip from last night had reverberated throughout her day. Was he thinking about that, too? Of course, it could be any of the other dozens of things that could happen in the clinic.
She could make him forget it pretty easily once they were naked, of that she was pretty sure.
Inside her apartment, he’d gotten one arm out of his jacket when he froze.
She knew that was the instant he’d noticed the roses.
She’d decided to leave them on the kitchen counter. They looked exactly like what they were meant to be: a lover’s gift.
He stared at them. “Nice roses.”
“Aren’t they?” She said vaguely, and pivoted away from him abruptly. “Did you want a beer, Malcolm, or a cup of tea? I can—”
“They aren’t the kind you can pick up from the local petrol station. Those sad daisies in the bins, and the like.”
“Nope.”
She filled the kettle with water. `
There was another silence.
“Are we really going to do this one word at a time, Isabel?” He said evenly. Dryly.
She turned and warily studied him, attempting a more accurate read of his emotional temperature. He was definitely paler than usual. But then, the bare bulb in the middle of her ceiling (the shade had broken in half to slice her finger, and she hadn’t a replacement) flattered no one, really.
“They’re from Mark,” she said.
“Mark,” he repeated, after a good five seconds of silence. As though he was only now tasting a worm he’d found in his apple.
“Yes.” She turned to switch the kettle on. Mainly for something to do. Her heart was pounding now with an anticipation that felt far more like dread than lust.
“Isabel?”
She pulled down a cup. “Yeah?”
“Who’s Mark?”
She paused with her back to him. “Mark is my ex-boyfriend.”
She turned slowly. She remained with her back against the counter.
Malcolm slowly pulled his gloves off and stuffed them in his jacket pocket pockets. “How...ex?” he said mildly enough. Even pleasantly.
But something was brewing beneath his calm surface.
And something about his rigid posture—legs planted slightly apart—was a little prosecutorial.
“I broke up with him before I came here.”
“Huh.” Malcolm’s head went back on that sound. It wasn’t quite a laugh. And it wasn’t pleasant. Then his head came down slowly in a nod of sardonic comprehension she didn’t like one bit.
“Ah. Got it.” He said. Half to himself.
“What precisely do you have?” she said mildly. She’d felt her temper ignite with a little whoosh. Like when you turn on a gas burner on the stove.
He ignored this question. “You’ve never mentioned Mark.”
“He never seemed....germane...to us.”
“Germane?”
This was almost funny. And while this did indeed mark the first occasion in her life she’d ever used the word ‘germane’ in a conversation, it didn’t seem to require a response. And now her temper picked up a few degrees. In part because she felt guilty. Should she feel guilty? She hadn’t dodged the issue. She simply hadn’t brought Mark up. Did Malcolm have the right to ask her anything at all about Mark? Technically, no. They hadn’t defined a thing.
“I might have mentioned Mark if he’d draped himself all over me in a pub, while you looked on. Otherwise I’m pretty sure the word ‘Jemima’ would never have come up, either. Because why would it?”
A cascade of ramifications fanned out from that question.
“Why indeed?” He countered evenly.
She didn’t know how to answer that. It meant absolutely nothing, but it was a pretty good hedge, as hedges go.
A little silent stalemate ensued.
“I guess I’m wondering...why did he send roses out of the blue? To you. While you’re on holiday. It’s not your birthday.”
She felt a surge of helpless pleasure. He’d remembered her birthday. Hundreds of people moved in and out of his life, but he’d remembered.
The way she’d remember every single thing about him.
And he knew this because they’d told each other their birthdays—that, and so many other random things, in conversations that meandered through the details of each other’s lives the way a pair of carefree tourists might stroll through the countryside. From the mundane to the profound, in the safe dark between the covers, between bouts of lovemaking.
Malcolm was a Scorpio. She had a hunch Poppy wouldn’t be surprised to learn this.
“I don’t know why Mark sent them. The card says, ‘missing you.’ That’s as erudite as he ever gets. I haven’t responded to it. ”
Malcolm seemed to mull this.
“Does Mark want you back?” He was trying, and failing, to sound casual.
She was getting less crazy about the inquisition by the second.
“I don’t know. But would you blame him?” She gestured half-mockingly herself, spokesmodel style. She knew it was the wrong time for humor.
And he didn’t laugh.
Instead he frowned faintly. He was in a mood unfamiliar to her—taut, suffering, a little dark, even a trifle dangerous—and, probably, unfamiliar to himself. Was it merely jealousy? She could defuse jealousy, if that’s all it was. He’d retrieved her from a date with a douche in the middle of a riot after a bout of what was clearly mutual jealousy.
This felt like something more. And given that he wasn’t the sort to let that sort of thing show, it must run deep, indeed.
“Malcolm,” she tried, striving for patience, gentling her voice. “Does it have to be a big deal? It isn’t to me, really. You must be beat from work. Come on, sit down.”
He obeyed. Gingerly, however, as if somehow he wanted to be ready to spring to his feet, he sat on the squishy old sofa.
She sat next to him.
He didn’t reach for her.
Which made her hands go cold. Neither one of them had managed to keep their hands off each other if they were a foot or less apart.
“How serious was it?” he asked.
“So...we’re still on that.”
He gave her a blackly incredulous look that she probably deserved.
Did any of this even matter when she was leaving in two days?
That’s what she would have said if she wasn’t so scared of the answer.
She sucked in a long, long breath, siphoning patience from the air.
“I dated Mark for over a year. I haven’t heard from him in weeks. No emails, no texts, no phone calls. I mean, at all. It was a perfectly civil breakup. I don’t know how he knew where to send he roses but I wasn’t trying to be secretive about where I was staying. I’m as surprised about them as you seem to be. As it’s not the roses’ fault that he sent them and I didn’t feel melodramatic enough to stomp them into bits, there they sit.”
She tried to deliver this calmly, but by the end her tone had gone faintly ironic and acerbic.
But she could have given those damn roses to Poppy.
Maybe she’d wanted to test him. Maybe she wanted to crouch behind the fact of them like a wall, because she couldn’t be hurt badly if she wasn’t entirely exposed.
He slowly, almost gingerly removed his other arm from his jacket.
She never thought her heart would hammer sickeningly in suspense watching a man remove his jacket. Do it. Take it all the way off. Fling it away from you.
But he hung onto it. Folded it up. Pressed it to his chest. It was his own shield.
He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking out toward the window. Then he looked around the apartment, and up at the bare ceiling bulb.
She saw he had shadows beneath his eye and her heart ached and she wanted to lean over and draw her fingers across them, as if to erase them. He worked so hard and made love so hard and gave so much and he never seemed to complain. Someone ought to take care of him.
“Isabel...what is...this?” He said it almost conversationally.
Fuck.
“This?” she repeated.
But her lips had gone numb.
Because she knew exactly what he meant.
But every moment she stalled with a word or a silence was a moment she didn’t have to think answer that question.
And then her fear, like a wave cresting, built into anger, and suddenly she was breathing more swiftly. How dare he dump that question on her?
“This.” With both hands he gestured sweepingly, sardonically, widely to the two of them, the room, the bed.
“Well, for starters, this is me on holiday enjoying time with a hot and interesting man.”
“So, I’m your rebound ”
He said this with a sort of blithe and brittle reasonableness that made her want to chuck something at him.
She stared him down.
Her hands had turned to ice. Her cheeks were hot. She was furious and scared in equal measure.
“Did you hear me use the word ‘rebound’ in my last sentence?”
“Perhaps ‘rebound’ dignifies it too much. Something quick and forgettable, then?” He said this like a waiter in a restaurant offering an optional choice when the special has run out.
He knew that wasn’t true at all. Didn’t he?
Or was he trying to blow things up?
“Malcolm...here’s a question for you. Why are you being such a dick?”
He went still. She saw his own temper flare, swift and hot, in his eyes.
Then it brought a ghost of a smile. A real one. But a sad one.
“Not entirely sure,” he said thoughtfully.
He wasn’t trying to be funny. Not really.
And he didn’t apologize.
It was clear he was tormented.
A hundred little things occurred to her at once. It was like that scene in the Wizard of Oz where Dorothy watches her whole life blow past her window in a cyclone.
She heard her own nervous breathing and the blood beating in her ears before she asked the question.
“What do you think this is?”
He was quiet a minute.
“Whatever it is...I guess it’s about over, right? I mean, it was always going to end.”
And he turned to her and dared her with his eyes to speak.
She was mute at the shock and cruelty of it.
She knew he cared about her. Why the fuck didn’t he just come out and say it?
He was the brave one. Not her. He was the one who’d turned around and retrieved her phone, who’d dived into a thrashing crowd to rescue her, who’d sewn her bleeding body up, who’d gone to war because he’d been needed.
If he cared about her, he’d say it.
Wouldn’t he?
And he wasn’t saying a thing.
“Malcolm.” The rasp of her voice reminded her of awakening from a nightmare from a scream. She hated the stunned sound of it.
He stood.
And put his jacket on a whole lot faster than he’d taken it off.
He stared at her as.
“You were right, Isabel. So much better to be the one who leaves than the one who is left.”
And holy shit, he left.