A fat raindrop splashed onto her cheek. Lucy leapt up from the rock as if it had burned her. Of course she wasn’t going to kiss him! Christ, what on earth was she thinking? ‘What’s wrong?’ Connell blurted out, scrambling up too.
‘I think we’d better get back,’ she said quickly, her cheeks flaming. ‘Look at those clouds.’
He glanced up, and then back at her. ‘We won’t dissolve, will we?’ he asked in a bemused tone, hurrying after her as she started to stride down the path.
‘You might. You’re not used to our Yorkshire rain.’ As they made their way down towards the village, it was as if that moment had never happened.
‘I did study in Leeds, remember,’ he murmured. ‘I’m not completely allergic to the north.’
She forced a smile. ‘I’d better get back anyway. Tons to do.’
They walked in silence for a few minutes, until Connell remarked, ‘The good thing about this job is, it means a few trips up here to work with the kids.’ He had already told her this. Perhaps he’d forgotten. ‘I hope I can stay again?’
‘Of course,’ she said, glancing at him now. Why had she wanted to kiss him just then? Because she was genuinely attracted to him – which meant that she still had that in her, the ability to experience desire – or maybe it had just been a moment of madness? She did feel pretty crazy sometimes, her emotions still intense and unpredictable, knocking her off balance when she least expected it. Perhaps she’d just been flattered, or carried away in a whirl of nostalgia after their chats last night. Thank God she’d come to her senses there.
‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ he said lightly. ‘I should be here again before Christmas.’
‘Braving winter in Burley Bridge?’ she said with a quick smile.
‘I’d love to see it actually.’
‘It’s lovely,’ she said, ‘although I haven’t really been in the frame of mind to fully appreciate it yet. But there are snowdrops everywhere – on all the verges. You’d never know they were there, and they spring up wherever you look. It’s stunning—’ She broke off as the rain started to pelt down full force, and they hurried back towards the village. Within minutes, they were drenched in their lightweight jackets – and she was supposed to be a proper country person now! As for the way he’d looked at her there just a few minutes ago? It was nothing, she told herself as she let them, hair dripping, back into the house. Guilt still burned in her, but at least nothing had actually happened.
Although she was tempted to sit up chatting over another bottle of wine that night, Lucy had garlands of dried branches, interwoven with fresh bay leaves and rosemary, to make for an herbalist’s shop in Heathfield. She made soup for dinner, and as they ate Marnie and Sam fired questions at Connell about stained glass. When he fetched his portfolio of work, and the children sat with him on the sofa, eyes wide as they leafed through it, she felt a rush of warmth for him.
Perhaps she had misread everything today, she considered now. He had made her feel good about herself again, and she had got carried away and imagined that there might be the possibility of something developing between them.
Of course, it was ludicrous. Even if she wanted to, there was no way she could cope with a proper, romantic relationship with anyone. She had no need for one, and no time for one either. However, she had enjoyed Connell being around, and was sorry he would be leaving tomorrow.
Once the children were in bed, and Connell had headed upstairs to his room, having explained that he would be making an early start, she set to work at the kitchen table. In her pyjamas with a baggy sweater thrown on top, she inhaled the scents from the herbs and expertly twisted them into the garlands. It was soothing work, and she felt lulled by the steady patter of rain on the kitchen window. So engrossed was she that a distant rumble of thunder barely registered. A sharp crack followed, and a flash of white filled the kitchen as lightning struck.
Lucy stood up, made her way to the front door and opened it. Rain was still pelting down, and there was a heaviness in the atmosphere that made her shudder. Normally, she loved the garden at night, and would stroll around it, just for a breath of air before going to bed. She was clutching a mug of tea, her eyes scratchy with tiredness. Another crack sounded. ‘Mum!’ Sam yelled from his room. ‘Mum – a thunderstorm!’
‘It’s okay, love,’ she called back, tripping quickly upstairs and finding him, pale and scared-looking, on the landing. Sam had never enjoyed storms, and even at eight he was still afraid of them.
‘Hey, darling,’ she said gently, pulling him close. ‘Come on, let’s get you tucked up in bed. We don’t want to disturb Connell.’
‘Could lightning strike our house?’
‘I very much doubt it,’ she replied.
‘If it did, would it catch fire?’
‘Darling, no.’ She kissed the top of his head. ‘Come on – shall we watch it together from your window? Sometimes that’s better, being able to see for yourself what’s happening out there, rather than lying in bed and worrying.’
Sam nodded. ‘Okay.’
Kneeling side by side on the window seat now, they peered out over the garden as wind tore through the trees, whipping up twigs and leaves from the lawn and sending plant pots flying with a clatter. Marnie appeared too, ghostly pale in her lilac nightie. The three of them huddled close, transfixed as the garden lit up blue-white with each flash of lightning, following by the rumble of thunder.
‘It’s so loud, Mum,’ Marnie murmured, snuggling closer to her mother.
‘Yes, I can’t remember a storm quite like this,’ Lucy said, kissing the top of her head. Another violent thunderclap made the three of them start, and Lucy pulled her children close, having lost track now of how long they had been there in the cosy warmth of Sam’s room. The wind was howling, the trees in the garden bending and swaying, as if dancing, and there was another sharp crack as something hit the ground.
‘Was that our bird box?’ Marnie exclaimed.
‘I don’t know, sweetheart. I can’t see from here.’
‘I’m scared,’ Sam whimpered, biting the edge of his pyjama top sleeve, in the way that he used to gnaw on the pale blue satin-edged blanket he’d been virtually welded to as a toddler.
‘It’s okay, love,’ she said, aware of footsteps on the landing, ‘but maybe we should all get some sleep now. I’m sure it’ll finish soon.’
‘How d’you know?’ Sam asked. Lucy was trying to formulate an answer that would reassure him that it really was okay, she was the grown-up and she knew about storms, when a violent crash seemed to rock the house.
‘Our tree!’ Marnie screamed.
‘Is everything all right?’ Connell called out from the landing.
‘I don’t know.’ Lucy jumped up from the seat and hurried past him as she ran downstairs and along the hallway to the front door. In her PJ bottoms and thin sweater, without stopping to consider that she was barefoot, she ran out into the garden where the wind still raged, branches cracking, plant debris whipping up into the air.
‘Lucy! Come back in, you’ll get soaked out there.’ Connell was standing on the front step.
‘I’m okay!’ she called back.
‘C’mon, you can’t do anything out here tonight. We’ll check the damage in the morning.’
But Lucy wasn’t listening anymore. She didn’t want to be told to go back inside; she was breathing deeply, trying to steady herself as her eyes became accustomed to the dark. The street lamps were out – not that there were any in their lane, but normally light would carry from the high street. Here in her garden, the only light source came from the feebly glowing lamp above their front door, which she had meant to upgrade, but never got around to.
There was no moon visible that night. But once her eyes had adjusted, she could see that, while the oak still stood defiantly, one of its heftiest branches had come down and smashed onto the roof of the shed, which was no longer a shed at all, but a tumble of broken timbers as if it had been made from balsa wood.
She walked slowly towards it, aware of the cold, wet grass between her toes as she surveyed the debris that, until a few minutes ago, had been the shed that Ivan insisted on keeping just as it was (‘What do we need a summerhouse for when we have this?’). Countless hours he’d spent in there with the kids, building and making things together. Lucy had hardly put a foot in it since he’d died. On one occasion she had stood at the open door, surveying the shelves crammed with boxes and tins of tools and screws and all the materials he had worked with, and it had torn at her heart.
She had never wanted to go in there again. When James had suggested helping her to clear it out, she had known deep down that she wouldn’t ever do that. The attic, perhaps, with all of Ivan’s hobby accoutrements – but not the shed. She crouched down and touched the soaking timbers. It was still raining, although less heavily now, and she was aware of soft footsteps behind her, a hand placed gently on her shoulder.
‘Lucy?’
Tears were pouring down her face, merging with the rain, as she stood up and turned to look at Connell.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked. He, too, was soaking, wearing just a white T-shirt and black tracksuit bottoms. He was barefoot like her, and his hair was plastered to his head.
‘Yeah,’ she replied, although she wasn’t really; and now, as he took her hand and they crossed the garden, back to the warmth of the house, she wondered if she would ever be.
She pretended she was. Lucy had become adept at pinning on a bright smile for guests, serving up bacon and eggs and recommending local walks, always busy, busy, busy. Her friends thought she was fine; ‘I don’t know how you do all of this,’ Carys had said on more than one occasion.
Now Lucy didn’t either.
Connell hugged her in the hallway, but she just wanted to go to bed now and be alone. She thanked him for coming outside – for being there – and headed upstairs ahead of him, where she tucked in the children and kissed them goodnight. Then she padded quietly into her own room and lay on top of her bed, not caring that her wet sweater and pyjamas were soaking the bed linen.
That was it, she decided. She had tried, and done her damnedest to persuade everyone that she was coping fine – but in fact, her mother had been right.
It was over.