CHAPTER 51
Clare
June 2012
The Lake District was working its magic on Harry, as she’d known it would. They were staying in the house she’d grown up in, a stone manor on the fells between Kendal and Windermere. She’d inherited the property from her parents and had divided it into holiday apartments. She made far more money from their rental than she did from her nursing, and there was the added bonus of having a bolt-hole far from the Big Smoke. Clare loved London, but her inner northerner often demanded to go home.
She’d been meeting Harry regularly for lunches, dinners, and evenings at the theater for more than a year now, and had grown increasingly fond of him. She loved her job, but had been lonely in London since the death of her second husband, and found herself counting down the days until she was due to see Harry again. As well as being great company, he was no stranger to loss himself, and spending time with someone who understood was comforting.
She remembered the beautiful man with the shattered leg she’d nursed back in 2001. All these years later he was still a handsome charmer, but ill health, addiction, and personal tragedy had taken their toll. She’d helped him reverse the physical decline, but he still needed to sort his head out. She sensed many demons in there.
Recently, Harry’s stress levels had been on the rise again. He’d been upset by the death of his first wife, and at work he’d been wielding the ax, he said, lopping off parts of the Rose empire that were performing badly. Some of those were up north, and the surviving workers were threatening strike action.
He’d phoned to cancel Friday’s planned theater trip. “Sorry, Clare. There’s a rebellion up north. I have to go to Manchester to sort it out. Wish me luck. I hate going up there, it’s like another country. A horrible one where they all hate me.”
That’s when the idea came to her. “You’re forgetting, I’m from Cumbria. Surely you love the Lake District. Everyone loves the Lake District, even if it’s usually pouring with rain.”
“I’ve never been. Why would I? I have a house in Bermuda.”
“Right. I’ll meet you up north. When you’ve finished in Manchester, you can come and stay in my apartment. You do have a pair of walking boots?”
“Will green wellies do?”
“No. Don’t worry, we’ll buy you some in Kendal.”
“Is that where the mint cake comes from?”
“It is! We can get some.”
“But it’s horrible.”
“Cumberland sausage?”
“Better.”
Clare drove up on Friday, and Harry met her at the apartment after his meeting with the unions.
“How did it go?” she asked, showing him in.
“As expected. One of the shop stewards called me a ginger tyrant. I don’t suppose you’d allow me a small beer?”
“Oh dear. Yes, I think perhaps I should. In fact, let’s abandon the no-alcohol policy this weekend. At least—if you agree to climb a minimum of two fells.”
“Fells? Why don’t they call them hills, like a normal person?”
“Go and change, Mr. Grumpy. I’ll pour you that beer.”
Now they were on the apartment balcony, looking out across the mountains on a beautiful June evening. A buzzard wheeled high in the sky above them, and the only sound was the gentle calling of sheep on the hillsides. Clare gave a sigh of pleasure. She could feel the magic of the Lakes spreading like a balm through her veins. She hoped the same was happening to Harry.
She looked across at him. He’d closed his eyes and was leaning back, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his face tilted toward the evening sun. Now that his health was back on track, and he’d lost the beard, he looked ten years younger than the first time he’d appeared in Dr. Butts’s waiting room. He could pass for a man of forty. A ridiculously good-looking man of forty.
He opened his eyes and smiled at her, and something shifted inside.
Picking up his beer, he looked out across the fells. “Hm, I see now, there’s more to this place they call the north than mills, cobblestones, and stroppy workers.”
“Wait until you’re up on the fell tops. There’s nowhere like it.”
“Which one is the hill with the daffodils?”
“They’re fells, but anyway, it was a lake they were fluttering beside.”
“No, he was wandering o’er vale and hill. See, he said ‘hill,’ not ‘fell.’”
“Well, ‘hill’ rhymes with ‘daffodil.’”
“He could’ve written about bluebells. That would have rhymed with ‘fells.’”
“You have a point. And I’ve always found that phrase ‘lonely as a cloud’ highly suspect. If there’s one thing about Lake District clouds, it’s that they’re not lonely. They come in packs and obliterate the sky. You’re lucky to see it clear like this.”
“Thank you for bringing me here. It’s very pretty, I’ll give you that.”
“It’s the best place in the world.”
“No, that’s London . . .”
Harry
Progress was slow. Clare was taking him on a walk that included a “smallish” fell, a tarn (northern for small lake), a café, and Wordsworth’s cottage at Grasmere. The view was picture-postcard pretty, but the walking uphill part was disagreeable.
“Come on, Harry,” she said, waiting for him. “You gotta earn that Cumberland sausage!”
She was wearing jeans tucked into thick socks, regulation hiking boots, and one of those colorful rain jackets that were de rigueur up here.
“But it’s sunny!” he’d protested as she’d made him buy one, along with his new boots.
“You really have no idea, do you? It could be near freezing and blowing a gale by the time we’re up high.”
So here he was, a ridiculous rambler, no doubt red in the face. He hoped none of the steady stream of walkers coming the other way—popular place, this—recognized Harry Rose, media mogul, under these absurd clothes.
Half an hour later they reached the top.
“Congratulations! You’ve conquered Loughrigg,” said Clare. “Here’s your reward.” She passed him a Penguin biscuit.
They sat with their backs against the cairn (northern for pile of stones), their shoulders touching, admiring the view.
“OK, Barr. I’ll concede, this is a rather lovely place.”
Clouds were scuttling across the sky; light was chasing shade over the fells. Far below, Grasmere was a splash of blue between green woodlands and fields crisscrossed by ancient stone walls.
“I might even write a poem.”
“I sometimes paint when I come up here,” said Clare. “It gets you like that. Makes you want to capture it all, whether it’s in words, pictures, whatever.”
He turned to look at her. The fresh air had turned her cheeks pink. “You win. Up north is all right. I should bring Eliza and Eddie.”
She took his hand. “You’re a lovely man, Harry Rose.”
“So are you. Woman, I mean. How are you not married?”
“Oh, I’ve already had two husbands. I’m in no hurry to go down that road again. I’ve made a good life for myself in London. I love my job, I’ve got nice friends. And I have you. Your friendship means the world to me.”
“Me too. I think I’d probably be dead now, if it hadn’t been for you.”
They carried on toward Grasmere, and soon reached the tearooms, where they found a table outside.
“I’ve just realized something,” said Harry, after a minute or two of companionable silence. “I haven’t thought about work all day. And . . . I’m happy.”
“The north will do that to you, Harry.”
“Clare Barr does that to me.”
Her smile faltered.
He suddenly knew—the time was right. “Clare. You know about my vices, my baggage, my questionable record as a husband. Could you ever see me as more than a friend?”
She took her time answering, and he was aware of the butterflies in his stomach.
“I think I could. But I do worry about what’s going on up here.” She tapped her temple. “You strike me as a troubled man. You’ve been through a lot. You might not be ready for another relationship.”
“But what if someone else steals you from under my nose?”
“That’s not going to happen.” She reached across and took his hand.
“Promise?” He turned her hand over and stroked her palm.
“How about we give Wordsworth’s cottage a miss,” she said.
Harry lowered himself into a steaming hot bath. He hadn’t let on to Clare how much his leg had been hurting by the time they’d made it back. All frisky thoughts had been pushed aside by the need to lie down and do nothing for a while. He sighed in contentment as the hot water worked its magic, soothing his aching limbs.
There was a knock on the door, and Clare asked, “Do you want a beer, Harry? Or a wine?”
“If I’m allowed. Beer, please.”
“Oh, you are allowed. You did great today.”
A minute or so later she came in carrying two glasses. She was wearing a black satin robe. Harry sat up and pulled up his knees.
“Harry, don’t be silly. I’m a nurse. I see naked men all the time. I thought you might like a back rub.” She squirted something from a bottle onto her palms, perched on the edge of the bath, and began massaging his shoulders. It felt so good. He closed his eyes.
“Clare, you’re a goddess.”
She dropped a kiss onto his head.
When her hands stopped, he didn’t open his eyes.
Then he felt her lips on his. They were so soft.
Still he didn’t open his eyes.
Another kiss, and this time she lingered. It was a long, gentle kiss, as if they were both experimenting, seeing if they felt anything.
When her lips went away again, Harry felt their absence. But still he kept his eyes closed, not wanting to break the spell, hoping they’d come back.
They did, and this time the kiss was deep, sensuous.
She finally pulled away, and now he opened his eyes.
“I could get in with you,” she said, “but—”
“Bit of a tight squeeze?”
“Maybe the shower would be more fun.”
Before he could reply, she kissed him again, this time with . . . yes, he’d call that passion.
She turned her back to him, undid the belt on her robe, and the black satin slid to the floor.
As Harry stepped out of the bath, he couldn’t help thinking about his last time, two years ago, with Caitlyn. In spite of finding her irresistible, he’d still needed that little blue pill. Now, he had no little blue pills.
It was as if she’d read his mind. “It’s been a while for you, Harry?”
“It has. I don’t know if . . .”
“I’d imagine it was all the drugs you were on. Your body wouldn’t have known if it was coming or going.”
“No pun intended?”
“Come on, I’m getting cold. And just another kiss will do. Let’s take things slowly.”
She held out her hand and led him into the shower. Hot water coursed over them, and he felt himself come back to life as their kiss grew increasingly passionate.
No little blue pill was necessary.