For example, he knew the places where he could relax and the ones to be studiously avoided.
Case in point, Malcolm always took the long way round from Fettermill to Thistle Muir, bypassing the bend in the River North Esk where the water swirled into a lazy pool.
The very place where Aileen had loved to dip her feet on a warm summer’s day.
The same spot where he had first kissed her over a decade ago. That day, his hands had trembled as he reached for her waist—nerves vibrating his bones in their sockets—but then Aileen had smiled and, rising to her tiptoes, whispered ‘Go on, then. I shallnae bite ye,’ and his immediate mortifying thought as he lowered his mouth to hers had been, ‘Och, more’s the pity.’
Years on, he had recounted that moment to her—late on a winter’s evening, when they were curled around one another in their bed. Aileen had laughed until she wheezed, tears rolling down her cheeks. Chuckling, Malcolm claimed she had lied to him because she did, in fact, like to give his shoulder a wee nipping bite on occasion. Then Aileen had proven his point by rolling onto him and ensuring their winter bedroom was heated indeed.
So, yes . . . he avoided that bend in the river.
And the path behind the kirkyard.
And the oak swing along the lane . . . the same one where he had come upon Viola retying her boot. Obviously, he couldn’t escape walking past it—the lane was the artery between Thistle Muir and his far-flung pastures—but he could avoid looking at the swing . . . the swing he had hung in anticipation of becoming a father, a place for his children to play as they grew.
Malcolm had carefully fashioned the seat, smoothing the rough oak with a handful of horsetail and rubbing the whole with linseed oil until it gleamed. Aileen had grinned when he showed it to her, a hand pressed to her swollen belly as she rose on tiptoe to kiss him soundly.
And yet, not one of those memories had surfaced when he saw Miss Brodure sitting on the swing yesterday evening.
His head had been full of only her . . . of Viola.
And somehow, that was the most awful part of all. The most unbearable.
That seeing the swing—and, even now, remembering moment after moment with Aileen—did not send heartache crashing over him.
Malcolm faced a difficult truth:
Living in the abyss of his grief was no longer comfortable.
Since Viola’s arrival, his chasm home had begun to feel somewhat . . . confining. The walls loomed too high and narrow, the space too dim. He would study that sliver of sunlight far above and wonder . . .
What would the world look like from up there? And did he care enough to pull himself out of his crevasse to see?
He pondered this as he headed toward Thistle Muir after his habitual evening survey of his prize coos. Beowoof snuffled through the grass lining the lane, the sun slowly turning to amber treacle as it descended toward the horizon.
Just as it had yesterday.
In fact, every moment furled out as it had the previous evening when he had stumbled upon Viola Brodure swaying on his oak swing.
Of course, she would not be waiting for him again today. The very idea was absurd.
And yet, his stupid heart still hoped, leaping at the possibility.
No wonder poets wrote ridiculous words when in the throes of infatuation.
The emotion was as irrational as it was uncontrollable. It was an eager puppy of a feeling—ecstatic and lunging at the leash and Malcolm helpless to know how to tame it.
Puppy love, indeed.
So when Beowoof barked and set off down the road, Malcolm had to forcibly stop himself from chasing after.
Was she there? Had she come?
He willed his feet to walk at a normal pace, ignoring thewhoosh-whooshof blood through his veins.
He came up the low rise . . .
And indeed . . . there she was, sitting on his swing and rubbing Beowoof’s chops.
