She turned the kettle on, set two mugs on the counter, then wondered if he’d want something stronger.He’d had a long day.He had to be exhausted.
The front door opened and Rhys entered the house, hung up his coat, set his bag on the floor.
She walked to the entry to meet him, her gaze searching his face.“What happened?”
“She died on my way there.”
Cat swallowed hard.“I am sorry.”
He nodded.
“Would you like some tea?I turned the kettle on, but I could also pour you a glass of something…”
“I’m alright.But thank you.”
“I was just about to turn out the lights and lock up,” she said.
“I’ll do it.And you know, I might have that cup of tea, so thank you.Sleep well.”
“Good night, Rhys.”
*
Rhys paced thecottage, unable to relax, unable to read or focus, everything wound too tight within him.Four and a half hours of driving hadn’t helped.He’d been halfway to London when the call came that Eleanor had passed.He’d immediately taken the next exit and had howled with rage and disappointment, slamming his fist against the steering wheel.He wasn’t just grieving her loss, but the fact that she left behind two teenagers who had desperately needed their mum.
Eyes smarting, heart thudding, exhausted but wired, he bundled up and headed out into the night.He walked first toward Bakewell, beneath the canopy of leafless trees and evergreens.Frost glittered across the fields, coating every blade of grass, every branch of the trees bordering the road.Rhys walked the long curve of the drive alone, his breath clouding the air and when he came to the edge of the estate, he exited onto the main road and walked until he came to the front entrance to Langley Park and started up that road.
The night had turned sharp and silver, the moon high above Langley Park.After a bit, the house came into view, a sprawling, hulking shape with the multitude of chimneys across the steeply pitched roof.He walked along the drive with its markers pointing the way to the car park, passing behind the house and then to the garage, the stable master’s house.His former home.
Reaching the old cottage, Rhys stopped, dug his hands deep into his wool coat pockets and breathed in deeply, letting the cold air fill his lungs.He wasn’t sure how long he’d been walking… a half hour?More?Less?He also wasn’t sure why he’d ended up here at the old cottage, but it had called to him.
Or maybe it was his mother who had called to him.
She’d died too young, and even though cancer had wasted her body, she’d remained beautiful and strong even to the end—at least in his eyes.She never forgot to make sure Rhys knew he was loved.She’d never hurt too much to reach out to him, telling him how proud she was, how lucky she was, how grateful she was that God gave her such a good, kind, brilliant son.
Rhys’s eyes burned.He ground his teeth together, swallowing hard, holding back the emotion.He missed her.He’d missed her even before she’d died, but this was where he remembered her best.Moving in the kitchen and then stepping outside to the garden she’d planted next to their cottage.Flowers.Vegetables.Fruit trees.Hollyhocks in summer.Fragrant coral-hued roses along the walkway.And then there was her voice.She was always humming something softly, and he hadn’t realized until much later that her humming was evidence of her happiness.Of her contentment.His father had been tough, confident, competent.But it was his mother who’d made them a home.She’d been the heart of this place.The heart of them all.And when she died, the warmth and light had gone with her.
There were no more hollyhocks in summer after her death.No vases of roses in the house.No bowls of freshly picked fruit on the kitchen table.The cottage grew quiet.His father folded inward, working longer hours to fill the silence, and sometimes drinking more than he should.Rhys never blamed his father for wanting to get lost in a drink, because Rhys wanted to lose himself too.Maybe that was why he worked so hard, why he’d driven himself for years—to fill his own silences, to build something solid enough that the emptiness couldn’t find him.Hurt him.
He thought, not for the first time, that he’d expected marriage to fix that.He’d thought when he married Lyndsey that it would all come back—the safety, the warmth, the sense of home.That she’d bring light the way his mother had.But it hadn’t been like that.
He hadn’t known how to make it so, and what he wanted from marriage wasn’t what Lyndsey wanted.He craved domesticity, a haven to return to after a grueling day in surgery, but Lyndsey wanted to go out, be out, be seen.She wanted good dining and entertainment.Excitement.He wasn’t exciting.He was a homebody, and she’d become increasingly restless.Bored.
Somewhere between Jillian’s birth and Olivia’s the marriage had become empty, with too much space and tension.Olivia hadn’t been planned, amistakewhen he’d taken Lyndsey away for a romantic weekend hoping to rekindle the fire and passion.They’d made love and it had been good, but not good enough to support another baby.
Now, standing in the frozen night, he wondered if his daughters even knew what that kind of warmth felt like—the kind his mother had given him, the kind that made the world feel safe.
He wanted that for them, desperately.But he didn’t know how to give it.Catriona might, but she wasn’t his, and she’d made it clear that she wouldn’t be part of his future.
Rhys slowly exhaled, his breath like small ghosts in the air.He drew in an equally slow breath and blinked, letting go of the past, distancing himself from the pain.He wasn’t that boy anymore.He wasn’t even that man.He would do better.He could do better, if not for himself, then at least for his girls.He didn’t need a woman, or a wife, to make a proper home for his daughters.He could do that on his own.He could continue being the steady one in their lives, the boring, structured parent.He didn’t even mind that Lyndsey was the fun one.This way the girls could have the best of both worlds.
Or so he told himself.
Resolved, he turned and began walking back toward the holiday cottage where his girls slept.He realized he hadn’t asked about Olivia, but he also knew Cat would have told him if Olivia wasn’t doing well.
As he walked, his boots crunched the frozen gravel and finally, little by little, the tightness in his chest began to ease.He wouldn’t let the past haunt him anymore.It wasn’t fair to his mother’s memory.He was who he was because of her—a doctor, a respected surgeon, a father who fiercely loved his daughters.Rhys would keep honoring his mother’s legacy, even if he did it imperfectly.
But, my God, he wished he could have saved Eleanor.
