One last, mischievous wink. “Joel, what can I say? I’m married now.”
•••
I’ve rented a place ten minutes from Warren’s in Newquay, with a small garden and a spare bedroom for visitors. I stopped off at a garden center just after crossing Devon, bought a basketful of houseplants for my new living room. And I threw in a window box too. Because even though I’ve moved here for a fresh start, I still can’t live without reminders of Callie.
By early afternoon I’m more or less straight, so I head round to Warren’s.
“Tough good-byes?” he asks me.
“Tamsin was a wreck. She wants to come down next weekend, bring the kids.”
“Be good to see her,” Warren says. “How are you feeling, about being here?”
“Nervous. But good-nervous.”
“That’s the best kind. Haven’t had enough good-nervous in my life.” He smiles. “All set for Monday?”
“Think so.” I’ve been working part-time with Kieran for just over a year now. I plan to split the next six months between my new practice in Cornwall and refresher courses in Bristol.
“Not sure if I said it before, but I’m proud of you, mate. You’ve really turned things around.”
“Cheers.”
“And for you to be down here, with me... well, that means the world. It really does.”
I nod. “Waves any good?”
Warren checks his watch. “Right now?”
“Yep.”
“They are.”
“Fancy a quick one?”
“Always, mate. Always.”
•••
That night I dream about Callie.
I wake just as I’m telling her I love her again.
My face is wet with tears, my shoulders shaking with sadness.
85.
Callie—four years after
Finn and I got married in the summer, having agreed a long engagement wasn’t really our thing. The sheer number of people wanting to wish us well necessitated a reception far bigger than our budget could cater for, so in the end Finn’s sister, Bethany, who lives on a farm, hosted it for us. She strung bunting between barn beams, scattered wildflowers over haystacks, baked us a cake strewn with edible blooms. There were animals everywhere, the air was warm, and as darkness fell, two hundred people danced and laughed beneath lucid lines of festoon lights, strung between the pantiles.
Over dinner, Finn’s speech about meeting me in Latvia and everything that had happened in the two years since was like a love letter read out loud. A natural orator, he moved everyone alternately to tears and then laughter with his words—to see the whole barn ripple with emotion like that was something I’ll never forget. Between that, my parents’ jubilation, Esther’s beautiful speech about Grace, and Dot’s drunken snog with the best man, the day was happiness in its purest, most perfect form.
But still I want time to slow down occasionally. So I can stop to savor the present, instead of always moving on to the next thing. I want to spend more time hand in hand on the beach, or kissing on the sofa, or even just walking companionably through town. That was the way it was with Joel, and I feel sad, sometimes, that I seem never to have that with Finn.
We’re in Australia for our belated honeymoon—Finn has relatives inPerth, so we’ve spent our last week here with them. Drunk on sunshine, we’ve swum in the sea, lapped up the open spaces and breathtaking beaches. It’s winter at home, and though there’s an enduring appeal to that season I’ll always cherish, I can’t deny that the switch to shorts and flip-flops has been immensely cheering—especially as my last few days at work were spent battling the elements in waders and wellies.
I woke early this morning. Finn was still sleeping and I didn’t want to disturb him. He looked so handsome and peaceful, brown and bare-chested next to me on the mattress.
