“Well, I don’t usually think about it anymore. Tonight was bad timing.”
The café pulses at the far end of the courtyard, but it’s a different song now, another artist. The last of the fire in my chest gutters out, leaving a hollow ache. I sniff, pushing drenched hair off my forehead.
“Thank you,” I say.
As the rain slackens we make our way back to the cottage instead, both of us eager for dry clothes.
Inside the hallway, we kick off our shoes, water dripping from us onto the carpet runner.
Her teeth chatter as she removes her cardigan, the sodden mass so heavyit stretches. The paisley shirt clings to her, its pattern now muted. Beneath the hem of her shorts, her tanned legs have paled and prickled with goose bumps.
What have I dragged this poor Australian woman into? Was this what I meant when I suggested a trip to England for a change of scenery—a trip down misery lane with me?
And what in the world was I thinking when I nearly kissed her?
“Brandon?” she murmurs.
She’s said my name a few times, I realise, though I’ve been lost in thought.
“Sorry. Yes?”
She presses her lips together, and I look at her properly, catching details in a new light. Her soulful brown eyes draw me in, uncertain yet sincere.
“I know I’m younger than you,” she begins, “and I can’t pretend to understand everything you went through when you lost Nova, or how painful that must have been…but I know how grief can stay with someone. When I lost my dad, I lost myself too, and I’ve been waiting ever since to feel whole again. That’s what they say, isn’t it—that time heals all?”
“They do say that,” I agree.
“But it doesn’t,” she continues with a note of sadness. “Not really. Not enough. It just dulls, gets easier to live with. But the colour doesn’t come back.”
“A few days ago, I might have agreed with you.”
“But not anymore?”
I’ve backed myself into a corner. A little colour has started to return since that first email she sent, but I can hardly say that.
“Perhaps time alone is not enough,” I say, voicing another truth. “Perhaps we need change.”
Silence swells between us, broken only by the intermittent patter of rain outside. I should let it end there. But I say hoarsely, “You know, I have met you in person before.”
Her eyebrows shoot up.
“At your father’s funeral,” I admit. “You fainted during the service. You were meant to say a few words and sing a song, I believe. And I was meant to speak after you. But when you fell—”
“That wasyou?” she gasps. “I knew you were there, but…youwere the one who caught me?”
I nod,discomfort prickling beneath my wet shirt collar. I’d been standing near the podium, waiting for my turn to speak, when I noticed how pale Jeremy’s youngest daughter looked—her skin almost grey, the silence deafening as the packed church held its breath. I sensed something was wrong. Before I was aware of moving, I crossed the space, just in time. She crumpled, and I caught her.
In the next breath, her family were there, arms reaching, voices rising, as relatives closed around her. I stepped back at once. It was their place, not mine.
She quickly came to, but she was too overcome to speak or sing. She stayed in the church, surrounded by her family, and I took her place on stage. Touched by her grief, I gave my eulogy with great difficulty.
“We never spoke. I wasn’t even sure whether to mention it.”
“No, I’m glad you did,” Lily-Anne says at once, though she worries her lip in a way that makes me wish I said nothing at all. “I don’t remember much from that day—or you, I’m afraid.”
We say a strained goodnight, but she pauses at the stairs to rummage in her pocket. “Oh, and before I forget, this is yours.” She presses the blue kazoo into my palm with a small smile. “I look forward to our next jam session.”
“Me too.” I’m struck not just by the absurdity of it, but by how much joy it brought us both. I haven’t laughed so freely in a long time.
