I open the door to the upstairs apartment and my chest expands at the sight of him sitting at the top of the stairs, waiting for me. His expression is wary until he reads what must be written all over my face.
‘I love you,’ I say as tension slips from his shoulders and he stands up, giving me a small, relieved smile.
I pull the door shut and go to him.
As we clutch each other on the landing, our hearts and bodies aligned, something inside me settles. Since Finn’s return, the inner restlessness that used to plague me has risen again.
Once, it could only be soothed by sculpting, but being in Tom’s arms again reminds me of the first time I pushed my hands into cold clay after the death of my parents.
It feels like coming home.
Epilogue
One summer from now …
‘Jesus,’ Tom mutters, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
‘It was hot like this the last time I came to Florence.’
He grins across at me. ‘Are you happy to be back?’
‘Deliriously.’
We’ve just come from the Galleria dell’Accademia, where I wanted Tom to see the original statue of David.
It’s the anniversary of my parents’ deaths today, which is partly why I chose these dates for my long-awaited return to Italy. I texted Finn a few weeks ago to let him know I was going away. I didn’t think hewouldreturn to St Agnes this year – he’s back with Brit and as far as I know they’re happy – but I didn’t want to risk it.
He replied: ‘I hope you have a good time.’ And that was it.
It probably hurts him that I never went to see him in LA. It’s not that I didn’t want to. After our argument that day in the Chapel Porth car park, when Michael insisted that he didn’t want me to stay in St Agnes because of him, I began to re-evaluate things. Ihadbeen sticking within my comfort zone. Michael would be fine if I decided to go away occasionally. I just needed to do it.
Tom and I eased in slowly with a few mini-breaks here and there – including the trip to London after Amy and Dan’s wedding. And now we’ve ventured abroad and are planning to spend a few days here in Florence before heading to Pietrasanta to visit the town and the nearby marble quarry.
‘Gelato?’ I ask Tom.
‘Hell, yes.’
We stand and wait at a counter in front of a brightly coloured selection. He chooses peach, which is the same colour as his T-shirt. I press a kiss to his shoulder and smile up at him.
‘Thank you for coming with me.’
‘Where are we going next?’ he asks with a grin.
Two summers from now …
I come home to find Tom sitting in the room that used to be my parents’ bedroom. He’s staring out the window at the palm trees, with his back to the door.
I quietly knock on the wall, surprised that he didn’t hear me come up the stairs.
‘Oh, hey!’ he says, jumping up.
I hate startling him like this. I live in fear of giving him a shock that could cause his heart to stop. But it seems to be ticking along okay at the moment.
There was an occasion a couple of months ago when he felt light-headed. He’d just created a Surfers Against Sewage–inspired sand-art piece that spanned a hundred square metres of Perranporth beach – Rach had asked if he would do it to help raise awareness for the cause. She’d arranged for an official photographer to come.
I was terrified when Tom reached out to steady himself on my arm after he’d finished. I followed him around like a lost puppy for days.
I’m scared that the large-scale pieces take it out of him, but I’d never ask him to stop. I respect that he has to live his life the way he chooses.
