Then comes the rainy day in October when he’s running back from cleanup work in Penzance and Florence, the artist, is waiting for him. His heart jolts at the unexpected company and he slows to a walk. At least he’s washed recently. He’s been better about that.
She’s bent over the stoop, speaking to someone. Something. Persephone must have slipped out again—she still manages to slither through cracks. But as he reaches the bend in the footpath, Florence straightens, cradling the now-lanky kitten who nestles into her cloak to keep out of the rain. Something about the nurturing curve of her shoulders stops him cold. Persephone never let Florence hold her.
The truth chokes him.
Her red velvet cloak—the one he bought from Harrods—conceals her. But he’d know his wife’s form anywhere.
It’s Helen.
He cannot breathe.
She hasn’t seen him yet. He’s shaking, staring at this miracle of a woman on his steps.
He isn’t worthy. His hands convulse, his broken mind misfiring in rapid bursts. His legs itch to turn and run before she spots him, but he forces them to remain still.
She deserves better from you, Will. Give of yourself.
Then with Merryn’s words echoing in his soul, he walks—not away, buttoward. Toward the cottage and his wife, toward possible heartache and blinding pain. But in that moment, he aches with longing that will only be quelled by her nearness. He wants nothing more than to touch her again, to breathe in her scent and hear her voice—even if that voice is angry.
She jolts upright, a fox caught in the crosshairs, and turns. She’s spotted him, and she’s watching from beneath her shadowed hood, through the curtain of rain. Running is no longer an option. He cannot bear to, anyway. Like Merryn, he’s been running toward peace as if it were a destination, and running away from pain…but he’s been running the wrong direction.
He’s soaked—rain pours down his shoulders and back, trailing down his face so he can hardly see. But he sees her. He cannot take his eyes off her, even to navigate the muddy footpath. She lowers slowly to the landing, watching her husband—for he is still that—limp toward her.
He climbs the steps and sits beside her under the covered entryway, their knees facing but not touching, and he’s suddenly aware of the notice she’d have received: missing, presumed dead. “I w-w-w-was going to tell you the truth, Helen. But I’ve been w-w-working on s-something. Money for you. It’s not everything I lost, but it should help and—” Warmth touches the side of his finger even as rain pours off the roof in front of them. It’s her pinky brushing his.
She stares down at their hands on the step. “I’ve had a visit from a nice woman.”
“Merryn Winthrop?”
“She said her name was Florence.”
Florence, who might have told Helen a great number of things. His pathetic state. His pitiable desperation for his wife. The regret and brokenness he’s brought back with him. “I’m s-s-s-s—” He’s shuddering. It’s cold. He’s wet. “Sor-sor—” He sighs.I’m so sorry,Helen.
Her finger inches more over his, cautiously caressing. He puffs out a long breath. Then she lifts his hand and slides his wedding ring back into its neat indent that’s now caked with dirt. “You forgot something.” Her voice soothes over the rocky places like warm honey.
He snatches her hand greedily and kisses the knuckles, closing his eyes as tears gather. He squeezes them, breathing in the faint scent of lilacs and honey, and then turns her hand over and kisses her palm. When he looks up to read her reaction, she has pulled the hood up around her face again, her posture guarded. Not quite ready to embrace him.
He tugs the hood back a bit so he can see her eyes—read them. But when her hood inches back, it’s not anger he sees…butscars.Burns that mar her flesh after an angry spray of heat.
An explosion occurred in the overnight hours at a munitions plant in Tewkesbury…
Oh Helen. You were working there. You were in it.
Helen’s lovely eyes are so wide and anxious. Apologetic. Ashamed of how she looks.
He touches the tiny scar that’s always tempted him from the underside of her delicate jaw. “They say romance ends with marriage. I suppose it’s so.”
She blinks, recognizing the line from her favorite book…the one into which he’s immersed himself and come up refreshed.
“Can you ever forgive me, Helen?”
She offers a faint smile and quotes another. “It is difficult for a woman to define her feelings in language that is chiefly made by men to express theirs.”
He nudges her legs and draws them across his as if on their swing, then runs his hand down the familiar shape of her calves, her ankles, reveling in their warmth on his calloused skin. He leans in, brushing her hood all the way off and drinking in the only sight that will quell the ache of many years.
The scars are deep. Her skin is stretched tight along her left jaw and cheek, and right above her eye, but beneath the wounds and marks, it isher.His Helen with bright eyes and that warm magnetism that even war cannot break. The face that so lovingly peered down upon his children, that turned upon him like the sun every day when he’d come home.
The same face once marred with sadness he’d caused, but through all of it, sadness and burns and all that life had to throw at her, she is still the same woman, sitting tall and elegant like a swan, with those perfect gold curls tinged with silver. “Oh, Helen.”
