‘Missing socks, am I right?’ he says to the stone eventually. ‘Wheredothey go? There’s no one but me at the pub, there’s one laundry basket and one washing machine, and yet I’m always missing one sock. It’s like a hole in the universe hidden behind the utility room.’
I feel myself deflating. Of all the things I thought he might say, I didn’t expect missing socks to be one of them.
‘Maybe that nosy sheep has got a thing for socks and keeps nicking them.’ I make a joke of it too, trying not to sound as fed up as I am. I love his ‘sunshine in human form’ act, but everyone has to drop an act sooner or later, and the more time I spend with him, the more I realise that some of itisan act. After all the moments of intimacy and connection we’ve shared, someone putting on an act has no right to kiss me in the way he just did.
‘Hah. You’ve solved the mystery. Who said sharing with stones isn’t helpful?’ He thanks the stone for listening and, as it’s much smaller than mine, throws it with a theatrical flourish hard enough to hit the waterfall itself and bounce off the cliff behind and into the pool, then turns back to me with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.
‘Sock management is a serious problem.’ I try to keep my voice light, but there’s an awkward pause. We’re standing close enough to touch, but the space between us feels wider than it did a moment ago. ‘We should probably go back. It’ll be dark soon.’
‘Dark. Yes. Right.’ His agreement is as awkward as I feel, and he stops to fumble water bottles out of his rucksack and after a quick break when it feels like he wants to say something more, he jumps up the bank first and turns to take my hand and help me up.
Instead of letting go once we’re back on the main path, his fingers intertwine with mine and it’s a gesture that feels like an apology he can’t quite voice.
I want to push him, to ask why he always deflects when things get too real, but there’s something unguarded in the way he’s holding my hand, something that makes me think he’s trying to build himself up to saying something, so I squeeze his fingers and let him lead the way back through the last dregs of evening sunlight, towards a place that feels like home.
17
The path seems longer on the way back, maybe because the light is fading, or we’re walking more slowly. Neither of us seems eager for this time alone to end. Our hands are still linked. I can still feel the ghost of his lips against my skin, almost as strongly as I feel the disappointment that while I opened up to the waterfall, he made a joke about laundry.
He can feel it too. The atmosphere between us is uneasy, and he keeps taking a breath like he’s about to speak but then stopping before he actually does. At first, I don’t intend to push him, but I’ve become someone who needs directness, and I can’t stop myself.
‘There is no boss, is there?’ I blurt out.
‘What? How’d you get to that completely random and utterly wrong conclusion?’ He glances at me with an indignant expression that looks so well-practised, I know I’m on the right track.
‘Oh, come on, Reece.’ I yank my hand out of his because it’s one thing to pull that on the villagers, butweshould have moved past it by now. ‘A couple of weeks ago, when you said, “You have permission, trust me.” When you mentioned woodworm having a munch throughyourfloorboards. When I saw your fancy car out the front and it looked like it had never carried anything more than a briefcase until you started using it to haul building materials around, instead of a van like an actual builder would have. The way you don’t seem to be on any kind of schedule, with no one checking up on your work or expecting the job done in any set timeframe. Thereisno London millionaire who wants a second home here… because I’m looking at him.’
I watch his face as he tries to figure how to deal with this. I canseepotential scenarios playing out behind his eyes, but I’ve been piecing this together for weeks now without consciously realising it. The things he’s said, the way he speaks about the job, and the mystery surrounding this supposed boss of his. The fact he’s been helping me with seemingly no detriment to his own deadlines, and how far he seems to be out of his depth. He either works for the worst employer in the world, or… he doesn’t.
‘The millionaire part isn’t right. If I was a millionaire, I might be able to afford half the repairs that place needs.’
I nearly punch the air in victory because he isn’t going to continue denying it. ‘So why are you pretendingnotto be the owner? Why are you making everyone think you’re just a builder, working for someone who doesn’t exist?’
‘Seriously? You’ve seen the banner in the village. You know how much vitriol there is towards the person who’s bought the pub and destroyed the “heart of their community”. Rich city-types buying second homes in the countryside is a universally hated thing in tiny villages like this, and I knew everyone would think that’s what I was doing. I didn’t want to be hated. I thought people would be nicer if they thought I was just a worker, a third party doing a job and definitely not the person responsible for taking their pub and depriving them of their famous quiz nights. I didn’t intend to… I don’t know. I didn’t mean to mislead anyone, and then you came, and everything changed again…’
We’ve stopped walking and I’m chewing my lip as he talks. It sounds like the most he’s ever said on this subject, and there’s a waver in his voice that makes me want to hold him in my arms and reassure him that his secrets are safe with me, just like mine have been with him. ‘I won’t tell anyone. The ladies can ply me with all the cake and wine in the world and they won’t get a word out of me, I promise. Not even if they turn to tried-and-tested torture methods. Thumbscrews might be next on their list if cake and wine fails.’
He lets out an unexpected bark of a laugh and reaches for my hand again, and I slip my fingers around his and we continue walking back the way we came.
But there are still parts of this puzzle missing, and he isn’t voluntarily sharing them. ‘Why?’
He groans. ‘I knew you were going to ask me that. That’s the hard part, Doll. The part I’ve never tried to explain to anyone before. Don’t mak?—’
‘So try me.’ It sounded like he was going to say ‘don’t make me’, but I interrupt before he can get the words out. I squeeze his hand and hold his gaze, trying to give him a reassuring look because there issomethinggoing on here, and I’m starting to think it’smuchdeeper than I could’ve imagined.
For a moment, I think he’s going to deflect again, make another joke or change the subject like he always does when things get too real, but then something in his expression crumbles, and he suddenly looks devastatingly vulnerable. His eyes settle on a fallen tree trunk that’s lying half on the bank and half in the river, and looks so smooth that it must have been used as a seat for many walkers.
‘Sit for a minute?’ He’s already crossing the grass verge towards it, tugging me with him. We sit down and scoot along until we’re sitting on the old wood right in the middle of the river, with water flowing underneath our feet, the sound creating an echo all around us.
We watch a heron picking out late-evening fish in peaceful silence, waiting for Reece to find the right words.
‘Because I promised my son I would.’
My mouth falls open in surprise. ‘You have a son?’
He shakes his head and then drops it into both hands, and his voice comes out muffled from behind them. ‘I had a son. He died. Two and a half years ago now. He…’ His voice catches and he stops.
The boy in the photograph. Of course. No wonder he was so touchy about it. I had no idea somethingthisawful would be behind his ownership of the pub, and I’m already wishing I hadn’t pushed him so hard. ‘Oh, God, Reece, I’m so sor?—’
