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“And what about you?” Ollie says to me eventually. “You’re being very quiet.”
I shrug and smile. “I’m enjoying listening to you both. I don’t have any big adventurous stories about moving away, going to university, or living in a city.” I’m surprised how wistful my voice sounds.
“You’ve never felt the urge to leave?” Ollie asks.
I shrug. “Sometimes. But getting married and having Millie almost straight out of school took up all my time. Now…” I hesitate, thinking about Jayden. “Sometimes I wish things had been different. But then I wouldn’t have Millie, so I guess everything happened as it was supposed to.”
“What would you have done, if you’d gone to university?” Mitch asks.
“Probably studied English Lit, like you. Maybe have become a librarian or something? But working in the bookshop has been second-best to that. I don’t have any complaints.”
“What will you do if they sell the bookshop?” Ollie asks. Mitch’s brows draw together. Tactfulness was never one of Ollie’s strong points.
“I’m not sure,” I say cheerfully. “Maybe the new owners will take me on.”
Ollie nods. “Hope so.” He finishes off his drink. “Anyway, I’d better be going. I’ll call Jake and see if he can come over on Sunday. What time?”
“The earlier the better—there are a lot of boxes,” Mitch says.
“Nine?”
“Great.”
“Okay. What’s your number?”
The two guys exchange phone numbers. Then Ollie gives us a wave and heads out of the sliding doors, disappearing around the corner.
I get up and close them, as the sun has set, and it’s getting cold now. “You want another whisky?” I ask Mitch.
He hesitates, then says, “What the hell.”
Smiling, I pour him another and get myself a second glass of wine. Then I curl up on the sofa opposite him. “You want to watch a movie?” I ask.
He surveys me for a moment. “Let’s just chat for a bit.”
“Okay.”
He has a mouthful of whisky. He’s tired—his eyelids are at half-mast, and he’s stretched out his legs and slid down in the chair a little. He’s taken off his socks and shoes, and he’s barefoot now. Welcome home, Mitch!
Leaning an elbow on the arm of the chair, he rests his head on a hand, studying me, but he doesn’t say anything.
Ooh, Mitch Sullivan, don’t look at me like that…
I clear my throat. “So, what time shall we go and see John tomorrow?”
“I was thinking around ten.” He sighs. “I feel bad.”
“Why?”
“I should have come home this year.”
“Home?” I smile.
“Figure of speech.” He sips his drink.
“Your life is down in Wellington now. I’m sure John understands that you can’t just fly up every five minutes. It’s so expensive, and you’re a busy guy. I’ve lived with Dad—I know what teaching is like.”
“I don’t just mean to see Grandad.” His eyes are gentle. “I meant you, too. And Rudolph.”
