Page 45

JENNA

I wake, wishing for a time machine. A week ago, at nine a.m., I sat in my office, Andy snoring at my feet. Dad had poked his head through the door as he headed off for his run, passing Skylar, who arrived with my morning coffee.

My throat tightens as I slump back into my pillows. Today I must see her, and for one of the few times in my life, I feel totally unprepared.

After dragging my heavy limbs from beneath the covers, I stumble through a shower. I give my hair a quick blast from the dryer, not bothering with styling. I mechanically apply makeup, covering my too damn pale face but unable to disguise the stark half-moons beneath my eyes.

In my walk-in closet, I listlessly pull at outfits hanging on the rail. What is the dress code for visiting a grieving teenager? The temptation to delay the decision and go downstairs in my dressing gown grows stronger.

My hand brushes the familiar clear dress cover and pauses. The pristine white satin wedding dress inside casts its usual warning stare. Today I meet it with a resolute glare of my own. This is not who I am anymore. I am no longer the sad, rejected bride, waiting for history to repeat, but someone making her own future.

I scoop the dress off the rail and toss it onto my bed. Then, I grab a black pants suit, a sleeveless ivory silk blouse, and slip into my favourite Ferragamo pumps, their soft leather hugging my feet. It’s a work outfit because, before I visit Skylar, I have a job to do.

Downstairs, I find Dad has already left for Grant and Laura Darby’s house. The rugby club is preparing to go all out to support Brandon’s family, and the other guys, too. They made it off the mountain alive, but not one of them is unscathed. My heart aches for all of them, but it’s Connor who is foremost in my mind today. He needs more than kind words and good wishes, which is why this afternoon I’ll summon all my skills and unleash my best defensive tactics to shut down those in the media attacking his leadership of the hiking party. I’ll take great pleasure in putting a halt to their callous words.

However, that’s not my first job of the day. Getting rid of the last reminder of the past that’s held me back is. I’m glad Dad isn’t here to see it. He doesn’t know about the dress. Although he’d understand—even be proud of me taking this final step in putting Adam behind me—I’d rather keep it secret. Only Rachel can ever know the power I’ve allowed Adam to have over me for all those years.

The bulky wedding dress crowds my car, but I make it fit, squashing it down in the storage area behind the two seats. I glance at the dashboard clock. Nine fifty. Perfect. The Hospice Charity Shop opens at ten. I hope the scheduled volunteers arrive promptly today. I want to get this over with and move on with my life .

The debacle with Geordie proves what I’ve been denying for six years: moving on takes more than time. Number one for now is to rid myself of this daily reminder. I may not have been enough for Adam, or too much for him, but he was only one man, and he was never the one for me. The man who I’m fairly certain is the one for me is coming home today, unless he’s reconsidering decisions made in the emotionally charged aftermath of tragedy.

I park outside the charity shop, just as Fran MacMillan sets the ‘Open’ sign on the footpath. There goes any chance of discretion. News will spread like wildfire round Cluanie the moment I leave. I’m sure there’s a specific phone tree for juicy gossip.

“Morning Jenna.” Fran’s welcoming smile carries a hint of surprise. Not unexpected, since I haven’t set foot in this shop since my teens. It’s not that I’m too posh these days. I’m just lucky enough that I’ve not had to mind the pennies when it comes to my wardrobe and don’t have the time to rummage around for hidden gems amongst the secondhand bits and bobs. Of course Fran will raise her brows at finding me banging down the door at opening time.

Then, maybe she’s surprised that anyone is in the mood for shopping after the events that rocked Cluanie yesterday. In a small town, the seven who went up the mountain aren’t just names, they were sons, friends, brothers. And for one devastated young woman, a boyfriend. I swallow down uncomfortable thoughts of my looming visit to Skylar.

“Hi Fran. I’ve got something to donate,” I call over my shoulder, leaning into the car.

The damn dress fights back as I attempt to wrestle it from behind the seat. The bitch is reluctant to release me from her grip, but I’m determined to win this time. When I finally emerge, drowning in white satin, Fran’s eyebrows climb towards her hairline.

“Oh, luv.” Recognition dawns behind her wireframe glasses. She stands in the doorway, casting me a sympathetic look. She makes no move to let me in, leaving me exposed on the street with my painful past on display for anyone to see.

“It’s a bonnie dress, right enough.” Fran reaches out a hand, lifting the hem to look at it more closely. “Worth a pretty penny, I’d say.” She casts an appraising eye over the glistening satin. “But, as much as we could use the money for the shop, this isn’t the place for it, Jenna. Folk don’t come to Cluanie to shop for wedding dresses, I’m afraid.”

“Please—“ I start to protest. I need to get rid of this thing. Now. Today. It’s not that I’ll change my mind—I just want it gone.

“I know what you could do, though,” she says thoughtfully.

Five minutes later, I’m on the familiar winding road past MacFarlane’s Distillery. Nathan’s driveway comes next, and the house where I’ve spent so much time these past weeks. Geordie may not return here after discharge, but I’m not sure he’ll retreat to his parents’ place. His mother would eagerly play nurse, but I imagine Geordie would prefer somewhere beyond his father’s venom.

Nathan’s unassuming house holds precious memories of afternoons making love in the sunlit lounge and quiet nights upstairs. I wonder if we’ll ever get them back. Leaving the hospital yesterday, I felt we’d resolved things, but in the dark of my own bed, replaying every word and every look, doubt crept back in. What if Geordie can’t forgive me for hiding him away, a guilty secret, simply because I was afraid to let my scarred heart hope and dream ?

The third driveway leads to Buchanan House, an imposing eighteenth century tower house. Its burnished gold stone walls rise four storeys against the crisp morning sky. The unruly dress stays in the car. Better to confirm this is its final destination before attempting to wrangle it in front of gawping hotel staff and guests. I take a slow, calming breath, exhaling my nervousness as I head for the entrance.

Heather Buchanan stands in reception, laughing with a couple checking out. I hover behind them, and as she notices there’s a momentary frown before her mouth flickers back into a welcoming smile. She leaves the receptionist to handle checkout, and rounds the heavy oak counter. Our last meeting—discussing party menus at Dad’s insistence—seems a lifetime ago. Before rugby season. Before Geordie. Before Brandon.

She must wonder why I’m here, after the weekend’s events, but she doesn’t ask, simply scoops me into a hug. A soothing warmth radiates from her, and against my usual instincts, I lean into her. I need a hug today, especially one of Heather’s.

“I heard,” she murmurs against my hair. She steps back, placing steadying hands on my upper arms and fixing me with sympathetic eyes. “Tell your dad if there’s anything we can do… You must all be devastated.”

“It’s hard to believe it’s real.”

What I’m going to ask of her seems wildly inappropriate right now. Perhaps I need to back off. But if anything good has come out of this weekend, it’s the realisation I need to put the past behind me. I think I love Geordie, and he might just love me too, if I let him. Ridding myself of everything that’s held me back seems crucial, the damn wedding dress a tangible symbol of letting go .

“Heather,” I say, my heart pulsing warily, “this is going to seem really odd, I know, but Fran MacMillan said you’re doing something with a wedding charity?”

Her brows fly up to her hairline. Not the question she was expecting.

“Yes,” she says. “Wedding Wishes. We’re doing our first gifted wedding for them next month. The groom hasn’t been well, cancer.”

She stops short, and I see an awkward flush of pink rise in her cheeks. Knowing how cancer came knocking on my family’s door less than a year ago, Heather’s revelation doesn’t jar against my still raw edges, but rather feels like another sign that what I’m doing is absolutely the right thing: a gift to this unknown couple’s future as well as my own.

“Does the bride have a dress?” The words tumble out. “I have one, you see. It’s beautiful. Expensive. Unworn.”

There’s a brief flash of sympathy in Heather Buchanan’s eyes, a glimmer, only for a moment, before she brushes it away, her mouth tipping up in a pleased smile as she assures me some grateful bride will treasure my dress, whether it’s this one or another.

When I climb back into the car, part of me longs to drop the top and floor it, celebrating my release from those white satin shackles. But the thought of where I’m headed sobers me. It feels wrong to indulge in such blissful freedom when someone I care about is drowning in grief.

I find Skylar, a tiny hunched figure swallowed up by a massive wicker chair on her back terrace. Her mother delivers tea, hovering protectively for a moment, until the doorbell rings and draws her away. We barely speak during my half hour there, just clutch each other’s hands and cry. Once again, I find myself doubting the existence of a god. If there is one, he’s a cruel bastard, snatching away the beautiful future of two young people.

When I rise to leave, Skylar clutches at my hand. Her blotchy, tear-swollen face turns upwards, a question in the red-rimmed blue eyes. As hard as it would be to stay, I will if she asks.

“Could I ask you for something?”

“Anything you need, sweetie, it’s yours.” I’d do anything to take her away her pain, but I can’t turn back time. Still, whatever she needs, big or small, I’ll do my best.

“Would you bring Andy over? I miss him,” she hiccups out over a sob.

“Of course I will. He misses you too,” I promise through tears, my voice shaky. There’s a twinge of gratitude for the strange bond our grumpy little dog has forged with this sweet, broken young woman, and the comfort he offers.

After delivering a delighted Andy to Skylar’s arms, I return home. It’s just past noon. As I point my remote at the garage door, it rises to reveal an empty space, my father’s Range Rover still not there.

It’s no surprise Dad’s been gone all morning. There’s no manual on how to deal with a tragedy like this in a small community. In my former world of professional sport, crisis management follows protocols—press releases, controlled narratives, damage control. Now, I find myself grateful that those same skills might actually matter here, where there are no PR departments or media liaisons to shield grieving families and shell-shocked teammates. My expertise feels both valuable and woefully inadequate. The playbook I’ve mastered doesn’t account for when your hands shake because the statement you’re crafting is about people you’ve known your whole life. Still, I’ll do my best this afternoon to step up for the club and Connor .

I park in my space and head inside to grab some lunch before facing the unpleasant task. As I step into the hallway, piano notes drift towards me, and my heart leaps. I know who’s here.

In the sunlit studio, Geordie sits at the piano, crutches propped against the sofa, a large duffel resting beside him. He turns his head at the click of my heels on tiles, offering me a small smile but playing on without missing a beat.

I stand behind him, hands on his shoulders, feeling their solid bulk beneath my fingers. His body moves with the ebb and the flow of the music, and I lean into the piece with him. Tears well up as the melancholy beauty of ‘Unchained Melody’ washes over me. This song always affects me—I’ve sniffled my way through Ghost dozens of times—but today I sob.

As the last gentle notes reverberate like a sweet hum through the room, he lifts his hands and swings around, stretching out his long legs. One foot in a size eleven cowboy boot, the other, heavily strapped, peek from beneath his jeans. He draws me in to stand between them and, through the haze of tears, I smile down at my beautiful piano playing cowboy.

“It’s over Jenna.” His eyes sweep across my face. “I can’t do it anymore.”

My face crumples, while inside my heart disintegrates into a million tiny painful shards, as a rush of despair like I’ve never known before courses in my veins.

He takes my hand and I clamp my fingers around his, desperate to hold on to him. I can’t let him go—I need him like oxygen—but I don’t deserve him to stay, not after the shit I’ve put him through.

“Not the lying. Not the sneaking around,” he says. “There’s no going back.” He reaches up, tracing a thumb over my trembling lip. “ I love you, Jen. All of you. The bits you show the world and the bits you don’t want anyone to see. I’ll take every one of them. Even the parts you think are hard and ugly, they’re beautiful to me, because they’re you.”

My grip tightens on his hand like a lifeline, my way back to who I used to be. I can still be that woman who faces the world with confidence, who does what needs to be done without letting it define who I really am—as a daughter, a friend, a lover. What others see doesn’t have to be all of who I am. What matters is who I am to those who know and love me.

This guy knows me.

This guy loves me.

Geordie rises to his feet a little shakily, placing one steadying hand on each of my arms, insistent fingers warming my bare skin. His eyes blaze with determination.

“We’ve got a chance to make something here, Jenna. Together. And I’m not hiding anymore. I can take whatever shit anyone wants to throw at us. And anyone who thinks we’re a bad idea? Fuck them. I know we’re not. I’m ready to fight for us. What I need to know is, are you?”

He searches my gaze, and I close my eyes, uncertainty flooding through me.

“I want to be,” I choke out. When it’s other people, I’m fearless; but when it comes to standing up for me, something inside me shrinks. I become small, timid even.

“Come on, sweetheart, you know you are. A woman who has Wonder Woman on her wall can take on anything and anyone.” He gives my hand a playful tug, and despite my tears, my lips curve upward .

“And you have one superpower she doesn’t.” He looks into my eyes, his soft blue gaze calm, yet intense. “You’ve got me loving you. For as long as you’ll let me.”