Page 46

JENNA

“There, all done.” Skylar places the folder in the filing cabinet and turns to me with a smile. It’s not her old high-beam blast, but it is a smile, and I feel a flush of guarded relief. My gentle coaxing her back to work seems to have paid off, giving her a way to fill her days. While the life she had mapped out for herself has been irrevocably changed by Brandon’s death, she’s started to see it’s still there waiting for her. She’s doing well, only her third day back, but each day brings small victories—she talks more, moves with growing confidence, no longer the silent shadow of a girl who could barely stand unsupported at the funeral.

“Thanks, Skylar,” I say. “And you did that one all on your own.”

There it is again, a second smile, this one tinged with pride at my praise. An unexpected urge to hug her surges through me, an impulse that seems to be ambushing me more often lately, but I resist. I’m still not much of a hugger, so that would be weird. Although strangely, this past six weeks, I’ve learned to accept them with barely a flutter of my old awkwardness, my angular shoulders and elbows relaxed, welcoming even when someone closes in on my unsuspecting body .

“That’s me, then,” she says, gathering her things. “Come on, little buddy.”

Andy stands instantly, ears perked forward, ready to follow. While still snoring away most of the day in his doughnut-shaped bed under my desk, he snaps to awake the moment Skylar stirs, tracking her every movement from under his shaggy black brows. He trots after her as she heads for her mother’s car parked out front of the summerhouse, and leaps in, claiming his spot in the passenger’s seat, ready to go home.

Andy’s been Skylar’s since the day I placed him in her lap on that awful morning. Strangely, I miss him a little sometimes, but he’s where he should be, needs to be. It’s fitting that the grieving girl and the dog who I know mourned Mum in his own way, have found comfort in each other.

I’m just closing my laptop, when an unearthly rumble, like distant thunder, rolls through the air, even though the cloud cover today is the usual grey sheet of late autumn stretching across the Cluanie sky, not the towering thunderheads preceding a storm. I stand and peer out into the gloom, my wool blazer pulled tight against the chill, and my mouth falls open.

A hulking beast of an American muscle car sits parked out front—the kind Geordie drools over in magazines scattered throughout what was once my bedroom and is now decidedly ours. Its dark charcoal finish gleams almost black in the dusk. The engine growls with a deep throaty burble before falling silent. The door swings open and Geordie climbs out. Even in the dimming light, I catch the proud smirk on his face as I appear at the door of the summerhouse. He’s been gone all day and now I know why .

“What the hell is that?” I ask as he wanders towards me with his casual loping walk, long legs in jeans, cowboy boots peeking from beneath. The determined bugger has proved the doctors wrong, dedicating himself to rehab, and now there’s not a hint of a limp as he strolls across the terrace.

Today was the day of the doctor’s verdict. I’d expected to hear from Geordie, checking my phone repeatedly, but there hadn’t been a call or text. I have to admit, I was starting to worry. It’s stupid, I know, but I can’t help the fear that although we’re together now, the universe will take against us, snatching Geordie away from me, a punishment for squandering the time it gave us through my weeks of doubt.

He’s here now, and something in the way he carries himself, shoulders back and head high, tells me it’s not just this spectacular car that’s put him in such a cheerful mood.

“Your carriage awaits, m’lady” he says with a little bow and a flourish of his hand, an unlikely fawning courtier in his plaid shirt. “I’m cleared, so I’m off to practice. You’re coming too, right?”

“That’s great,” I say, the words falling far short of the kaleidoscope of emotions spinning through me. Elation tangles with relief.

Geordie would have been gutted if they’d denied him clearance to play again this season. After all those hours of physio, all that time in the gym rebuilding his ankle strength, watching from the sidelines would have crushed him. Especially with finals next weekend.

But he’ll be there, taking the field on finals’ day, and I’ll be the loyal girlfriend cheering from the sidelines. It’s strange how things change. Just months ago, the thought of everyone in town knowing we were together filled me with sickening dread. The weight of other people’s expectations—including Geordie’s—dragged me down like stones in my pockets. Now, instead of pressure, I feel pride.

Just the other day, standing in Gail’s Bakery amid the warm smell of fresh scones, I overheard two old biddies gossiping. “She’s going round with the MacDonald laddie, didn’t ye know,” one said, not bothering to lower her voice a single notch. They’re brazen in the way they talk about you in front of you around here. An unexpected wave of happiness engulfed my heart while I tried to keep my mouth from flipping up in a smug smile. Who would have thought being the subject of Cluanie gossip would ever make me feel like that?

Watching Geordie run out onto the field against Duncraig on Saturday will be special. Finally, I can openly cheer not just for the team I love, but for this man I love.

Tonight’s practice, although also special, will be hard. For the first time since the accident, all six of them who have endured so much will be together on their beloved rugby pitch, drawing strength from each other. The completeness of the team only highlights what’s missing. The man in the number fifteen jersey is gone. For this season, even though they’ve pulled in another guy at fullback, no player will wear Brandon’s number.

I turn my attention back to the car, crouched low like a big cat ready to pounce.

“That doesn’t answer my question. What’s with the car, Geordie?” I circle around to the front, where he stands proudly.

“It’s mine,” he says with a grin that makes him look like a kid who’s just been handed the keys to a sweet shop. “Pretty isn’t she—not as pretty as you, though.”

“Flatterer. ”

“Meet my new second favourite girl.” He runs his hand along the bonnet with unmistakable affection.

I roll my eyes. “Your girl ?“ I walk around the car, studying the aggressive lines and muscular stance. “How anyone could consider this beast to be female is beyond me.”

“I’ve always wanted one of these. Figured after the shit year I’ve had, it might be time to splurge.”

I study the unfamiliar badge on the front. “I’m not completely sure what I’m looking at. American, right?” He nods. He’s going to look the part getting out of that in his cowboy boots.

“You’d better enlighten me,” I say, preparing for the enthusiastic deluge of facts and figures about top speeds and torque, brake-horsepower and cubic capacity to pour from his mouth. Geordie loves his cars. For a man who struggles with reading, he has his nose buried in car magazines an awful lot and he’s not just looking at the pictures.

“Ford Mustang Shelby GT500.”

“Expensive?”

He shrugs, scuffing one boot against the gravel.

“A little. It’s not a Ferrari. Didn’t want to blow my entire bank balance on a car.” His eyes narrow. “But damned if I’m spending the rest of my life driving around in one of Sparky’s work vans.”

“It’s nice,” I say, running a hand over the sleek grey metallic paint. Twin stripes slash across the broad bonnet and flick right up over the top, giving it an air of barely contained speed.

“These make it go faster?” I grin at him.

“Wanna find out?” His eyes sparkle with mischief as he pulls open the passenger door .

“I can see some speeding tickets in your future,” I say, but I’m already sliding into the cocoon of leather, breathing in that distinctive new car smell. The door closes with a solid thunk that speaks of American muscle. I settle deeper into the seat, preparing myself for take-off.

Geordie takes the long way, showing off the car’s frightening acceleration. By the time the V8‘s rumble announces our arrival at the rugby grounds, I’ve spent most of the ride pinned to my seat. It’s impossible to be subtle. Before we’ve even parked, guys are spilling out of the change room, some half-dressed despite the biting cold, drawn like moths to the engine’s bass notes.

Fraser Sinclair’s the first to reach us, his eyes gleaming with undisguised envy as Geordie cuts the engine.

“You bloody dark horse, MacDonald. What did you do? Rob the fucking bank?” He circles the car, running his hand along the sleek bodywork. “How many horses under the bonnet?”

“760,” Geordie says, climbing out, drinking in their reactions.

“Supercharged?”

Geordie pops the bonnet and Fraser leans in for a closer look at the engine. I could probably answer the question myself after hearing Geordie recite the specs for the last twenty minutes, but I let him have his moment as he nods, the biggest grin splitting his face.

“Nice.” Brodie whistles low, breath visible in the cold air. “Never thought I’d see one of these beauties in Cluanie.”

“Going to guzzle some gas,” Connor says, crouching down to inspect the four burbling circular exhaust pipes on the rear.

“Ah well, there’s always a price to pay for something good,” Geordie says. “She’s worth every penny.” Geordie’s talking about the car, but he’s looking at me, his mouth tipping up in a knowing smile that makes my chest warm despite the chill.

Kyle ambles around the car, his police officer’s eyes filled with admiration rather than suspicion. “I can see myself having to get out my wee book very soon.” He glances between Geordie and me, grinning. “Perhaps we should have a bet, lads. Who’s going to get the first ticket, him or her?”

“Got to catch us first, Kyle,” I say with a challenging smile, but there’s no real heat in it. My little red sports car and I have mellowed now we’re not racing up to Nathan’s every day.

I watch as the guys gather round Geordie. Their big eyes, wide mouths, the envious gazes of the younger ones, and backslaps of congratulations from his mates—it all sets my heart pounding in a wild, joyful dance. So many people around here, who think they know Geordie, are suddenly discovering they really don’t.

His father would put him down openly, even in public. People in this town thought him a bit slow, one of the kids who’d never amount to much. Which is ridiculous. You only have to listen to Geordie speak to know otherwise.

Just the words that come out of his mouth show this is an intelligent man. Like Rachel, he cultivated an extensive vocabulary at the family dinner table. Their father insisted on nightly verbal sparring and critical debate, honing skills that would serve both children well. Rachel became an exceptional lawyer, while Geordie developed a command of language that transcended his dyslexia.

Yes, while he may not enjoy reading print books—audiobooks play in his ear most days on the job—and he avoids writing when possible, preferring dictated texts and voice notes, Geordie is undeniably smart. Not only with words like me and Rachel, but in a dozen ways we’ll never be.

However, in a place like Cluanie, money talks. They only understand tangible success. Tonight Geordie’s shown the lot of them and I’m glad this over-the-top car will shut them up.

I spend much of the practice alongside Dad. He’s quiet with me, thoughtful, but not in his sometimes sad way. He’ll never get over Mum, and that’s how it should be. Tonight there’s something else simmering beneath the surface—a guarded excitement. With the final only two weeks away, and Cluanie lining up against Duncraig as predicted, how could he not be? He’s moulded a skilled and disciplined team, their talent shaped by his coaching expertise, their bonds cemented by tragedy.There’s no doubt in his mind he’s going to add the County Cup to his list of triumphs. I have a feeling it may be his favourite victory yet.

As practice wraps up, I plant a kiss on his leathery cheek before leaving him to head to Grant and Laura’s. Geordie and I have our own plans. I’ve made a rich meaty lasagne for dinner. That, a glass of red wine and Geordie across the table is all I need for a perfect evening.

We rumble out of the car park and through the town, passing the pub where players are rolling in from rugby practice, keen for a pint and a pizza. No doubt some of Dad’s team will show up soon. He knows. He’s always known, but he sees his anti-booze stance as a tactic to keep them from going too far. It would be hypocritical to deny them a beer, when he’s off to the Darby’s to knock back a dram with Grant—though Laura’s cooking may be the real attraction .

The engine’s low throaty burble echoes off the stone buildings along Cluanie’s main street, all dark now except for the bright lights of the pub.

“Not going for a drink?”

“Nah,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

“This isn’t the way home.” I shift in my seat. Home is two miles in the opposite direction.

“Yes it is,” he says, with an enigmatic grin, his white teeth and eyes sparkling in the car’s gloomy interior.

“Oh, I get it.” I roll my eyes and sigh, feigning weary resignation. “We’re taking the long way home, so you can spend more time in this damn car.”

I don’t really mind. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Geordie this happy—like a little boy on Christmas morning when Santa’s brought him everything he asked for, practically vibrating with excitement over his new toy.

“You’ll see,” he says, the grin morphing into a mysterious smugness. I settle back into the seat, as comfortable as a warm hug and with that new leather smell. I close my eyes, letting satisfaction about where I am—and who I’m with—settle over me like a blanket.

Geordie drives slowly, the car moving effortlessly through the gear changes as we twist and turn through the streets. Soon I’m no longer sure where I am or where we’re headed, half-dozing as the sound of Stellar Riot playing low through a speaker lulls me.

The car stopping jerks me fully awake. We’re in a driveway, but we don’t seem to have travelled far enough to be home. For a moment, I’m disoriented.

We’re parked in front of my old home, the modest semi-detached where I grew up, where our family lived until a year ago. That’s when Mum went into palliative care and Dad’s response was to buy the monstrosity we live in now.

People have approached Dad about renting this house, a couple of offers to buy even. It’s not surprising. He spared no expense on it, far more than anyone would spend on a simple house in a small Scottish town. He made it as perfect as he could for Mum—the beautiful interior, the garden beds she tended with love, and the music studio out back where her baby grand piano, Dad’s ultimate indulgence, once took pride of place.

With light spilling from the downstairs windows, I almost believe I could walk inside this house now and find Dad sitting in his armchair watching sport on telly, Mum in her own chair with a romance novel—like the ones I read—in her lap. Why are the lights on? The thought hits me hard, the jolt back into reality sudden and forceful.

“Come on.” Geordie climbs out of the car, his expression unfathomable. He comes around to my side, his long fingers stretching out to clasp mine. Together, we walk up the small paved path to the familiar front door.

“Why are we here? Why didn’t we go home?”

“We did,” he says. “This is home. I’ve been chipping away at your old man for weeks. It’s yours.”

“What?” I don’t get it.

“I finally convinced him to sell it to me,” he says, his voice swelling with modest pride. “But it’ll be in your name. All you have to do is call in to my father’s office and sign the papers.”

I turn to him, mouth gaping.

“But what about Dad? I can’t leave him alone in that vast house. ”

“Jenna, he knows you aren’t happy in the other house. And he is. He’s even talking about getting another dog for company. He’ll be fine, honestly.”

Geordie’s right. Dad will be fine, and I’ll see him every day. There’s no room here for my office and I love my airy summerhouse with its many light-filled windows.

“You can move in whenever you want.”

In that moment, I know without question who needs to share this house with me. I never thought I could love someone as much as I love this man. I doubted I had the capacity to feel something so deep, so overwhelming and all-consuming for another person. My love for Geordie came out of nowhere—unexpected, uninvited even—hitting me from the blindside with the force of an opportunistic tackle.

“It’s ours,” I say, leaning in to press my lips against that perfect soft mouth which instinctively responds to mine. His broad hands rise to my waist, so strong yet gentle in the way they hold me like a precious treasure. “Come and live here with me, Geordie. I love you. Home is where you are. You’re my home.”

His hands cup my face, blue eyes earnest. “And you’re mine, Jen. I could never get enough of you, but you’ll always be enough for me, I promise.”

And I believe him.

We wander through the rooms, still sweet with lemon-scented furniture polish and the scent of roses puffing from a diffuser. Dad insisted it should stay exactly as we left it, furniture and all, as if by some miracle Mum might come back to us.

Out in her studio stands her original upright piano—the one that’s felt the touch of so many Cluanie children’s hands, including the ones of the man beside me now.

Geordie takes a seat on the piano stool, and I sit alongside him. He lays his hands on the keys, and I place mine over his. Together we play the first bars of a beautiful piece of music—our life together.

If you loved this book, I’d really appreciate you leaving a rating or review on your favourite retailer, review site or social media.