Page 18 of Winter at Wishington Bay
‘And what lucky villager is getting that?’
I fiddled with my hat for a moment as I watched Bryan’s little tail dance about in happiness as he scooted along, his toenails making a satisfying, soothing tappity-tap in the quiet of the morning.
‘Actually, that was for you too.’
I felt him looking at me but refused to turn.
‘You know there’s a supermarket a few miles away, and I have Holly’s car. You don’t need to do all this. I’m sure Gabe didn’t mean for you to go overboard—’
‘It’s just a cake.’
‘And soup. And dinners. All of which I can buy pre-prepared if I wish.’
‘True. But they’re not as good for you as the ones I make, and I’m happy to do it.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why are you happy to do it for someone who’s rude and unappreciative?’
I let out a sigh, flicked my gaze to his momentarily and then looked away again. ‘I enjoy cooking. Holly and I have baking sessions together sometimes.’
‘Not Carrie? I met her when I met Ned and I’ve heard Gabe talk about her loads. She helped save this little dude, didn’t she?’ he asked, pointing at Bryan.
‘She did, yes. And she’s lovely. But she doesn’t cook. She comes along too though and is our chief taste-tester. It’s nice.’
‘It sounds it.’
We walked along in silence for a few minutes. Gulls wheeled and screeched above us, and to our right, the sea swooshed gently, a calm, blue pool today in contrast with the steely grey fierceness of yesterday.
‘I’m not great with people, Sophia. As you’ll have noticed. I don’t have Gabe’s easy manner and I usually sit in an office, mostly on my own to do my work. Meetings are not social occasions. I say my bit but I can’t do all that chit chat stuff. My wife was the outgoing one. When she’s there, it’s her people want to talk to and be with, and that’s always suited me. Gabe and I have always been close but it got harder when I married Serena. Her and Gabe rubbed each other the wrong way. I think because he didn’t fall under her spell like most men do. But he’s my brother. And he’s a pretty good judge of character, as it turns out.’
I wasn’t entirely sure what to say. It was the most words he’d ever said to me in one go and a part of me didn’t want to break the spell. In my previous life I’d often been told I was a good listener, although I’d always thought myself a bit of a fraud when I felt the only reason I was good at listening was because most of the time I just had nothing to contribute to the conversation. Friends and relatives would be sitting there getting worked up at what, to me, seemed entirely insubstantial topics of absolutely no consequence and yet the fact that Melanie Farquar’s three-year-old had turned up at the gymkhana with the same colour ribbons in her hair as Cornelia’s little darling, having been specifically told what Cornelia’s ensemble was going to be, did not seem the end of the world to me. So I’d sit there, mostly listening. Making the right noises and nodding where I thought it appropriate, while all the time making sure to neither agree or disagree. This was their fight and I didn’t have the energy or inclination to get involved in something so petty and inconsequential.
Initially when they’d all begun turning to me to vent about every little moment of unfairness levelled at their darling child, I’d wondered at their lack of sensitivity. But they were just too wrapped up in their own world of privilege and one-upmanship. Eventually, as I’d begun to see the world I lived in with clearer and clearer vision, I stopped blaming them and just accepted that they weren’t doing it to be cruel. It just hadn’t occurred to them to think that knowing I would never be a mother myself might make it hard to listen to them banging on about the latest imagined infraction against their toddler.
But for now I was happy to listen. More than happy, actually. Nate’s voice was low, and smooth and the melodic quality to his accent made it all a very pleasant experience. Obviously I wasn’t happy that the subject was clearly one painful to him. He’d stopped and I looked up at him as we walked along in the chilly, crisp winter air.
‘Go on.’
The small part of his face that wasn’t wrapped up against the cold hinted at an embarrassed smile.
‘Nah. I’ve waffled on enough. I must be boring you to tears. I’m surprised you haven’t turned round already and left me to clean my own place.’
‘Don’t be so silly. It’s good to talk. And as you said, we got off on the wrong foot, so it’s nice to start again. And people generally get to know one another by talking, so I think you’re doing just fine.’
He gave a waggle of his head. ‘Maybe. I’m not sure they start by pouring their deepest, darkest secrets out in the first proper conversation they have with someone, though.’
Laughing, I bumped lightly against his arm. ‘If they’re your darkest secrets, I really don’t think you have anything to worry about.’
‘Oh?’ he asked, turning to me. ‘That makes it sound like you have something far more interesting to share.’
I glanced up briefly before focusing my attention back on Bryan’s slinky little body scuttling along, intent on getting back to a warm house that held a cosy dog bed, and a fireplace to snuggle down next to.
‘Hardly,’ I said, adjusting my scarf with one hand and hoping that the slight flush I felt on my skin could be put down to the cold rather than anything else. After all, I wasn’t exactly lying about anything. I just hadn’t given everyone – or anyone – all the facts about my life prior to Wishington Bay. To me, it was a different life. An unhappier life, and a separate one. And that’s how I wanted it to stay. It had nothing to do with who I was now and I didn’t want people looking at, or treating me, differently. I liked who I was now. I felt a part of things here and I was worried that might change if they knew the whole truth.
8
