and headed home, wondering for the hundredth time what she wanted to say to him. She’d said she was ready to move on, and now it was in his head a disturbing possibility wouldn’t go away.
Was there someone new in her life?
Why not? It was perfectly plausible. She was a beautiful woman, she was alone, she was free to do whatever she liked—but even the thought of her replacing the best friend a man could wish for, the kindest and most courageous man he’d ever known, made him feel sick.
Dismissing the pointless speculation, he drove down Ferry Road towards the little community grouped around the harbour mouth, turned onto the gravel track that led past a little string of houses to his cottage and pulled up on the drive next to a four-wheel drive he’d never seen before, just as his phone pinged.
Damn. He’d meant to be here, but she hadn’t rung—or had she, while he’d been vacuuming the house?
Yup. There was a missed call from her, and a voice-mail.
‘I’ve arrived. Couldn’t get you on the phone earlier, but I’m here now so I’m walking the dog. Call me when you get home.’
He dialled her number as he carried the bags into the kitchen and dumped them on the worktop, and she answered on the second ring, sounding breathless.
‘Hi—did you get my message?’
‘Yeah. Sorry I wasn’t here, I went food shopping. I’m back now. Where are you?’
‘On the sea wall. I’ll be two ticks, I can see the cottage from here,’ she told him, so he opened the front door and stood on the porch step scanning the path, and there she was, blonde hair flying in the breeze, a huge sandy-coloured dog loping by her side as she ran towards him, her long limbs moving smoothly as she covered the ground with an effortless stride.
God, she was lovely.
Lovelier than ever, and that took some doing. His heart lurched, and he dredged up what he hoped was a civilised smile as he went to meet her.
She looked amazing, fit and well and bursting with energy. Her pale gold hair was gleaming, her blue eyes bright, her cheeks flushed with the sea breeze and the exertion as she ran up, her smile as wide as her arms, and threw herself at him. Her body slammed into his and knocked the breath from him in every way, and he nearly staggered at the impact.
‘Hey, Slater!’
‘Hey yourself, Princess,’ he said on a slight laugh as his arms wrapped round her and caught her tight against him. ‘Good to see you.’
‘You, too.’
She hugged him hard, her body warm and firm against his for the brief duration of the embrace, and he hugged her back, ridiculously pleased to see her, because he’d missed her, this woman of Joe’s. Missed her warmth and her humour, missed the laughter she carried with her everywhere she went. Or had, until she’d lost Joe.
Don’t tell me you’re getting married again—please, don’t tell me that …
Swearing silently, he dropped his arms and stepped back, looking down at the great rangy hound standing panting at Connie’s side, tongue lolling as it watched him alertly.
‘So—I take it this is your rescued dog? I’d pictured some little terrier or spaniel.’
Connie winced ruefully. ‘Sorry. Teensy bit bigger. This is Saffy—Safiya. It means best friend. Joe sort of adopted her in Afghanistan on his last tour. He was going to bring her home, but—well, he didn’t make it, so I brought her back.’
Typical Joe, he thought with a lump in his throat. Big tough guy, soft as lights. And he’d just bet she’d been his best friend, in the harsh and desolate desert, thousands of miles from home. A touch of humanity in the inhumanity of war.
He held out his hand for Saffy to sniff. She did more than sniff it. She licked it. Gently, tentatively, coming closer to press her head against his shoulder as he crouched down to her level and stroked her long, floppy ears. A gentle giant of a dog. No wonder Joe had fallen for her.
He laughed softly, a little taken aback by the trusting gesture, and straightened up again. ‘She’s a sweetie,’ he said, his voice slightly choked, and Connie nodded.
‘She is. I had to bring her home.’
Of course she’d had to, because Saffy was her last link to Joe. If Joe had been soft, Connie was softer, but there was a core of steel in there, too. He’d seen plenty of evidence of that in the past few years.
He’d seen her holding herself together when Joe was deployed to Afghanistan for what was meant to be his final tour, and then again, just months later, when he came home for the last time in a flag-draped coffin—
‘So, this is the new house, then,’ she said, yanking him back to the present as he opened the gate and ushered her and Saffy through it.
He hauled in a breath and put the memories away. ‘Hardly new. I’ve been here over two years. I’d forgotten you hadn’t seen it.’
‘No, well, things got in the way. I can’t believe it’s that long,’ she said. She looked slightly bemused, as if the time had somehow passed and she’d been suspended in an emotional void. He supposed she might well have been. He had, for years. Still was in many ways, and it was a lonely place.
Take care of Connie.
Guilt ate at him. He should have been there more for her, should have looked out for her, emailed her more often, rung her. It had been months, and he’d just let it drift by. Too busy, as usual, for the things that really mattered.
There didn’t seem to be anything else to say, so he took her into the house, looking at it with the critical eyes of a stranger and finding it wanting. Not the house, but his treatment of it. The house was lovely and deserved better than a quick once-over as and when.
‘Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess. I haven’t done a great deal to it, but the people I bought it from left it in great condition so I just moved in and got on with other things. I’ve been so busy I haven’t even unpacked the books yet.’
She looked around and smiled. ‘I can see that. You haven’t put any pictures up, either.’
‘I’ve got the sea. I don’t need pictures,’ he said simply, and she turned and looked out of the window, feeling the calming effect of the breakers rolling slowly in, the quiet suck of the surf on the shingle curiously soothing.
‘No, I suppose you don’t,’ she said. She glanced around again. The living space was all open, the seating area at the front of the house facing the sea, the full-width dining and kitchen area at the back overlooking the marshes and the meandering river beyond. There was an unspoilt beauty about the area, and she could absolutely see why he’d bought the cottage.
‘It’s lovely, James. Really gorgeous. I was expecting something tiny from the name.’
‘Thrift Cottage? There’s a plant called sea thrift—Armeria maritima. The garden’s full of it. I don’t know which came first but I imagine that’s the connection. It was certainly nothing to do with the price,’ he said drily. ‘Coffee?’
She
