out before Daniel realised what he was saying and he mentally kicked himself as Mia stiffened visibly in her chair, her fingers whitening as she gripped her tea.
‘You can’t stay. I’ve no room for you,’ she stammered and Daniel crooked an eyebrow and raised his eyes to the ceiling. How many bedrooms would a place this size have? Five, six maybe. ‘No room fit for habitation. I don’t know you; you can’t be here. It’s a ridiculous notion.’
Mia slammed her mug down on the table and pulled the cordless phone out of its holder on the wall and shoved it across to him. ‘Get dialling. I’m going for a shower and to get dressed and then I’ll drop you off wherever.’
She whirled away and shot out of the kitchen into the hallway. Daniel leaned sideways in his chair and caught sight of her disappearing through another doorway with the stairs framed in the background. The door slammed and he heard the snick of a key as she locked it behind her before climbing the stairs, her passage marked by creaks and groans from the half-rotten staircase.
Daniel blew out a breath and scrubbed his hand thoughtfully across his chin as he tried to decide on what to do for the best. There was a pinboard next to where the phone holder was attached to the wall and he rose from his seat to examine the eclectic mix of items pinned to it. He knew he was being nosy, but he wanted to know more about his reluctant hostess.
There were several photographs—Mia with stunningly long hair and two other women who bore a striking resemblance to her; arms entwined and heads thrown back as they laughed together at something. There was something so free and joyous in the image that Daniel wished he’d been the one on the other side of the camera capturing that tiny flash of perfection and preserving it for ever.
There was another more recent photo of Mia, this time with Madeline, touching glasses of wine together as they toasted each other. Mia was smiling in this shot too, but her expression was much less open and her hair was now shorn off in the mad pixie crop that she sported today.
There were postcards from a random selection of capital cities and scraps of paper pinned haphazardly between the photos, recipes torn from magazines, a scribbled list of tasks to be tackled on the house that daunted Daniel as he scanned down it, quotations for roof repairs and resurfacing the driveway. Daniel double-checked one of the amounts and then forced himself to turn away from the board, guilty at how nosy he was being.
Curious about the rest of the house, he headed out into the hallway, past the locked door to the upper floors, and poked his head into the first room on the right. The room was mostly empty, just an old Welsh dresser and a matching sideboard shoved back against one wall. The wooden floor scratched and dark with age was bare and the windows were lacking curtains.
With nothing to distract and soften the view beyond, Daniel’s gaze was drawn inexorably to the writhing seascape and he moved without conscious thought until his nose was pressed up against the dirty glass of the French windows.
The memory of a long-forgotten poem rose unbidden. His dad had been a great one for poetry. A hard-working man, quiet—and some had thought him grim-faced and taciturn. Daniel had later realised this was a product of his dad’s shyness though he had never found him so. A man with few opportunities who’d resigned himself to a life of manual labour, he’d been determined to learn all he could and made damn sure his son looked beyond his roots to stretch for the heights of whatever he chose to study.
Whenever he pictured his dad, it was always with a book in hand: poetry, biographies, history. He soaked up everything and Daniel had learned to read at his knee, a new poem to memorise every week. His favourite times were when his dad opened his huge atlas of the world, letting Daniel choose a page at random. Whatever location he landed on, they would study and explore. A smile played on his lips. They’d travelled the world together side by side at the dining room table.
Daniel lost himself in the rolling waves and the rhythm of the words as they ebbed and flowed through his mind like the white foam of the tide on the sands before him. He rocked back slightly on his heels—hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans—and for the first time a little bit of peace and quiet stole into a corner of his heart.
This spot, this view had brought him a tiny step back to where he wanted to be. To whom he wanted to be. He wanted to be that man his father had envisioned as he plied his young son with knowledge and a love of learning, a love of exploration and wonder.
Daniel rested his suddenly hot forehead against the cold glass of the window as a wave of shame washed through him from the tips of his boots to the top of his head. A sudden gush of saliva filled his mouth, the sour taste of bile burning his throat. He wrestled with the handle of the French windows and burst out onto the scruffy patio. Lurching to the side, he doubled over, vomiting into the overgrown bushes that framed the door.
He heaved and heaved, feeling like he would turn himself inside out as the realisation hit of how disappointed his dad would be in the shallow, vain fool his beloved boy had become. For the first time, he was glad his dad had only lived long enough to enjoy the beginning of Daniel’s success rather than being there now to witness his fall from grace.
He pushed himself upright, raising his arm to wipe the tears, snot and vomit from his face. A soft noise to his right caused him to whip his head around and Daniel closed his eyes against a fresh roll of shame as he realised Mia had finished upstairs and leaned against the open patio door, her head tilted to one side as she watched him quietly.
Mia stayed still as she watched Daniel struggle not to fall apart before her. His chest heaved, lungs working like a bellows as the air sawed in and out. There was a smear of vomit on his chin, more down his dark sweater and across the sleeve where he’d scrubbed at his face.
She recognised the signs of an impending meltdown when she saw them; had suffered plenty herself over the past couple of years. His obvious distress tugged at her. She didn’t want this man, this intruder in her house. The rational part of her recognised that his presence wasn’t voluntary, and she made a mental note to give Madeline a call later and voice her ire at the correct source of her dilemma.
Mia wanted to carry on as she was, hiding away and burying herself in the work to try and bring Butterfly House back to a semblance of its former glory. It was a Herculean task—even with the help and support of Madeline and Richard.
Her target for opening to guests was slipping further into the distance and part of her was glad of it. If the house wasn’t ready, then she didn’t have to be ready to deal with the outside world. Her grand plan to move forward with her life had turned into a different type of inertia. Perhaps it was time to act, time to take a chance and help someone else, and just maybe help herself at the same time.
Daniel raised a hand to cover his already shut eyes and his shoulders quaked. Moving before she was aware of what she was doing, she reached out to take his other hand, heedless of the unpleasant dampness of it.
‘Daniel, come inside with me and let’s get you cleaned up. It’s all right, darling. It’ll be all right, I promise.’ She tugged gently on his hand and gave an encouraging nod when he dropped his big hand to blink at her through the moisture clinging to his lashes. The sparkle of his tears drew her attention to the stormy green colour of his eyes.
Walking backwards she maintained eye contact as she led him through the empty room and back into the relative warmth of the kitchen. She guided him back to the table and he didn’t resist when pressed into a chair. She dashed through to the dining room to close and latch the patio doors, her stockinged feet sliding
