Reunited At The Altar

They were divorced, she reminded herself. This was none of her business.

But Bradley Powell had been her first love. Her one and only love, if she was honest with herself. Right now, she could see he was suffering. She couldn’t just leave him like this. OK, so she knew he didn’t love her any more and she’d learned to accept that; but, for the sake of what he’d once been to her, she wanted to help him.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked, her voice gentle.

‘Yes.’

He was lying. Putting a wall between them, the same way he’d done five years ago. She could walk away, like she had last time; or, this time, she could challenge him. Push him the way she maybe should’ve pushed him back then, except at the age of twenty-two she hadn’t quite had the confidence to do that.

Now, things were different. She knew who she was and she was comfortable in her own skin. And she was no longer afraid to challenge him. ‘That’s the biggest load of rubbish I’ve heard in a while.’

He looked at her as if not quite believing what he’d heard. ‘What?’

‘You’re not OK, Brad,’ she said. ‘You’re lying about it—which is crazy, because I’m the last person you should need to keep a stiff upper lip in front of—and I’m calling you on it.’

He lifted his chin, as if to argue. ‘I...’ Then the fight went out of him and he sighed. ‘No. You’re right. I’m not OK.’

‘Because you’re dreading this week?’ she asked. ‘That’s why you booked into the cottage, isn’t it? So you wouldn’t have to go home and see the ghosts.’

He raked a hand through his hair. ‘You always could see through me, Abby. Except back then...’

‘Back then, I would’ve let you get away with it.’ How young and naive she’d been. In the last five years she’d grown much wiser. Stronger, more able to deal with tricky situations. She’d changed. But had Brad? ‘You’ve just had a three-hour drive from London, in rush-hour traffic. I’m guessing you didn’t have time for lunch and you were thinking about your current project while you were driving, so you didn’t bother to get any shopping on the way here either. Apart from what I left you, your fridge and cupboards are all empty. But there’s an easy solution. Come and sit in my kitchen while I make you something to eat.’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t ask you to do that.’

She folded her arms and looked at him. ‘You’re not asking me. I’m telling you.’

‘Bossy.’ But there was the hint of a smile in the tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes. A smile she wished she hadn’t noticed, because it still had the power to make her knees weak.

We’re divorced, she reminded herself. I’m just doing this for Ruby, to make sure Brad doesn’t get overwhelmed by the past and bail out on her before the wedding. Bradley Powell doesn’t make my knees go weak any more. He doesn’t.

‘Just shut up and come next door,’ she said, more to cover her own confusion than anything else.

* * *

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Brad asked when he’d followed her into her kitchen.

Abigail shook her head and gestured to the small bistro table in the nook that served as a dining area. ‘Sit down and make yourself comfortable.’

‘Thank you.’ He paused. ‘So how long have you been living here?’

‘Two years. Didn’t Ruby tell you?’

‘She doesn’t really talk to me about you.’ He looked at her. ‘Does she talk to you about me?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Though obviously your mum told me you’d got your doctorate. She showed me the graduation photos.’

He’d nearly not bothered with the graduation ceremony—until his sister had pointed out that she and their mother would quite like to be there, so it would be a bit selfish of him not to go. Brad had felt he didn’t deserve the fuss, but he’d given in for his mother’s sake.

‘Uh-huh.’ He didn’t want to talk to Abigail about his graduation and how much he’d missed his father. How it had been a physical ache. How he’d longed to say to Jim, ‘See, I told you I’d make something of myself doing the subject I love.’

He grabbed at the nearest excuse to change the subject. ‘Nice house.’ It looked as if it was the same layout as the cottage he’d hired for the week: the white-painted front door opened straight into the living room, and stairs led between the living room and kitchen to the upper floor. But whereas next door was all furnished in neutral shades, as far as he’d seen, Abigail had gone for bright colour. Her living room was painted a warm primrose yellow, with deep red curtains and a matching deep red sofa opposite the cast-iron original fireplace with a huge mirror above it, a wall full of books and a massive stylised painting of a peacock on another wall, which looked very much like his sister’s handiwork. And the kitchen walls here were painted a light, bright teal; the cupboards were cream and the worktop was grey. It was stylish and homely at the same time.

The perfect size for two.

He didn’t let himself think about who might have sat at this table opposite her. It was none of his business who she dated. She wasn’t his wife any more.

‘Are there any dietary things I need to know about?’ she asked.

‘Such as?’

She shrugged. ‘I know you don’t have any food allergies, but you might have given up eating meat or fish since we last ate together.’

Had she? He really had no idea. As for himself, he barely noticed what he ate, since she’d left. Since he’d pushed her into leaving, he amended mentally. ‘No. Nothing’s changed. But I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I can walk up the road and get some fish and chips—assuming the chip shop’s still there on the harbour, that is?’

‘You’re not putting me to any trouble,’ she said. ‘I haven’t eaten yet this evening. It’s as quick to cook for two as it is for one.’

‘Then, if you’re sure you don’t mind, whatever you want to cook is absolutely fine with me,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

‘You told Ruby we could be civil. So did I. We might as well start here and now.’

‘A truce. OK.’ He could do that. And maybe, if he could get things on an even keel with her, it would take some of the weight of guilt from him.

‘Coffee?’

‘Thanks. I’d love one.’ He paused. ‘That muffin you left next door—did you make that yourself?’

‘Yes. This morning.’

‘I appreciated it. And it was very good.’

‘Thank you.’

She’d gone slightly pink. Was she remembering when she’d made muffins in his student days and they’d eaten them in bed together? Not that he could ask her. That was way, way too intimate.

She made coffee just the way he liked it, strong and sugarless with a just dash of milk. He remembered how she took her coffee, too. And the fact that she never drank tea. Funny how all the memories flooded back, as if their years apart had never happened.

Wishful thinking. It was way too late to do anything about it now.

She chopped onions, chilli and garlic, then heated oil in a pan and started to sauté them. The kitchen smelled amazing. She added diced chicken, and he realised just how hungry he was. Abigail always had been good in the kitchen; rather than going away to study for a degree, she’d planned to join her family’s café business when she left school. She was going to work her way up while he studied, and they were going to get married after he graduated.

Until Brad, after a huge row with his dad, had rebelled; he’d asked Abby to elope with him before they got their exam results. All wide-eyed and trusting, young and full of hope, she’d agreed. And she’d put her plans aside, moving with him when he left for university, getting a job in a café in Cambridge and ending up managing the place within a year.

Ruby had been economical with the details but Brad guessed that, after Abigail had moved back to Great Crowmell, she’d gone with her original Plan A and joined the family business. Given that her parents were in their late fifties and would be looking at retiring, he’d guess that she was taking more responsibility every year. Maybe she was even running the place now.

‘So how’s the café?’ he asked.

‘Fine. How’s the lab?’

‘Fine.’

Stonewalling each other with single-word answers wasn’t going to do anything to help the situation. Brad decided to make the effort and try some polite conversation. Offer some information, which might make her offer information in return. ‘My team’s working on developing a new antibiotic.’

‘Sounds good—we definitely need that.’ She paused. ‘So are you happy in London?’

He hadn’t been happy in the last five years. But he did like his job. And she was asking about his job, right? ‘Yes. How about you? You’re happy here at the café?’ If he focused on work rather than the personal stuff, then she wouldn’t tell him about her new love.

‘Yes, I’m happy at the café. Like you, I’m developing something, except mine’s rather more frivolous.’ She paused, then said brightly, ‘Ice cream for dogs.’

‘Ice cream for dogs?’ The idea was so incongruous that it made him smile.

‘Don’t knock it,’ she said, smiling back. ‘Think how many people bring their dogs to the beach, then come and sit with them outside the café.’

He knew that Scott’s Café, on the edge of the beach, had tables outside as well as inside, plus water bowls for dogs; it had always been dog-friendly, even before it became trendy to welcome dogs.

‘Half of the customers buy an ice cream for their dogs to help cool them down, too, but obviously the sugar’s not good for the dogs’ teeth and the fat’s not brilliant for their diet, either,’ Abby said. ‘So we’ve produced something a bit more canine-friendly.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘So you’re telling me you’re making chicken-flavoured ice cream?’

She laughed. ‘Not quite. It’s more like frozen yoghurt. We do a carrot and cinnamon one, and a cheese one.’

He stared at her. ‘Cheese ice cream?’

‘They serve Parmesan ice cream at the posh restaurant round the bay in Little Crowmell,’ she said. ‘That’s what gave me the idea. Especially as Waffle—’ her parents’ dachshund ‘—will do anything for cheese. He loved being one of my beta testers. So did your mum’s dog.’

He wondered who’d taken her to Little Crowmell and had to damp down an unexpected flicker of jealousy. He had no right to be jealous. She was a free agent. It was up to her who she dated, he reminded himself yet again.

‘Dinner smells nice,’ he said, reverting to a safer subject.

‘It’s not that fancy. Just chicken arrabbiata.’

He’d always loved her cooking. ‘It’s still better than I could’ve made.’ Not that he really cooked, any more. Cooking for one didn’t seem worth the effort, when he was tired after a long day in the lab. It was so much easier to buy something from the chiller cabinet in the supermarket and shove it in the microwave for a couple of minutes. Something he didn’t have to think about or even taste.

Abigail’s chicken arrabbiata tasted even better than it smelled.

And how weird it was to be eating with her again, in this intimate little galley kitchen, at this tiny little table. Close enough so that, when he moved his feet, he ended up touching hers.

‘Sorry,’ he said, moving his feet swiftly away again and banging his ankle on the chair leg.

She gave him a half-shrug. ‘Not a problem.’

She might be immune to him nowadays, he thought, but he was far from immune to her. There was a time when they would’ve sat at a tiny table like this together, their bare feet entwined. When they would’ve shared glances. When dinner would’ve been left half-eaten because he would’ve scooped her up and carried her up the stairs to their bed.

And he really wasn’t going to let himself wonder if she slept in a double bed.

It was none of his business.

This was supposed to be civil politeness. A truce. Getting rid of the awkwardness between them, so Ruby’s wedding would go smoothly at the weekend. So why did he feel so completely off balance?

He forced himself to finish the pasta—she was right, he did need to eat—and then cleared the table for her while she rummaged in the freezer.

She was close enough to touch.

And that way danger lay. Physical contact between them would be a very, very bad idea. Because seeing her again had brought back way too many memories—along with a huge sense of loneliness and loss.

He retreated to the bistro table, and she brought over two bowls, spoons and a plastic tub.

‘Are you selling tubs for people to take home, nowadays?’ he asked, suddenly curious.

‘Yes, but they’re half-litre paper cartons rather than like this. Ruby designed them for me—pink and white Regency stripes, with “Scott’s” written across it in black script,’ Abigail said.

‘So you’re expanding the business?’

She inclined her head. ‘Certain local restaurants stock our ice cream, and we have pop-up ice cream stalls for events. Regency-style carts. Ruby’s having one at her wedding.’

And how different his sister’s wedding would be from his own. A big affair, with the church filled with family and friends. The complete opposite from his and Abby’s: no frills, no fuss, just the two of them, and two witnesses that the wedding planner at Gretna Green had provided. Abby had worn an ordinary but pretty summer dress and carried a posy of cream roses, and he’d worn the suit his mother had bought him for his interview at Cambridge. It had got a bit creased in his rucksack, but he hadn’t cared. He’d just wanted to get married to Abby and be with her for ever and ever, and prove to his dad that he was wrong, that they weren’t too young and he wouldn’t find someone else in the first week away at university—that their marriage would last.

The summer when they were eighteen.

How young and foolish they’d both been.

All that was left from that day now was a handful of photographs.

He shook himself. They were meant to be talking about her business, not their past. ‘Sounds good,’ he said lightly. ‘So what’s this?’

‘A new flavour. I’m still tweaking it, so it’s not in production yet. Let me know what you think.’

She actually wanted his opinion? Something shifted inside him.

She put a scoop into the bowl. ‘If you hate it, don’t be polite and eat it—just tell me what you don’t like about it because that’ll be much more useful. I also have salted caramel in the freezer.’

His favourite. And he knew that she remembered. Just as he remembered that she loathed chocolate ice cream.

He looked at the bowl she’d just given him. The ice cream was a dusky pink, studded with pieces of deep red fruit. He took a spoonful. ‘No more tweaks needed,’ he said. ‘Cherry and almond.’

‘Cherry and amaretto, actually—but that’s close enough.’ She looked pleased. ‘So the amaretto isn’t overpowering?’

He tried another spoonful. ‘No. You’ve got a good balance. It’s not too sour from the cherries, but it’s also not oversweet.’

‘Analysed like a true scientist.’

There was amusement in her voice, but there was also respect. And maybe, he thought, a note of affection? But he’d managed to kill her love for him, five years ago. He’d shut her out, hadn’t let her help him deal with the shock of his father’s death. He didn’t deserve her affection. ‘It saves time,’ he said.

‘Thanks. I thought I might have got it right with this batch, though I was thinking about adding pieces of crushed amaretti biscuits.’

He shook his head. ‘It’ll change the texture too much. This is rich and soft and—well, nice.’

‘Good. Help yourself to more. Or there’s salted caramel,’ she said.

He realised then that he’d finished the bowl. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘But thank you.’

He insisted on doing the washing up. And, even though he knew he really ought to go, how could he refuse when she offered him another coffee?

Her living room was just as cosy as the kitchen.

‘Is that one of Ruby’s?’ he asked, gesturing towards the peacock.

‘Yes. It was a special commission,’ she said with a smile. Then she grew serious. ‘It’s going to be hard for you, this week.’

There was no point in lying. He knew she’d see through it. ‘Yes.’

‘I imagine you came back early so you could face things before the wedding on Saturday, instead of being hit by the whole lot on the day.’

How well she knew him. ‘It seemed the most sensible approach.’ Doing the lot in one day tomorrow would be easiest in the long run; and if he did it now he’d cope better at the wedding.

‘I’m working tomorrow,’ she said, ‘but I’m pretty much off duty from Wednesday so I can help Ruby with any last-minute details.’ She paused. ‘If you want someone to go with you to...’ She paused, and he knew what she wasn’t saying. To the church. To his father’s grave. To all the places in the town that held so many memories, they threatened to choke him. ‘Well, you know where I am,’ she finished.

It was a really generous offer, especially considering how he’d pushed her away before.

But he also knew he had to face this on his own. ‘Thanks, but I’m fine.’

* * *

Brad wasn’t fine. Abigail could see it in his dark, dark eyes.

But he was as stubborn as his father had been. Which wasn’t always a good thing. He was making himself miserable, and that made his family miserable. Why couldn’t he see that?

‘Brad. It’s been five years.’ And everyone else had moved on, except Brad himself. ‘I hope by now you’ve worked out that you weren’t to blame.’

He said nothing.

‘Your dad was a stubborn old coot. I loved Jim dearly, but he didn’t help himself and he didn’t listen to anyone.’ Maybe now wasn’t the right time to say it—but then again, when would be the right time? ‘I think you’re going the same way.’

‘What?’

There was a simmering, dangerous tone to his voice. But Abigail wasn’t backing down now. It was a boil that had needed lancing years ago. The poison needed to come out so Brad could move on instead of being stuck in the misery of the past. ‘Jim was the one to blame for his death, not you. If he’d listened to his doctor and taken his angina medication out with him on the boat—or, better still, waited until the following weekend when you could’ve gone out on the boat with him and he wouldn’t have been on his own—he wouldn’t have had the heart attack in the first place; or at least if he’d had his GTN spray with him he would’ve been able to buy himself enough time for the emergency services to get to him and treat him in time.’

He clenched his jaw. ‘My dad’s dead.’

‘And you’re still alive, Brad.’ Though he wasn’t living. Just existing. ‘Stop wearing that hair shirt and thinking you have to atone for something that really wasn’t your fault.’

His face shuttered. ‘I don’t want to have this conversation.’

‘No,’ she said, not sure whether she was more angry or sad. ‘You wouldn’t face it then and you won’t face it now. Brad, for pity’s sake—you might want to keep punishing yourself, and that’s your choice, but please make sure you don’t punish your mum and Ruby at the same time.’

‘I think,’ he said, ‘I’d better go. Before we say something we’d both regret.’

He was shutting her out again and refusing to discuss anything. So he hadn’t changed. How stupid she was to think that five years might have made a difference. ‘You do that,’ she said. ‘But if you’re not smiling all day until your face hurts on Saturday, then you’ll answer to me.’

His eyes widened as if he was shocked that she could even think that he’d do anything less than be delighted for his twin. ‘Ruby’s my sister.’

‘And you’ve been there for her?’ It was a rhetorical question, because they both knew the answer. He hadn’t. He’d shut himself away in his lab, suffering in silence and not letting anyone comfort him—and that had also meant he wasn’t able to comfort anyone else.

A muscle worked in his jaw. ‘That’s none of your business.’

‘That’s the attitude you took when it was still my business,’ she said. ‘Stubborn, refusing to see any other point of view except your own.’ The anger she hadn’t realised she was suppressing flared up, and the words came out before she could stop them. ‘That’s what killed your dad. Don’t let it kill you, too.’

He stood up, his dark eyes full of answering anger, and walked out without a word.

He didn’t even slam the door behind him. Just left it open.

Abigail stared after him, the flash of anger suddenly gone and leaving her full of guilt.

Oh, God. What had she done?

She was supposed to be civil to the man and start pouring oil at the first sign of any troubled waters. But instead she’d stirred up the storm. Big time.

OK.

Tomorrow, she’d apologise. And hope that she could repair the damage in time for Ruby’s wedding.

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