Now and Then Friends (23 page)

“That was my brief. That's every big brother's brief, like you said. But with my mother and Claire . . . it was a lot more intense. If Claire so much as grazed her knee at school, my mother thought it was my fault. I should have been watching her better, been more careful.” He shrugged. “Not to moan about it, but it has an effect on you over time.”

“Yes, I can understand that.”

He nodded, his gaze training uncomfortably on her. “You've been looking out for your sisters for a long time.”

“Since I was eleven.”

“Is that when your mother got injured?”

Rachel nodded. “Broke her back falling down some stairs while cleaning a house in Egremont. Lily was six weeks old.”

“That must have been tough.”

“It wasn't much fun.”

“And your dad,” Andrew said quietly. “He left . . . ?”

“When I was eighteen.” She paused and then confessed quietly, the words drawn from her reluctantly, “I'd just started at Durham. Two
weeks in and my sister Meghan called me, asking me to come home.” She shook her head, trying to stem the tide of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. The last thing she wanted to do was cry in front of Andrew West, and especially on their first date. If this really was a date.

“Oh, Rachel, I'm sorry.” Andrew reached over and covered her hand with his own, the simple touch of another person adding to her emotional overload.

“It was a long time ago,” she managed to choke out, and then had to suffer the humiliation of dabbing her eyes with her napkin. “Seriously. I'm over it.”

Andrew removed his hand and sat back, and Rachel let out a tiny sigh of relief. This was getting way too intense. “And you've been cleaning houses ever since?”

“I took over my mother's business, Campbell Cleaners. She'd had to stop it when she got hurt, and for a while we survived with whatever work my dad could get.”

“Which was?”

“Carpentry, shift work. The dole.” More than once she'd had to collect one of the orange vouchers and go to the food bank in Whitehaven for the emergency supply of milk, bread, and tinned tuna and rice pudding. Growing up she'd been entitled to free school meals, a badge of shame that everyone had known about even though it was never spoken of. Somehow you just
knew
which kids were so poor they had to get free meals.

“None of that could have been easy,” Andrew said.

“No, but we managed. When Meghan turned sixteen, a year after my dad left, she quit school and started pulling pints at the pub.” She shrugged. “It worked out.”

“But that was ten years ago, and Lily's almost finished school. What are you going to do then?”

“My mother has just had a stroke and my sister has a three-year-
old I suspect she is going to off-load on me,” Rachel answered. “What do you think I'm going to do?”

Their meals came then, thankfully curtailing any more conversation, and they both kept to light topics after that. There was only so much emotional heavy lifting you could do in a single afternoon.

By the time they left the bistro it was the middle of the afternoon and the rain had cleared to a pale blue sky with wispy clouds. They walked through the city center, and Andrew pointed out every architectural and engineering feature, which, after about an hour, he finally realized was far more interesting to him than to her.

“Sorry. I'm boring you rigid, aren't I?”

“Not rigid, no,” Rachel answered. “The rigor mortis won't set in for another hour.”

“You have a high tolerance, then,” he said with a laugh, and steered her towards the river. “But there's one more feat of engineering I want to show you.”

“Uh-oh.”

“You'll like this one, I promise.” He'd taken her hand, loosely threading his fingers through hers, and Rachel felt a jumping sensation of awareness in her belly, something she hadn't felt in a long time. Flirting with Rob Telford at the Hangman's Noose had never made her feel like this.

They walked down Bridge Street, turning down the narrow St. Mary's Passage, before emerging in front of the River Irwell, with a narrow white footbridge with steel cables like gossamer strands stretching high above.

“The Trinity Footbridge,” Andrew announced. “It joins Manchester to Salford. I worked on it back in 2010. Just some repair work, but I've always liked it.”

“It's striking,” Rachel said. She liked the way the bridge seemed suspended over the river, its arch deceptively simple.

“Come on,” Andrew said, and tugged her up onto its narrow walkway. The sun was still high in the sky, but the wind was dying down so the surface of the river was placid and still, the sun's rays touching it with gold.

They walked to the middle of the bridge, stopping to gaze out at the city. Rachel let out a long rush of breath.

“It's beautiful. I've enjoyed today.” She glanced at him, but he wasn't looking at her, his gaze on the cityscape spread around them. “I think I needed a day out of reality. To recharge.”

“It doesn't need to be just a day,” Andrew said, and Rachel tensed, her insides doing a weird flip-flop.

“What do you mean?”

He turned to face her, his expression intent. “You've given ten years of your life to your family, Rachel. Lily's going to university and Meghan can manage her own child—”

“And my mother?” she interjected sharply. She wasn't sure she liked where this was going.

“I don't know how her rehabilitation will go, but there might be solutions. Why shouldn't you go back to university, have at least some of the life you wanted? You've deferred your dreams for long enough.”

She turned back to face the river, hating that he'd made it sound so easy. It
was
easy, for someone who had money and ambition and time, with no commitments, no strings. She had strings dangling all over the place, tripping her up at every step. “It's not that simple, Andrew.”

“It could be.”

“That's easy for you to say.”

“Yes, it is easy for me. I'm not pretending it would be easy for you. But why won't you even think about it? You complain about being stuck in a rut, but you won't actually
do
anything about it.”

“Wow, you're ending this day on such a terrific note,” she drawled, sarcasm the cheapest defense. “Thanks so much for a lovely day out.”
She turned and started walking, blindly, filled with a fury she couldn't articulate.

“You're heading towards Salford,” Andrew called to her, and muttering a curse, Rachel turned around. “And you know why I think you won't even think about what I said?”

“Oh, you're a psychologist now too, are you?” Rachel snapped. Her comebacks sucked, but she couldn't think of anything better. She felt too raw to be clever.

Andrew had folded his arms and stood in the middle of the footbridge so she couldn't pass. A couple of pedestrians were coming behind him at a brisk clip, and in a few seconds he was going to be either pushed out of the way or cursed at, yet still he stood in the middle of the bridge, seeming to straddle the world.

“You're scared,” he stated. Rachel jerked back.

“Scared?”

“Of trying and failing. Everyone is to some degree, but you've let it paralyze you.”

“Hey,” a man behind him called as he came striding forward, briefcase swinging at his side. “How about getting out of my way?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Rachel snapped, and pushing past Andrew, she started walking back towards the city center.

Claire stopped in front of the post office, her hands on her hips as she surveyed its shuttered front. It was eight o'clock on Saturday morning, and the shop should have been open for an hour at least. She didn't work Saturdays, but she'd come in to get some milk and the Saturday paper—and to check on Dan.

He'd seemed his former surly self the last few days, since he'd growled at her about being slow with the inventory, and her few attempts to get him to open up had been met with stonewalled silence. Not exactly a surprise. Still, she'd thought she should drop by, make sure he was okay, even if he just snapped at her to mind her own business and insist that he was fine.

If the shuttered shop was anything to go by, he wasn't.

“Dan?” she called, and knocked on the door. The shop window was covered in a curtain of corrugated iron and the door's shade had been drawn so she couldn't see anything inside. She doubted Dan could even hear her, if he was in the shop, which she didn't think he was.

After a moment's hesitation Claire walked past the shop and down the alley that ran along its side, to the little courtyard in the back. She'd been there before to take out the bins, and she knew there was a door to the kitchen.

She peered in its tiny rectangle of window and saw that the
kitchen was dark, dirty dishes scattered over the usually pristine counters. Then she heard a scratching at the door and a heartrending whimper, and realized Bunny was in there.

“Oh, Bunny, you poor thing.” She jiggled the door handle uselessly. Of course Dan locked his doors. He probably had some kind of jerry-rigged homemade trap for burglars that would have her dangling by her ankles with piano wire if she so much as stepped across the threshold.

Claire tapped on the glass, and then knocked loudly, and then finally kicked the door, hurting her foot in the process. Bunny continued to whine.

“Darn it.” She rubbed her foot absently, wondering if she dared to break a window. Not that she'd even be able to wriggle into the one window above the kitchen sink. Without any better ideas, she started knocking again, and after about ten minutes, when her knuckles had started to bruise, Dan finally appeared in the kitchen.

He stood in front of the door, peering through the window, and all Claire could see was how bloodshot his eyes looked and the deep furrow between his eyebrows as he scowled.

Finally he unlocked the door and Bunny rushed out, tangling herself around Claire's legs before she hurried into the tiny garden to pee.

“You look terrible,” Claire said. He wore sweatpants and his usual black T-shirt, his face pale and unshaven.

“Thanks.” Dan turned around and went to the sink, pouring himself a glass of water and gulping it down. Finished, he tossed the glass in the sink, where it shattered, and he braced his hands against the edge of the counter, his head bowed.

“You smell awful too,” Claire said as she came inside, Bunny scampering in behind her. “Are you ill?”

“I'm hungover,” Dan said flatly. His head was still bowed, and he was taking deep, even breaths. Claire could see the sweat beading on his forehead.

“Are you going to be sick?” she asked in alarm, and wordlessly he shook his head. Now she recognized the sour, yeasty smell of metabolizing
alcohol. She saw a whiskey bottle on the kitchen table, next to a single glass. The bottle was empty.

“Shall I feed Bunny?” she suggested, and Dan nodded. Gingerly Claire moved around him, finding Bunny's bag of kibble in the cupboard under the sink and pouring a scoop's worth into her bowl. She started to tidy up a bit, but Dan's bulk dominated the room and made it nearly impossible. “You should eat,” she finally said. “Why don't I make you some tea and toast? You can go upstairs and make yourself presentable.”

“That's not—”

“Necessary?” she filled in. “I think it is. Seriously, you smell rank.”

Dan gave her a glare that lacked its usual malevolent force, and after a tense pause he turned and headed upstairs. Claire let out her held breath in a rush of relief and started to clean the kitchen.

She heard Dan's heavy tread above her and then the squeaky sound of the shower being turned on. She bustled around the kitchen, cleaning the broken glass from the sink and then washing the dishes. She put the bottle of whiskey in the recycling bin outside and then went in search of bread and tea.

By the time Dan came down the stairs the kitchen was clean and she had a mug of tea and two pieces of buttered toast on the table.

“I don't know how you like your tea. . . .”

“Milk, three sugars.”

“
Three
sugars? Real builders' brew, then.” She put the sugar bowl on the table along with a spoon and then stood back, conscious of how Dan's hair was damp and bristly. He'd changed into a fresh T-shirt and jeans and he smelled of soap.

“Thank you,” he said as he sat down. He glanced up at her standing by the sink, her hands tucked behind her. “You want to join me, or are you just going to watch me eat?”

“Oh, all right, then.” She fetched another mug and made herself a cup of tea while Dan started on his toast.

“You don't usually get hungover,” she remarked as she sat down across from him and blew on her tea. “Do you? I haven't noticed . . .”

“No, I don't.” He was steadily working through his two pieces of toast, his head down as he chewed methodically.

“Is everything okay?” Claire asked. Dan looked up.

“Sure, everything's fine,” he answered, and she couldn't miss the sarcasm. “I normally empty a bottle of Glenlivet on a Friday night by myself. Who doesn't?”

“Maybe you do and I just didn't know it,” Claire retorted. “You've never opened up to me about your life.”

“Why would I?”

“Because we're friends?” Claire suggested. “Or becoming friends, at least?” Dan didn't reply, and she couldn't keep from feeling a needle prick of hurt. “But you don't really do friendship, do you?”

“I did,” he answered gruffly. “Once.”

“Once?”

He shook his head. “Leave it. And thank you for the tea and toast.”

It sounded like a dismissal, but she didn't move. “What are you going to do about the shop? You can't miss a whole Saturday of business.”

“I'll go out there in a minute.”

“Why don't you let me?” He swung his head up, his gaze bloodshot, bleary, and narrowed. “I can manage the shop on my own,” Claire said. “And you can dry out. Take Bunny for a walk. She looks like she needs it.” Bunny was quivering under the table, her head nudging Claire's knee hopefully.

“I can't afford to pay you overtime—”

“You don't have to pay me at all—”

“I don't need your charity,” he snapped. “I'm not that strapped.”

“Is it charity if I want to do a friend a favor?” Claire demanded. Dan didn't answer, and she gritted her teeth. “Why do you have to be so difficult?”

“
I'm
difficult?” He looked both affronted and surprised. “I gave you a job when you were completely unqualified.”

“So I can accept charity but you can't?”

He stared at her for a long moment, the only sound Bunny's nervous whine from under the table. Then he actually cracked a smile, the gesture so surprising Claire gaped back at him. “Fine. But don't open the post office.”

“Of course I won't,” she answered with stiff dignity. “I'm not a trained postal assistant yet.”

It felt strange yet also surprisingly comfortable to be in the shop alone, turning on lights and unlocking the door. A note had been thrust through the letter box from Robin the milkman, stating he'd come back later to deliver the day's pints.

Claire had just gone behind the till when Eleanor Carwell stumped in, dressed in her usual twinset and tweed, looking decidedly disgruntled.

“So you finally decided to open, did you?”

“Better late than never,” Claire answered cheerfully.

Eleanor stopped in front of the empty newspaper racks. “No newspapers,” she stated in an aggrieved tone. She turned towards the refrigerated section. “And no milk, either.”

“They'll both be here shortly,” Claire assured her. “I could deliver them to your home, if you like, when they arrive.”

Eleanor eyed her suspiciously. “I'm perfectly capable of walking to the post office twice in one day,” she said. “It's merely inconvenient.”

“Which is why I suggested delivery,” Claire returned sweetly.

Eleanor glared at her for a moment and then nodded. “Fine. I live at number fifteen, just down the street. The house with the iron railings.”

“All right.” As Eleanor strode out of the shop Claire wondered what Dan would think about her offering delivery service. Maybe she wouldn't tell him.

The rest of the morning passed quickly; the milk and papers arrived, and she stacked them both in between serving the occasional customer. An elderly farmer threw a strop when he discovered the post office wasn't open as it usually was, but after quelling a bit under his beady glare, Claire managed to stand her ground. He rolled the
Westmorland Gazette
under his arm and left the shop in a huff.

At lunchtime Dan emerged from the back, looking sheepish. It was a new look for him, his hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans and a faint flush coloring his cheeks as he nodded towards the kitchen. “I've made lunch, if you're hungry.”

“What about the shop?”

“We'll leave the door open. I can hear if someone comes in.”

Which sounded rather cozy. It had started to rain, and drops splattered the kitchen window as Dan dished out tinned tomato soup and tuna sandwiches. Claire could tell he'd gone to some effort, with paper napkins placed beside the plates and a pitcher of water with a slice of lemon floating in it. Fancy stuff.

“Thank you,” she said as she dipped her spoon into her soup. “This is very kind of you.”

“Thank you for waking me up this morning,” Dan answered gruffly as he sat down across from her. “I don't normally . . . do that.”

“Get drunk on a whole bottle of Glenlivet?” He nodded, and Claire asked in a gentler tone, “Why did you, then?”

Dan didn't speak for a moment, just spooned soup into his mouth until Claire thought he'd ignore the question completely. “My ex-wife is getting married,” he finally said. “She texted me to let me know.”

“Oh.” Claire gulped down a mouthful of soup. “I'm sorry.”

He shrugged. “Happens to a lot of people.”

“But it upset you.”

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “What upset me is that she's marrying my brother.”

“Oh, no, that's awful. Are you going to go to the wedding?”

He gave her a look of scathing disbelief. “Do you really not know the answer to that?”

“I guess not,” she murmured. “Very awkward.”

“Awkward? Awkward is having a piece of lettuce stuck in your teeth or laughing at the wrong part in a joke. This wasn't
awkward
.” She stared at him, wide-eyed, shocked to hear the emotion in his voice. “This was devastating,” he continued quietly. “I came back from Afghanistan to find Ted, whom I'd asked to look after my wife, was screwing her instead.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Trust me, that wasn't just awkward.”

“I'm sorry,” Claire whispered. “I shouldn't have said anything.”

“It's not your fault.” He dropped his hand and glanced at her bleakly. “That's why I came out here. To get away from it all.”

“And did you?”

“Physically, yes. The rest I'm not so sure about.” He rose from the table, dumping the rest of his soup in the sink. “That kind of thing leaves its mark. I don't know if you ever recover.”

“I hope you do,” Claire said. “I have to believe you do. If you can't recover from the blows life deals you, what hope is there?”

“I'm not sure there is any.”

“Oh, Dan, you can't believe that,” Claire protested. “You can't believe that and go on living.”

He turned around with a wry smile. “Hence the bottle of Glenlivet.”

“Look, I understand about drowning your sorrows. I ended up here for the same reason.”

He cocked an eyebrow, waiting, and Claire plunged ahead. “I got drunk at a party and my fiancé dumped me and I ended up in rehab for four awful weeks, but at least it got me back here. I feel like I'm finally figuring myself out, and considering I'm twenty-eight, it's about time.”

Dan filled the kettle and switched it on. “Your fiancé dumped you?”

“More or less. He didn't actually say it in words, but considering I
haven't heard from him in two months, I consider myself dumped. I'm not heartbroken,” she added quickly. “Maybe I should be, but I'm not.”

“That's just as well. There's nothing good about being heartbroken.” He paused, his gaze distant. “We were married for seven years.”