Now and Then Friends (30 page)

“Go home, Claire,” Dan said, and stinging with rejection, she went.

The next morning Dan didn't mention that moment, if it had even been a moment, and Claire went about her work without engaging him in conversation. So Dan didn't want to be her friend or anything else. She'd get over it. He was a mean-tempered ass, anyway.

At lunchtime he took Bunny for a walk, and the sight of the springer mix—that's what Dan thought she was, anyway—leaning lovingly against his side practically put a lump in Claire's throat. He wasn't that much of an ass. But never mind.

She tended the shop alone, managing the cigarettes and Lottery cards, the cash register no longer the frightening and intricate machine it had been just a little over a month ago. She'd changed. She'd grown, even if it was just in small ways. Even if she wanted to change a little more.

Dan returned with Bunny and resumed his place behind the till; Claire went back to checking inventory. She opened a just-delivered box of groceries, surprised to see upmarket pasta sauces inside rather than the tins of Spam and Fray Bentos “Boozy” pies.

She glanced up at Dan. “This is new.”

He shrugged, not looking at her. “I'm diversifying.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon in silence, but Claire felt a little better. A little hopeful. She even dared to ask Dan if he'd go to the pub quiz on Thursday. “Eleanor Carwell is counting on you, you know.”

“I don't think so.”

“You're a wimp—you know that?” The words rang out before Claire could think better of them. Suddenly she was angry. It had been a long time since she'd let herself feel angry, since she hadn't assumed it was all her fault and tripped over herself to apologize.

“A
wimp
?”

“A coward. An emotional coward. It's cowardly to keep yourself from having friends. I get that you were hurt by your wife—”

“Ex-wife,” Dan interjected, biting off the two words. He'd folded his arms in that menacing way he had, making Claire swallow hard before she continued resolutely.

“Ex-wife, then, and your brother. I've been hurt too. It sucks.” She took a deep breath; her whole body was shaking. “But you can move on, Dan. You can. Otherwise you'll just atrophy here in this shop. You'll die in your bed upstairs, choking on a rubbery piece of Spam, and no one will discover your body for months.”

“They would,” Dan answered tonelessly. “Because they'd notice when I didn't open the shop.”

“
I
was the one who realized something was wrong when you didn't open the shop,” Claire exclaimed. “
I
was the one who cared enough to make sure you hadn't drowned in the bathtub!” Furious now, she crossed the shop to poke him in the chest.
Ouch.
“I'm the one who is trying to be your friend, you stubborn old . . .” She trailed off, at a loss for words, and Dan wrapped his hand around her finger still poking into his iron-hard chest.

“Stubborn old what?” he asked quietly.

“Poop,” Claire blurted.

Dan arched an eyebrow.
“Poop?”

“I've been around a lot of toddlers lately,” she muttered. She was acutely aware of his hand wrapped around her finger. Her heart was hammering with anticipation, which was stupid because nothing was going to happen.

“Why do you care?” he asked, his hand still wrapped around her finger.

“Because I like you.”

“What do you like?”

“You—”

“I mean about me.” His tone was flat, his expression hard. “What do you like about me?”

“I like that you look out for people, even if you pretend you don't. I like that you have a rescue dog and that you have a sense of humor so dry it's like living in the Sahara. I like that you're neat, because I am too.”

“That's it?”

“What do you mean, that's it?” she demanded. “You're asking me to bare my soul while you're not telling me anything. Do you care about me?” The second the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. Dan had never indicated that he cared about her. She'd just set herself up for a massive rejection.

“You're completely exasperating,” Dan said. “And practically useless. You don't even realize how entitled you are, although you think you do.”

“Right.” Her voice wobbled alarmingly. Yet another person was telling her what a waste of space she was. Why should she be surprised?

“And you work harder than anyone I've known,” Dan continued. “And you're stronger than you realize. And you care about people, even grumpy old women like Eleanor Carwell.”

Claire managed a crooked smile. “She's not that grumpy.”

“Not as grumpy as me?”

“Not by a long shot.”

He smiled then, the corner of his mouth lifting, and Claire had to keep herself from running into his arms. “So . . .”

“So I'll see you tomorrow night,” he said, and with a grin she realized he meant the pub quiz.

At the quiz Eleanor Carwell flirted with him outrageously, practically cooing and making Claire laugh. Dan met her gaze once, his mouth curving in the tiniest of smiles, and for a second it felt like they were sharing an in-joke, but maybe not. She was terrible at figuring relationships out. She'd never had to before; she'd simply done what she was told.

She thought of her first date with Hugh, how he'd come to the villa she'd been showing to a retired couple and told her he was taking her out to the best restaurant in the Algarve. It had been a statement, a command, and Claire hadn't thought to protest. He'd taken her to a restaurant that had minuscule portions of artistically arranged seafood; Claire had always hated fish, but she'd eaten the scallops Hugh had ordered for her because that was what she did. She hadn't protested when he'd insisted on ordering for both of them, so why would she protest when he ordered something she didn't like?

She'd been utterly spineless, an indifferent spectator of her own life, removed from everything going on around her. Thank God Hugh had gotten tired of her and insisted she go to rehab. At least he'd woken her up, jolted her out of her catatonic lethargy.

But being awake and alive was as hard as it was invigorating; she needed to act, and sometimes she wasn't sure
how.

A week slipped by, and May marched into June, the days chilly and gray and far from what Claire, after four years in Portugal, thought of as summer, although the residents of Hartley-by-the-Sea still went about in short sleeves and shorts. Life had eased into a pattern; she cleaned houses, worked in the shop, and wondered how to shift the status quo.

Andrew came back on the weekend and spent an inordinate amount of time at the Campbells' house; Claire learned to sit down with Emily Hart and let her moan over a cup of tea. She even changed Riley's and Rogan's nappies; unfortunately, she put them on backwards.

Dan, Eleanor, and Lily came out for another pub quiz, and as a team they earned eleven points, their personal best so far.

And all the while Claire felt that something needed to shift, to change or hopefully to grow; she just didn't know what or how. Then she came back from work on Friday and saw a car in the driveway of Four Gables, a sleek black Mercedes that sent a tremor of trepidation ricocheting through her. Her parents were home.

“Are you dating Andrew West?”

“What?” Rachel glanced back over her shoulder to see Meghan standing in the doorway of the kitchen, her hands planted on her bony hips.

“I think you heard me.”

“Dating?” Rachel repeated, simply to stall for time. “Of course not.”

“He's been around here an awful lot.”

“Two weekends,” Rachel dismissed. “He's being kind.”

“It doesn't seem like pity to me.”

“I didn't say pity.” She didn't know what was going on with her and Andrew, but she certainly wasn't about to talk to Meghan about it. Things had eased up a bit between them, but they were hardly confidantes. And she hated how Meghan had found her weak spot so easily and slipped the blade right in, all with a smile on her face.
Pity.
God, she hoped not.

“What's going on with you and Mystery Man, anyway?” Rachel asked. “You haven't seen him much this week.”

“You asked me to be around.”

“Since when does what I've asked make a difference?”

Meghan sighed. “The truth is, he's married.”

The statement, delivered so flatly, so hopelessly, made Rachel turn around from where she'd been scrubbing a pan in the sink. “Seriously?”

Meghan's face was sober, all traces of sisterly malice gone. “Seriously.”

“Oh, Meghan.” Rachel sorted through all the responses she instinctively wanted to say—
How could you?
being at the top of the list—and came up with “That sucks.”

Meghan gave a hollow laugh. “Yeah. It does.”

“Why . . . ?”

“I didn't do it on purpose,” Meghan said. “No one wants to have an affair with a married bloke.”

“So what happened?”

“He came into the pub one night. He wasn't a regular. I'd never seen him before. He started chatting me up, and then he asked if I wanted to get a proper drink somewhere else, after my shift.”

“And you went? With a stranger?”

“Just down to Raymond's. I wasn't going to get in his car or anything like that.” Meghan drew a shaky breath and pushed a hand through her hair. “He was nice, Rachel, okay? And interesting. And even better, he was interested in me. Do you know how long it's been since someone's seemed interested in me?”

“Do you know how long it's been for me?”

“Are we having a competition about how unlovable we are?”

Rachel cracked a small smile. “Maybe.” She turned back to the pan in the sink, its bottom blackened from about a thousand grilled sausages. “Did you know he was married then?”

Meghan was silent for a long moment. “I suspected,” she said at last. “But I pretended I didn't.”

“Pretended to yourself?” Rachel glanced back at her sister, and Meghan lifted her chin.

“Yeah. I did.”

Could she really criticize? Rachel sighed. “Are you still seeing him?”

“I don't know.” Meghan folded her arms, lowered her head. “He hasn't called in a while.”

“You mean he broke it off with you?” Rachel had hoped her sister had had enough self-respect to break it off first.

“It looks that way. I told him about Nathan.” She paused. “He didn't like that I had a kid.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'd start thinking of him as a father for Nathan, I suppose. He wanted a fling, and he was afraid I wanted more. So he scarpered.” She let out a hard laugh. “It's happened only about a million times before, all over the world.”

Rachel hesitated. “Is that what happened with Nathan's dad?”

Meghan stilled, her arms wrapped around her middle, her expression turning guarded. “Not exactly. He wasn't in the picture to begin with.”

“You've never talked about him.”

“You've never asked.”

“That's because it was glaringly obvious you didn't want me to.” Rachel turned off the taps, leaving the blackened pan to soak. She'd had enough of useless scrubbing. “Do you want me to now?”

Meghan didn't answer for a moment. Rachel waited, not sure how to navigate this fragile peace. “He wasn't from here,” Meghan said finally. “He was hiking with some friends from uni. I met him down at the beach.”

“And?”

“And? What do you think?” Meghan rolled her eyes. “We had a couple of beers down on the beach and got it on. Nathan was the result. By the time I knew I was up the duff, he was halfway to Robin Hood's Bay.”

“It only takes ten days to hike to Robin Hood's Bay.”

“Whatever. He was back home, then, in Southampton or wherever.”

“And you didn't try to get in touch?”

Meghan was silent for a long moment, her face averted. “I tried. I looked him up on Facebook.” A pause as she twirled a strand of hair around her finger and then tugged hard. “He refused my friend request. Dangers of dating in the cyber age, I suppose.”

Rachel processed that for a few seconds. “You didn't try to get in touch another way?”

“I sent him a message on Facebook. It's probably in his ‘other' folder. Or he just ignored it. What else was I supposed to do?” She sighed impatiently. “He was eighteen, Rachel, about to start university. I don't think he wanted a kid with the tart he hooked up with while hiking.”

“But you wanted a kid.” Rachel paused, not sure how to ask the next question. Meghan guessed it anyway.

“Why did I keep Nathan?” she asked, her voice low even though he was safely asleep upstairs. “Because I wanted someone to love me. Someone who
has
to love me, because that's what kids do.” She took a quick, hitched breath. “You're not the only one who was affected by Dad leaving the way he did. I know you were his favorite, but I missed him too.”

They never talked about their father. Never talked about how he walked out one day, never to return or even to look back. Never to send a single e-mail or text or postcard. What kind of dad did that? Rachel remembered sitting on his shoulders while they watched the rugby in Whitehaven, flying a kite on the beach, the fierce wind reducing it to tatters. She remembered sitting with him outside in the garden while he whittled a piece of wood to make her a whistle. Meghan had memories like that as well; Rachel had simply never considered them before.

“Of course you did.” She felt her throat close up. “I never meant to act as if you didn't. . . .”

“No? You acted like you were the only one who was hurt by Dad's leaving. Like he left you and not all of us.” Meghan spoke flatly, without reproach, but Rachel felt skewered.

“Meghan, I didn't . . .” She trailed off, unable to continue. “I'm sorry,”
she said. “I think I felt I'd lost the most by having to leave Durham.” The admission was both obvious and painful.

“I know. You were escaping.” Meghan sighed, pushing her hair away from her face. “I thought about not calling you.”

“What? How on earth would you have coped?”

“I realized I couldn't, not with Lily and Mum and school. But I waited.” She paused, her level gaze meeting Rachel's. “I waited three days before I called you. Because I knew it would be worst for you.”

Rachel blinked, stunned by her sister's admission. “Meghan, I'm sorry.”

“For Dad leaving? That wasn't your fault.”

“No, for—for being such a bitch.” Rachel let out a shaky laugh. “For thinking I was doing it all when I really wasn't.”

“Well.” Meghan smiled and shrugged. “To be fair, you were doing most of it.”

“I don't know about that,” Rachel said quietly.

“Well.” Meghan sniffed and looked away. “That's why I kept Nathan. Because I wanted someone to love me. Kind of hard for you to understand, I know—”

“It's not hard for me to understand—”

“You don't seem to need anyone. I always feel like a completely pathetic loser next to you.”

Meghan spoke without spite, surprising Rachel with her hard honesty. “If I don't seem to need anyone,” she answered, “it's because I don't let myself. I needed Dad, and look where that got me.”

“You could do something else now,” Meghan said after a moment. “You don't have to take care of us anymore, Rachel.”

Rachel stared at her sister, the proud tilt of her chin, the need visible in her eyes. “I don't want to abandon you.”

“You won't. I've been thinking about quitting at the pub and starting a child-minding business. I know it will be difficult with Mum, but
the hours would be better for me and I can work from home, with Nathan there. Abby Rhodes has said she'd love to have Noah here.”

“What?” Rachel shook her head slowly. “I had no idea.”

“I know. And it might be too difficult.” She glanced wryly around the kitchen. “We'd have to keep the house clean, for starters. Safeguarding rules and all that.” She smiled uncertainly, and Rachel smiled back. She felt as if Meghan had just off-loaded a whole lot of information, and she needed time to process it.

“Well,” she finally said. “Plans.”

“You should have plans too. You could do a part-time course or something. . . .”

“Actually, I have looked into it.” She'd written the University of Lancaster for information on part-time degree courses. The brochure had come last week, and she hadn't yet dared to open it. Hope was dangerous. Losing it was hard. “Mum is going to need full-time care, Meghan. We can divide it between us, but—”

“And don't forget Lily.”

“Lily will be going to university—”

“Maybe,” Meghan said quietly, “you'd better ask her about that.”

Rachel felt a clanging inside her, as if she'd missed the last step in the staircase. “What do you know that I don't?”

“Nothing,” Meghan answered. “Because I think you already know it. But you're pretending you don't, just like I did.”

Rachel shook her head. “No . . .”

“She doesn't like biology, Rachel. She doesn't want to go to Durham. You can't foist your dreams onto somebody else.”

“Her exam is in a
week
.”

Meghan shrugged. “That doesn't change anything.”

A little while later Rachel stood in the doorway of her mother's bedroom and watched as Lily showed Janice the Mad Scientist cartoon strip. Rachel had glanced at a few of the drawings, quick pen strokes that managed to capture the lovable ditziness of the scientist whose
experiments always went wrong but managed to produce good results. Janice's eyes were following the cartoon, although she couldn't speak. She managed to nod in what seemed like approval, and Lily smiled.

“And here's another one. . . .” She showed her mother another drawing, and Janice's mouth jerked in a half smile; the left side of her face was still paralyzed.

Rachel leaned against the doorway, taking in a scene she'd never expected to see. Lily enjoying time with her mother, when she'd always avoided her before. Things actually working, even if it was in a completely unexpected way.

Lily looked up and caught her eye, and Rachel stepped into the room. “Hey there,” she said, smiling at her mother, whose face jerked again in response. “Those cartoons are pretty cool, aren't they?”

“I didn't think you'd looked at them,” Lily said. Her voice sounded guarded, unsure.

“I glanced at a few when I was taking your dirty washing from your room. May I see them now, though? Properly?”

Wordlessly, Lily handed the sheets over, and Rachel spent a few minutes silently studying the drawings, smiling a bit as Mad Scientist Girl's potion exploded in a sea of bubbles, creating a soft landing for her sidekick cat, who had been thrown up in the air by the explosion. “Clever,” she murmured.

“You think so?”

“Yes.” Rachel looked up, taking a deep breath. “How's your studying going?” She'd meant the question as an opener, a way to talk about things, but Lily's expression closed up and she reached for her drawings. Rachel handed them to her without a word.

“Fine.” She glanced at Janice, who was drifting into a doze. “I guess she wants to sleep,” she said, and tiptoed out of the room. Rachel followed.

“Lily,” she called. Her sister was already halfway up the stairs. With a gusty sigh she stopped and turned around.

“What?”

Rachel stared at her, not wanting to ask her about what she wanted. Not wanting to shed doubt or project possibility into a situation that had been so certain. “Just a few more weeks,” she said, knowing she was chickening out. “Then it will all be over.”

Lily stared at her for a moment, her face expressionless. “Yes,” she agreed. “It will.”

In her own room Rachel reached for the thick white envelope from the University of Lancaster and slit the top. She pulled out the glossy brochure and thumbed through the pages, glancing at the photographs of laughing students with backpacks slung over their shoulders, everyone looking as if they were having the time of their lives.