“I asked Darren to check on the cellar,” Owen replied. “And he hasn’t texted, so it should be fine.” He gave her a quick and lovely smile. “I wouldn’t have missed today for anything.”
*
He’d spoken the truth, but Owen couldn’t keep an anxiety from gnawing inside him as he headed back on the M40. It had been raining steadily all day, and it was now a proper downpour. Plus, although he hadn’t told Emily, Darren had texted him an hour ago, apologising that he hadn’t had chance to check the cellar.
Even if the cellar was full of water, Owen reasoned, it wasn’t the end of the world. He could claim any damage on insurance, and at least the main areas would still be safe. But it had rained a lot, and when he switched on the radio, the news was full of accounts of flooding all across the region, from Oxford to Cardiff. The Severn had burst its banks, and an entire village near it was practically underwater. Owen switched off the radio and concentrated on driving.
As they drove into the village, he noted the rainwater sluicing down the high street with a pang of real fear. Sandbags lined most of the shop doorways, and the trains weren’t running.
“Goodness,” Emily murmured, giving him a concerned look. Owen’s hands clenched harder on the steering wheel. When The Drowned Sailor came into view, he saw Darren out in front, and water streaming out of the door. As he pulled into the car park, an emergency vehicle screamed into the space next to him.
Owen clambered out of the van and sprinted towards Darren. “What’s happened—”
“I’m so sorry, Owen.” Darren looked shell-shocked. “The water came up from the cellar—the main room has at least three feet in it.”
“What—”
“And the ceiling fell in,” Darren continued miserably.
“The ceiling—” He thought of the damp-proofing he’d been wanting to get around to doing, and shook his head slowly.
“I’m sorry,” Darren said again, and Owen stepped back, his mind spinning, as two firemen shouldered their way into the building to deal with the damage.
Emily jogged up next to him, rainwater streaming down her anxious face. “What’s happened?”
Owen’s chest was tight as he stared at the flooded mess of his pub. He couldn’t answer Emily. He couldn’t bear putting it into words.
Everything he’d worked so hard for was ruined.
Chapter Seventeen
Owen gazed around the utter, impossible mess of his pub and then at the tumbler of whisky he’d poured and left on top of the bar. He hadn’t had a drink in fifteen years, but he was sorely tempted now. In a matter of days, his whole life, which had been starting to shape up rather nicely, was in complete ruins.
It had been three days since he and Emily had driven up to The Drowned Sailor—ironic, the name, now—and he’d glimpsed the devastation. Even then he hadn’t realised it fully. He hadn’t been able to.
He never should have gone to London, he acknowledged dully as he gazed around at the ceiling rubble, the gaping hole, the water stains on the walls. He’d told Emily he wouldn’t have missed it for anything, but he knew now that wasn’t true.
He should have missed it for this.
The truth was, in the moment, Emily had been more important to him than the pub. Supporting and even saving Emily had been more important than saving his livelihood. And here was the result—everything in ruins. His life basically over.
Everyone in the village had been incredibly supportive. An army of volunteers had shown up that first night, sleeves rolled up, ready to work, but there wasn’t anything they could do; it was too dangerous and had to be handled by professionals.
Emily had wanted to help, too; when Owen had first run up to his pub, and she’d come to his side, he’d instinctively shaken off the hand she’d put on his arm. He couldn’t help it; he’d felt alone, unmoored, unable to do anything but look at what was happening. Roughly he’d told her to go home; she’d looked hurt but had agreed, and he’d told her he’d ring her. He hadn’t. Hadn’t wanted to, because what had there been to say? My livelihood, my whole life, has just been destroyed. Want to have dinner on Saturday?
No. That, just like this, was ruined. Everything was.
Still, Emily had texted, asking how she could help, and Owen had texted back that there was nothing anyone could do. The insurance people had to come in and make their assessments. Now they had and he was left with even less.
Nothing but this tumbler of whisky, the amber liquid glinting in the weak sunlight streaming through the windows, because now the rain had stopped.
Owen reached for the tumbler of whisky, his fingers clenching around the glass. He wasn’t going to drink it, but he liked to think he had the option of blunting the pain.
Friends were still trying to rally. Jace had offered his DIY services, and Ava had brought food, as if he were an invalid, and Darren had said he would do whatever it took to get the pub back up and running. The trouble was, Owen knew that was impossible. The pub would never open again. Once more he reached for the glass, and then swearing under his breath, rose from the stool where he’d been sitting by the bar.
The insurance company had sent an assessor two days ago, and two efficient, blank-faced workmen had gone through the site. Technically, Owen wasn’t meant to be in here, since the place was considered dangerous, what with half the ceiling stoved in. Technically, he didn’t care.
The creak of the front door opening had Owen turning as he raked his hands through his hair. “The pub’s
