Owen shifted on the sofa in Jace and Ava’s conservatory with an irritable sigh. “No, I don’t.”
“Moving from Wychwood? You’re part of this community, Owen. You can’t just leg it when the first thing goes wrong.”
“The first thing? Try everything.”
“Even so. Why not stay? You have friends here to help you get back on your feet.”
But he didn’t want that help. He didn’t want to need it. Owen stayed silent as he took a sip of his seltzer water. He could have really used something stronger to drink, especially after seeing Emily just now, looking so fragile and beautiful and yet somehow strong. Wonderful, basically. He missed her more than he could put into words. More than he wanted to.
Jace leaned forward, intent now. Ava had made herself scarce as soon as Owen had walked through the door, which made him realise that this was a complete set-up. He was going to get a proper talking-to, whether he wanted to or not. The only reason he’d agreed to the meal was because he thought Jace and Ava deserved to hear it from him that he was moving on. He supposed a dressing-down was fair payment for his unwelcome news.
“Owen, don’t make the same mistake I did.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“When Henry Trent came back to Willoughby Manor, he was set to fire me. You remember? It was over two years ago now.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“And I was ready to hightail it out of here, leave Ava and everything behind, because I didn’t want her resenting me for holding her back. I had nothing, Owen. I had even less than you.”
“I don’t—”
“I didn’t have a house,” Jace cut across him, his voice hard. “Or a pub to sell, or a clean record. I was—I am—an ex-con. Remember?”
Abashed, Owen looked down. “I remember,” he said quietly.
“But Ava showed me that loving someone isn’t about getting yourself together so you’re good enough to love and be loved. It’s about finding the person who accepts you as you are: messy, complicated, broken. And then holding on to them because out of everything in this life, that is the thing most worth fighting for.” Jace sat back in his seat and took a long swallow of beer. “And that’s enough soppy emotion from me for one day,” he said with a quirk of his lips. “For one year. But come on, Owen. Don’t run away. Not just for your own sake, but for Emily’s and everybody else’s. We need you here, man.”
Owen shook his head. He appreciated everything Jace had said, his honesty as well as his emotion, but it was different when you were applying those home truths to your own situation, and the fact was he couldn’t.
“Really?” Jace said, eyebrows raised. “You’re just going to take everything I’ve said and toss it in the bin?”
“It’s different with me.”
“Yeah, because you’re not an ex-con.”
Owen sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Emily has enough to be dealing with already—”
“So did Ava. She was pregnant.”
“It’s different,” Owen insisted, because he didn’t have anything else.
“It really isn’t.”
Owen shook his head again. He didn’t want to explain everything to Jace, even though he suspected his friend would understand. He couldn’t tell him about his family, all the disappointments and failures he’d left behind, and how he couldn’t bear doing that again with Emily, even though he knew he already was. Better to run. To run and try to forget.
Even if he already knew he never would.
*
“And this is Willoughby Close.”
Emily kept her voice cheerful as she pulled the rental car into the little courtyard and parked. It had been a long day already, and it was only a little past noon. She’d arrived at the Huntley Centre for eight o’clock, which had meant getting up at the crack of dawn—not that she’d slept much, anyway—and then there had been several hours of paperwork and consultations in order for her mum to be released. An appointment had been made with a psychiatrist in Oxford for next week, and Emily had taken all her mother’s prescriptions along with her notes.
Naomi had been strangely docile, mostly silent, for the entire morning, so Emily had no idea how she felt about anything. But at least they were here now, and she could show her mother her room, find a rhythm to their new life together.
“We’re in number one, right here,” she said as she opened the car door. Naomi undid her seat belt and stepped out of the car. Her expression was bland, even blank, and she said nothing as she waited for Emily to unlock the cottage door. “Here we are,” Emily called out cheerfully, and she opened the door and stepped aside so her mum could go in first.
Naomi stepped into the cottage, taking in her surroundings with that same bland look. Emily tried to see the cottage from her mother’s eyes—it had changed a bit, since she’d first moved in six weeks ago. There was a jug of pink tulips on the table, and Cass’s feeding bowls by the French windows. Olivia had given her a colourful afghan throw that Emily had spread over her grey sofa, to make it look a little less utilitarian. She’d put a few of her mother’s pottery vases on the windowsill, and the effect, while still spare and tidy, was a bit more welcoming than it used to be.
“And your room is upstairs,” Emily continued, trying to fill the void of silence with cheer. “Would you like to see it?”
Naomi gave a tiny nod, and Emily led the way. “Here we are.” Once again she stepped aside so her mother could come into the little bedroom Emily had tried to make as homey as possible. Another one of Olivia’s afghan throws covered the bed, and she’d framed some of her mother’s watercolours—they were really quite good—and hung them on the walls.
There was more of
