Ava’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh, no. I’m so sorry to hear that. It must be awful to bear.’
Tears filled Jack’s eyes as he remembered the day the hospital told his family that there was no sign of life. He blinked them away furiously.
Ava welled up, too. ‘I genuinely had no idea.’
‘Yeah, well, seeing as you haven’t visited for a fair few years, I expect it’s not the only thing we’ll catch up on.’
Ava frowned. ‘I…’ She stared at him for a moment as if trying to think what to say. Then she gave a weak smile. ‘Right, I’ll see you, then.’
‘Come on, Graham.’
Jack trudged off, knowing he was being childish but unable to stop himself. It was weird to see Ava after so long, and with the mention of his brother, and her standing so close to him, he’d acted like an idiot. He sighed. There had been no need to be rude.
‘Wait, Ava,’ he cried. But she was too far down the road to hear him, stomping as if to put as much distance between them as she could. He didn’t blame her, even if he couldn’t take his eyes off her disappearing form. Hopefully, he’d be more civil when they next met.
Although if she was still like the Ava he remembered when they were teenagers, he knew she’d probably make him pay for forgiveness. She’d been hotheaded back then, when she’d broken his heart in two without even realising it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
After a quick shower, Jack sat down at his desk to work. Usually, it was the most productive time of the day, when he thought about what he was going to write. Pretty soon, he’d be ready to get some notes down, in anticipation of starting the first draft of something new next month. He was also waiting on proofs to read of the novel that would be out in summer and coming up with the final twists for his next.
In his twenties, Jack had begun writing a crime novel but hadn’t got past twenty thousand words. He’d bought a few books on craft, read more in the genre, and picked it up again. The urge to write came and went throughout the years, but the ideas didn’t stop.
Escaping into a fictional world was something he enjoyed. He had to work out the main plot, get his characterisation right, create hooks for chapter endings and beginnings, and seed in clues and red herrings.
Over coffee with his sister, Cara, when she’d had a flying visit from London, he’d mentioned what he’d been doing. She’d read some and loved it, sent it to a few agents she knew, and several had requested meetings. From that, he’d had a whirlwind four months where the book was preened before going out onsubmission, and then getting a deal almost straightaway with a four-publisher auction.
Over the past five years, Jack had written seven more crime thrillers, including the new one out soon. The first two books had sold relatively well, but when book three was released, the series gathered momentum, and now readers couldn’t get enough. TV rights were being discussed, and there were rumours of one of his favourite actors playing DCI Rudyard, his main character.
It was an enviable position to be in. For years, he’d struggled to get anywhere with his writing, fitting it in around his previous role as a journalist for the local newspaper. Five partial and full novels were sitting on his computer that had been rejected by every publishing house in London before Rudyard made his mark. There was something about the grumpy, old and formidable detective that readers seemed to love. It was all about timing, apparently, Cara had told him. Not that he was complaining.
The pen name had followed when he’d become a little worried about writing set in his hometown. But as the first book became a series, and then all the books began to sell well, everyone around him began reading them and talking about who the mystery author might be. Eventually, he came out that it was him. That had been a fun evening.
Even though she denied having anything to do with it, it had been handy that his youngest sister had moved to London and was working for one of the big five publishing houses. Cara had encouraged him to continue when he’d been a whisker away from quitting after getting rejected at yet another acquisition meeting, and he was so glad he had.
Now, though, his head was full of summer days and evenings that he’d never forgotten. And a girl who he assumed he wouldn’t set eyes on again. He’d known she was coming, yet ithad been like seeing a ghost that morning as she’d appeared through the darkness. Trust Graham to surprise her.
It was funny really, as there were over two decades between the last time they’d met and today, but Ava hadn’t changed that much. She was petite, lithe, with long blonde hair and a blunt fringe. Brown eyes and thick eyelashes, lips ripe for kissing. Sure, she had some fine wrinkles appearing – hadn’t he been saying the same to the mirror that morning? – but she’d looked after herself and it showed, changing from a girl into a woman in style.
Stop it, Jack.
He’d had a thing for Ava since he’d first spotted her coming back from the summer before when he was fourteen. When he saw her running across with Eliza, his heart had pounded, his stomach turning over, and he’d found himself playing the love-hate game with her until the year after. Even then, he’d been unable to utter a single word without cocking up. Or blushing.
He hadn’t known which was worse at the time.
Luckily, that hadn’t lasted long, and they’d fallen into their old routine from the summer before, hanging around in one big group of kids. Ava fitted in as if she’d never been away. There were six of them altogether – Jack, Dan, and their friend, Harry. Ava, Eliza, and their friend Ruby.
Ava and her parents had visited for the next few summers. Then, nearly eighteen, Jack had been working on Hedworth Hill Farm during the days, coming out each evening to join his friends as they messed around by the side of the lake, or on boats, jet skis, paddleboards, whatever took their fancy.
On Ava’s last night, he’d plucked up the courage to kiss her. How he’d been so naive was beyond him now, but she’d always made him feel like a buffoon. He’d acted really strange around her, wanting her to notice his feelings rather than have to spell them out himself.
He’d wanted to tell her he missed her every time she went home.
He’d wanted to say that he’d come to visit on the bus, or on the train.
But he’d said nothing, and she had left as usual. Although there had been other girls in between who he’d dated, he’d waited impatiently for the next summer, hoping she wouldn’t be too old then to holiday with her parents.
None of them came back.
