‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled over my shoulder, both of us too awkward to meet the other’s eyes.
‘I know.’ I leant my head against hers. ‘You did the best you could.’
‘That’s not good enough.’
‘No. It’s not. But hearing you acknowledge it helps.’
‘Will you come and visit? We have so much more to talk about, and my taxi will be here soon.’
‘Come to the convent?’
She pulled away, laughing gently as she wiped her face. ‘It’s not called that, but yes. I’m in charge of the goats.’
‘You hate animals.’
‘I used to hate a lot of things I’m learning to love.’
‘Okay, I’ll try. But it won’t be for a while. I’ve loads to do on the house first. I’ll send you the journals, though.’
‘Thank you. That would mean a lot to me.’
‘And one day, you should come and see the cottage for yourself.’
‘Yes. One day, God willing, I’ll be ready to go back.’
Mack wandered through not long after that, surreptitiously checking if we’d finally stopped blubbering.
Sister Claire adjusted her habit and frowned at me over the top of her reading glasses. ‘Now what are you doing still here? There’s a party going on – you can’t spend the evening sitting with your mother. Go and dance.’
‘I’m not really in the mood. I think I might just—’
‘Jennifer, that man has been nothing short of an angel all day. The least you can do is give him a dance.’
‘I don’t think Mack’s into dancing. He’s not really the type.’ I glanced up as Mack reached our sofa.
‘Whatever made you think that?’ He peered down his nose, fake Scottish accent so over the top it was barely comprehensible.
‘Oh, I don’t know. The grumpiness, the miserly existence and refusal to socialise with anyone, ever? The complete lack of anything resembling fun, or frivolity, or joy in your life?’
By this point, Mack had yanked me off the sofa, through the doorway and onto the dance floor. He pulled me up close to his chest in a classic ballroom hold. ‘What are you talking about? I’ve gotyouin my life, haven’t I?’ He raised one eyebrow, ever so slightly, tweaked a soft smile, just enough to cause the sides of his mouth to crease, and, honestly, if he’d not been holding me so firmly I might have melted onto the floor right then and there. In my defence, it had been a long, emotionally exhausting day. I’d not slept much and I was probably dehydrated from all that crying.
‘Now, shut your wee mooth, stop thinking so damn hard and dance with me, woman.’
So, instead of making a smart remark about his woeful accent, I shut my wee mouth and I danced through the firework display, the arrival of Santa, complete with reindeer, the impromptu Highland Games on the front lawn and the arrival and departure of the three ambulances. I danced until the band strummed its final note.
I shouldn’t have been surprised at Mack being an awesome dancer. He seemed to be good at everything. What made my heart sing, and groan, both at the same time was that, in his arms, I didn’t seem so bad myself.
I knew it was wrong. Utterly wrong. I could shut my eyes and pretend the state of Mack’s marriage was nothing to do with me. We were only dancing, as friends. Mack was helping me through a difficult day. He looked at me like that because he felt concerned. My eyes kept being drawn to his face because I was still getting used to it without the beard. Joking, laughing, nuzzling into his shoulder as he rested his chin on my head didn’t count as flirting, did it? And if our hands lingered a microsecond too long once the last dance finished (and they did, believe me, I noticed) it meant nothing. Not to him, anyway.
Someone flicked the main lights on, blinking us back to the harsh glare of reality. Dancing with Mack might be okay. How I felt every time he touched me, looked at me, spoke, stood in the same room, was not. It was time to get a grip on myself. Or, at the very least, go to bed and try to figure out a way to possibly manage to do that.
Mack carried my discarded shoes as he walked me to my door. Kept a careful distance as we rode up in the lift. Checked I still had my room key and dipped his head to say, ‘Goodnight, neighbour. Sleep well,’ disappearing into the next room before I could pull my wits about me enough to say, ‘Goodnight, and thank you for helping what should have been one of the worst nights ever become the best.’
Which was probably a good thing. Who knew what would have popped out on the end of that sentence?
I was torn between wanting to get back home, where Mack had a wife and I had a brain plus a conscience and I didn’t love Mack, and wanting this evening to last forever.
37
