I studied the remaining corner of toast for a long moment, my appetite vanished.
‘Would anyone like to walk Muffin with me later?’
‘Can I hold her lead?’
‘Can we take her squeaky ball?’
‘Last time you held her lead, Aaliyah, you dropped it, remember? I’ll hold her lead…’
* * *
I would get over it, a romance lasting less than three months. I’d recover from losing a few friends who were kind enough to message that they understood me not telling them Hattie’s illness was so serious. After all, a Gal never betrays another Gal’s secret.
They didn’t message me again, though.
Should I contact Gideon?
I thought about that. Agonised over it. Wanted to ask Naomi for her opinion but wasn’t sure whether or not I was more scared about her insisting I messaged him or badgering me into deleting him from my contacts.
The truth was, I had no idea what to say. I felt ashamed. Not because I’d kept Hattie’s secret – that had been the right thing to do – but I had allowed Gideon to fall for me. I felt ashamed that I had run so easily, taken the coward’s way out without even saying goodbye, let alone asking him to hear me out. I didn’t know how to live with the guilt that I went back on my promise to Hattie, despite knowing she was better off being cared for by people who loved her, and that my presence would have caused tension that everyone could do without.
I had convinced myself that I was a small player, a momentary glitch in the Riverbend story.
But if Gideon really was in love with me, then maybe me disappearing wouldn’t have been what he wanted. Maybe he’d have preferred me to stay and work things out so I could support him through this momentous revelation.
The least I could have done was be there for Agnes. The regret about how she must be feeling sat like a bowling ball in my gut.
Ugh.
I had no idea if I’d done the right thing. Or what the right thing was to do now.
So, I did what I’d always done, and tried my best to put it behind me and move on.
As May passed by, the farmland lush with wildflowers, baby rabbits and the joyful bleating of lambs, I started to regather myself, squash down my emotions and gently tend to my re-shattered heart.
After several evenings in the garden with glasses of wine, gazing at the meadows and gently exploring with Ezra and Naomi what I might do next, I decided to continue with shutting down the business, and tentatively investigate floristry apprenticeships. I called Maid Marian’s Garlands and explained that I’d left the area due to unforeseen circumstances, and they were gracious about it while making me promise to call if I ever ended up back in Sherwood Forest.
* * *
I also did one more, risky, meddling thing. It was the only way I could think of to make things up to Hattie.
It took only a few hours of research to find the right Aidan Hunter, now living in the Yorkshire Dales, running an outdoor activity centre. After a couple more days of research, I called the centre and asked if I could speak to him and, to my surprise, a few seconds later, I was introducing myself.
‘Hi, Sophie, what can I do for you?’
I took a deep breath. I’d considered easing my way into the conversation – pretending I was a historical author researching Middlebeck, or Riverbend, or a journalist writing about Hattie Hood. But knowing where that had got me, I’d decided to risk being honest from the start.
I’d read dozens of reviews on the activity centre website, many of them glowing about how lovely Aidan was. I’d scoured his social media. It hadn’t taken long as his posts were few and far between, but looking at his friends, the messages they sent on his birthday, his two children’s accounts, they all painted a picture of a solid, decent, well-liked man.
I had also noted that he’d given his ex-wife away at her recent wedding, which spoke volumes about his character. So, I went for it.
‘I’m a friend of Hattie Hood. Hattie Langford, as she was when you knew her.’
There was a moment of silence.
‘Go on.’
It was impossible to discern anything from his tone, so I went on, as requested.
