‘For what? We already agreed that I’d be your assistant. I hoped you’d be calling on me far more than this.’
‘Hoped?’ My heart leapt, lodging itself somewhere behind my voice box. I really needed to get a grip on whatever these feelings were.
It’s called love, you numpty, Shay’s amused voice replied inside my head. This is what it feels like. Not a charming man duping you into believing your whirlwind affair was a lifelong passion.
Beckett cleared his throat. ‘I don’t exactly dread hanging out with you, Mary. If you hadn’t picked up on that by now.’
‘Right. Okay.’ Thank goodness we were on the phone so he couldn’t see me swooning. He didn’t dread hanging out with me! What more could a girl want?
‘Anyway, that’s not why I’m apologising. I’m sorry for being a bit off yesterday. I told you I didn’t need any help and that wasn’t true.’
I didn’t know if I wanted him to ask me why or not. Then again, if he did ask, I’d not have the courage to answer honestly. Not when we’d just arranged for him to spend a considerable amount of time at my house over the next few days.
‘That’s okay. You don’t have to explain.’
I breathed a mental sigh of relief. I didn’t want to make up some excuse about being tired, feeling unwell or something else that would mean lying to my friend.
‘Any of it. Until you want to.’
‘What?’
‘I mean…’ Beckett broke off, paused, then carried on, his voice more resolute. ‘I’d love to get to know you better. Your whole story. I won’t push or pry. I won’t ask uncomfortable questions. But when you’re ready, if it would help to share it with someone, I’d love to be the person to listen.’
‘Thank you.’
And then I was crying again, dammit. Because I was tired and overwhelmed and about ready to pack my bags, call a taxi and pretend I’d never set foot in New Life Community Church, yet this kind, patient, understanding man always – always – managed to make me feel better.
For the next three days, I sewed and snipped and stressed out, and Beckett made pots of tea and rounds of toasties, listened to my self-doubt-fuelled rantings, cooked, tidied up and did menial but vital tasks like donning wings so I could adjust the straps or picking up the giant pot of buttons I’d clumsily scattered across the floor. Gramps was there, too, of course, cuddling Bob, watching quiz shows and occasionally shuffling about, inspecting my dodgy wiring.
The coffee mums popped in sporadically and handed out cookies or mince-pie cheesecake, did some of the simpler stitching or passed me feathers, rubber tubing or whatever else I needed.
When my eyes grew so tired the stitches blurred together, Beckett would drive us all to his house and head back out taxiing, while I kept Gramps company and then helped him to bed. I’d never assisted an elderly man in getting undressed and into his thermal pyjamas before, but we managed it with humour and historical anecdotes if things got a bit awkward.
When Beckett came home, we ate a late supper of cheese on toast or cinnamon bagels, accompanied with a tonic and gin (that I suspected he’d bought especially for me) and easy conversation until I knew I’d fall asleep if I didn’t call myself a taxi home.
Aside from all the anxiety, the frustration of a jammed sewing machine or swatch of netting that just wouldn’t sit right, it was the best few days I’d had in a very long time.
It felt like home.
Beckett felt like home.
I couldn’t help my antenna twitching for any sense that he might feel the same way about me. I must have been about as different from his ex-fiancée as you could get. Then again, he was nothing like the man I’d married, so I decided not to dwell too much on that.
On Friday, I spent the morning finishing off a few final touches, washed my hair for the first time all week, took Bob for a frosty walk in the forest and paced up and down the dining room, pausing to smooth a crease here, adjust a bow or a beak there, and waited for Beckett, my friend, hero and the man I’d pretty much fallen in love with, to take us to the dress rehearsal.
28
BECKETT
Beckett was exhausted, completely skint and happier than he’d ever been.
He’d spent the past few days with a warmth in his stomach that gently swirled like molten caramel. When Mary smiled, or her arm brushed his when working closely on a troublesome part of a design, or – if he was being honest – every time he thought about her, that warmth boiled over, spilling into every part of his body, making it hard to focus on anything else.
He’d been in love once before, but it was nothing like this. With Rebecca – even thinking about her made him feel like a traitor – he’d never experienced this combination of rightness, as if his world could be at rest now Mary was in it, alongside such keen anticipation, as if he was embarking on the adventure of a lifetime, one that would require him to be bold, gallant and true.
It took a Herculean effort at times to prevent the intensity of his emotions from showing on his face, leaching into the way he spoke or causing his touch to linger when he handed her a reel of cotton. Until either he knew more of Mary and Bob’s story, or else she gave a clearer indication that she wanted more, he’d do the honourable thing and stay firmly as the friend she needed.
He’d been amazed at Mary’s skill in coming up with designs for the motley crew of characters. Although she’d found executing some aspects challenging, rather than giving up, she’d taken the time to come up with alternative solutions, and had listened to advice as well as sticking to what she decided was best.
