Mac has given me a lot of things—worldly possessions, the price of which still makes me blink, and a beautiful home—but the thing that means most to me is the gift of my brother’s happiness.
When Tyler came out of rehab, he found that Mac had paid off all his debts to give him a fresh start. Tyler thanked Mac and said that he’d pay him everything back, and to his credit, he’s doing that. Mac had told him that he had a job for him if he wanted, but it was in Norfolk. He employs him as the property manager of some holiday cottages that he owns there. Tyler oversees all the properties and makes sure that any needed work gets done on time.
It’s a good job with a lot of responsibility, but cash isn’t a part of it, as Mac’s assistant pays the bills. And although I’d been worried, I needn’t have bothered. Tyler’s thriving in the position, and he and Cath, with some help, have worked through the problems caused by his gambling. I don’t think he’ll ever be over the temptation, but part of the job that I know Mac created for him has mental health benefits, and he’d put Tyler in touch with a therapist who specialises in addiction. I love that we get to see them whenever we spend the weekends down there.
“Yeah, he’s doing well,” I say softly.
He clicks his indicator and pulls up by the towpath. “I’ll open the boot.”
“Cheers.” I grin at him. “I might be too tired to get out of the car.”
“Well, you’re definitely not sleeping there. You’ll make it smell like paintballs.”
“Exactly,” I say in triumph. “You know I’m right.”
I climb out, heading around to the back to get my bag. Shouldering it, I walk to the driver’s window and stoop down. “Don’t think I’m unaware you haven’t answered my question.”
“What question was that?” he says in an innocent tone of voice.
“Whether you still see Fox.”
“Why would I see him?”
He starts to pull away, and I laugh, shouting after him, “Answering a question with a question is still not answering.”
He waves out of the window and drives away. I watch his car disappear into the distance and then head down to the little dock where we moor our rowing boat. Mac had been prepared to buy a small motorboat to explore the river, but I’d taken one look at the little boat our neighbour was selling and fell in love. I like the fact that I have to row myself to our home. The river marks the spot where I leave work behind and enter our real life—on Pharoah’s Island.
Mac and I had only been dating for a month when he announced he was taking me away for the weekend. I’d thought it would be somewhere exotic, but instead, he’d brought me to the island and the house for a weekend to see if I could imagine living there. The house had been stripped bare and felt fresh somehow, and it had given Mac the chance he needed to lay his ghosts to rest.
Mac might laugh, but I’ve always thought the place was grateful for its fresh start, just like Mac. The same can’t be said for the chance of a relationship between Mac and his grandad. I’d asked him if he wanted to tell him who he was, but he’d immediately dismissed the notion, and I’d backed away. It’s Mac’s choice, and I can’t blame him for not wanting to know the old man. He has a complicated relationship with his mum’s memory, but for his grandfather to disown his own daughter sothoroughly that he denied she ever existed to her son—that’s a step too far.
We’d spent that weekend lying in bed and planning the house how we wanted. It had been one of the best weekends we’ve ever had, full of closeness and love. Apparently, I’d changed his mind about his initial plans for the house, which I’m so thankful for. I love the place passionately. The island is small, but there’s a real sense of community here, and we often spend weekends at neighbours’ houses for parties or hosting our own—a fact that Mac bemoans loudly, yet still enjoys.
“Wes!”
I turn and wave at our neighbour, who’s getting into his own boat. “There was a parcel for you. I left it on the veranda.” He says something else, but the wind is blowing, and I can’t hear him, so I just wave and shout my thanks. One of the quirky facts about the island that I love is that our mail and takeaways are delivered to the dock, and the delivery driver rings the bell to let us know.
I grab the oars and row myself over. It’s not a huge distance, but I can still feel the tug of the current and the heat in my muscles. The river breeze hits me, blowing my hair back. It’s briny and familiar now—the scent of home.
I tie up, jump onto our dock, and start the walk up the garden but not before looking over at the space where the old summerhouse used to sit. I’d thought Mac might want to keep that dusty shrine to his mother, but he’d recoiled at the idea. Instead, he’d torn it down plank by plank on our first weekend at the house. He’d done it in a grim silence while I sat watching and waiting to hug him. I offer hugs freely, even though he never used to quite know what to do with them. He’s easier now, though, and the fact that I contributed to that makes our relationship seem so much more equal to me.
Now, instead of the summerhouse, a swinging hammock packed with colourful cushions twists in the breeze. Mac had put that up for me, and in the summer, I like to lie reading and watching the boats go by.
I look ahead at my home and smile. It looks such a different place from when I first saw it. New windows twinkle in the last of the sun, and the paintwork gleams. I climb the steps up to the new veranda Mac installed and let myself into the house, throwing my bag gratefully down on the table in the hallway and stretching to get rid of the kinks in my back. The parquet floor gleams and the house smells of furniture polish and beeswax, so Julie, our housekeeper, has been in. I inhale the pleasant scent as I head into the kitchen to grab a cold drink.
The room is vastly different, with white oak units and an oak counter. The walls are painted a shocking pink, which I’d insisted on, much to Mac’s consternation. We’d knocked down walls and opened up the previously small and dingy space, turning it into a large room with a breakfast bar, dining table, and chairs. A huge sofa and coffee table sits in front of a picture window that looks down the river. Our lounge is lovely, but somehow, we always end up in here. I’ll cook, something I’ve been learning to do, while Mac sits on the sofa, tapping on his laptop and listening to music while we talk about our days. It’s empty today and missing my love, but shadows from the late sun hitting the river move across the ceiling and walls.
I put my glass in the dishwasher and pause in the lounge, looking up at the huge abstract picture hanging over the fireplace. It’s painted in shades of orange, burnt umber, and black, and it’s as eye-catching in our lounge as it was in the little gallery in Seville where we first saw it. We’d been there for the weekend and found it on one of our walks around the beautiful old city. I smile at the thought of those lovely few days.
Mac takes time off now. He hasrealtime off when his staff know he’s only available for dire emergencies, and I love that time. It feels like he’s all mine then.
I walk past the photos on the cupboard. That’s my contribution to this house—photos and more vibrant colours. Mac never met a shade of beige he didn’t like, and he might grumble that the place looks like a child’s Wendy house, but I know he secretly likes the colours I’ve added.Verysecretly. In pride of place is the graduation photo of Mac and me that Cath sneakily took as she left that day. We’re staring into each other’s eyes, and we look what we were—a couple just starting out and uncertain of each other, but our connection and awareness are still very evident. The photo next to it shows how far we’ve come. It’s of us sitting at a table. I can’t remember where we were—maybe a business function—but I’m talking, my hands in the air as usual, and Mac is watching me. And the reason I framed this is the look on his face. It’s warm and so loving that it always brings tears to my eyes.
He’s not an easy man, and that hasn’t changed since we’ve been together, but I’ve never been as happy as I have these last couple of years. True to his word, Mac relaxed his walls with me. It took a while and a few lapses where he tried to brick them back up, but I stayed patient. It’s hard to paint over the mistakes and habits of a life.
And even when he’s withdrawn, there’s still something magnetic about him. He’s funny and scarily clever, and I can see why he intimidates people. I’ve been at functions with him where people are obviously nervous around him. Maybe that’s the money or his humungous brain, but I’ve never felt that. Even when we started, and I should have been biddable, something about him made me relax. I like to prod him. Sometimes, I’d like to do it with a Taser when he’s being particularly stubborn, but that’s love, which is the one thing we have in abundance.
My smile dies away. But he still works too hard. Case in point with this trip. It had extended and extended, and it’s been three weeks since we saw each other, and I miss him like I’d miss an actual limb. We’ve talked every night, sometimes for hours, but it hasn’t helped, and I could hear the strain and aching yearning in his voice that echoed mine. Last night, he’d cursed and said he didn’t care if the problem was sorted. He was coming home. I haven’t heard from him since, but the sentiment was nice.
