Page 16 of Promise Me This

I start in the foyer, spraying a blue microfiber cloth with the furniture polish before setting the bottle aside and getting to work on the check-in table. The pine-scented cleaner triggers a memory from my childhood, when I’d watch my mother clean her parents’ home every Saturday after my grandparents became too fragile to do the detail work themselves. I try to lose myself in the monotony of cleaning, in the memory of a time when everything was simpler and life hurt a lot less, but Callum’s face as he warned me away from Niamh pulses in the back of my mind.

My eyes burn as I consider his words. The disgust that laced them when he accused me of running here for a rebound from Nick. How could I blame him, really, for jumping to that conclusion? From the outside, for anyone who wasn’t a part of our marriage, it certainly wasn’t a leap. But while Nick had loved me with kindness, while he had been an absolutely safe and secure choice, losing him never felt like much of a loss. It felt like a natural progression. An inevitable rite of passage, like high school graduation. The thing you’ve been working toward all along.

When Nick and I got together, several years after Poppy died, it wasn’t that we fell in love, per se. It was that my soul recognized him for who he could be for me. What we could be for each other. Nick was a shade tree for my bruised and weary heart to rest beneath. His love was gentle and demanded nothing of me except that I exist. He did not ask difficult questions. He had no desire for children. He was the perfect place to hide.

In return, I fulfilled my role as the placeholder wife. I held the door open dutifully for the day when his true love would come along. When she did—with her blonde hair, mile-long legs, and pure admiration for the way Nick simply existed—I swear we both loosed a sigh of relief.

Because I remembered how it felt to love someone like that. Had done it once.

So Callum was wrong. I didn’t come here because of Nick. I didn’t even come here because of losing my job, really. When I logged into my computer last week to find an email saying I’d been made redundant, it didn’t devastate me. It hit me like a splash of cold water to the face.

Suddenly I was awake. I was alive. And I was thirty-two years old and still grieving with the same intensity as the day my daughter died, because I’d isolated myself in that grief. I’d built a silo out of my heart and locked every grain of love I’d felt for Callum, for Poppy up inside. With the doors ripped open, I found it as fresh and raw as the day I’d put it away.

My life became a tunnel with the end in sight, and I realized I’d one day reach it without ever giving that love to the people who deserved it most.

And I was sorry, so sorry. Sorry for hurting him. Sorry for failing Poppy.

I stare at the wood grain, now polished so thoroughly that I can see my crumpled face reflected back at me. My frown lines deepen as I purse my lips and draw in a deep breath through my nose before releasing it slowly. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to spend my life being just sorry.

Rising slowly to my feet, every muscle in my back screaming in protest, I set my sights on the living room. The fireplace is dark and cold, so I fumble along the wall until I find the lamp in the corner of the room and switch it on. It casts a dull, buttery light over the spines lining the bookshelves. There’s a large window on the far wall that overlooks the street during the day but is clothed in heavy drapes for the night. Beneath it, a small love seat with tufted fabric beckons.

I pad over to the wall of books. There is no rhyme or reason to the way they are arranged, at least not one that I can decipher. Books on ornithology are nestled against classics; modern romance titles share a section with fantastical epics. It irks some part of my brain, but beyond that window the night has grown thick with darkness and sleep is trying desperately to tempt me in, so I leave that reorganization for another restless night.

A pale green spine captures my attention. In emerald filigree, Anne of Green Gables graces its binding. My mother’s favorite. I hook a finger in the top of the book and pluck it out from its place between one of William Shakespeare’s more melodramatic plays and the encyclopedia for the letter E.

There’s a quilted blanket thrown over the back of the love seat beneath the window, and I toss it haphazardly across my legs. I resign myself to read a few chapters in the hopes that it’ll lull me away from my anxiety and maybe, just maybe I’ll finally be able to sleep.

A heartbeat later my eyelids flicker open at the urging of Siobhan. I blink her into focus. Her silver hair is combed into a loose chignon, and a cream-colored cable-knit sweater lends itself to her natural elegance. She’s so bright I’m convinced she’s glowing from within, until I realize it’s the sun that illuminates her.

Blink. “What time is it?” Blink blink.

She chuckles. “Relax, it’s early yet. I just like to get the fire started so the room can be warming for the guests.” She reaches out to rub my bicep, which is mottled with goose bumps. “Guess I should’ve gotten here sooner.”

I peer around her, finding the roaring hearth at the same time the sound of crackling wood breaks through the cotton clogging my ears. My throat is still thick with sleep, so I clear it as I sit up.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep here.”

Her gaze drops to the bottle of furniture polish, which has tipped over by the leg of the love seat, before trailing up to the copy of Anne of Green Gables that remains open to the very first chapter in my lap. The corner of her lip quirks. “No worries, Leona. My home is your home.”

My heart stills as I study her face and only find sincerity. Home. When was the last time I truly thought of any place as such?

Here. It was here, this town, the man in the cottage on the hill. It was twelve years ago.

I blink again, this time to clear the mist that has fogged over my vision.

“Thank you,” I finally manage to squeak out.

“Not a worry.” She pats my shoulder gently. “Though if you’d like to continue this ridiculous standoff with my son—which I don’t approve of, just for the record—you might want to get a move on.” She glances at the delicate gold watch dangling from her thin wrist. “He’ll be here in the next five minutes or so, if I had to guess.”

I jolt off the couch, nearly knocking Siobhan on her backside as she stumbles away to make space for me. “I’m so sorry!” I say, planting a hand on each of her shoulders to steady her. She’s shorter than I am, and lean like her son and granddaughter, but I can feel her muscles beneath my touch. She’s a strong woman; my attempts to brace her instead stabilize me.

Her breathy laugh assures me she’s fine. “Go on, Leona. And grab a rasher on the way.” She pinches my side affectionately. “Can’t have you withering away on my watch.”

“Thank you, Siobhan.” Determined to clean up my mess, I bend over to collect the furniture polish and rags. When I turn back for the novel, though, she’s already grabbed it.

“You take the polish; I’ll put away the book.” She flips it over to study the title. “Oh, Anne of Green Gables. One of my favorites.” Her bright green gaze lifts from the cover and narrows playfully when meeting mine. “I knew I liked you.”

The grin on my face feels good. It feels like waking up.

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