Reunited At The Altar. Kate Hardy
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was none of his business.
This was supposed to be civil politeness. A truce. Getting rid of the awkwardness between them, so Ruby’s wedding would go smoothly at the weekend. So why did he feel so completely off balance?
He forced himself to finish the pasta—she was right, he did need to eat—and then cleared the table for her while she rummaged in the freezer.
She was close enough to touch.
And that way danger lay. Physical contact between them would be a very, very bad idea. Because seeing her again had brought back way too many memories—along with a huge sense of loneliness and loss.
He retreated to the bistro table, and she brought over two bowls, spoons and a plastic tub.
‘Are you selling tubs for people to take home, nowadays?’ he asked, suddenly curious.
‘Yes, but they’re half-litre paper cartons rather than like this. Ruby designed them for me—pink and white Regency stripes, with “Scott’s” written across it in black script,’ Abigail said.
‘So you’re expanding the business?’
She inclined her head. ‘Certain local restaurants stock our ice cream, and we have pop-up ice cream stalls for events. Regency-style carts. Ruby’s having one at her wedding.’
And how different his sister’s wedding would be from his own. A big affair, with the church filled with family and friends. The complete opposite from his and Abby’s: no frills, no fuss, just the two of them, and two witnesses that the wedding planner at Gretna Green had provided. Abby had worn an ordinary but pretty summer dress and carried a posy of cream roses, and he’d worn the suit his mother had bought him for his interview at Cambridge. It had got a bit creased in his rucksack, but he hadn’t cared. He’d just wanted to get married to Abby and be with her for ever and ever, and prove to his dad that he was wrong, that they weren’t too young and he wouldn’t find someone else in the first week away at university—that their marriage would last.
The summer when they were eighteen.
How young and foolish they’d both been.
All that was left from that day now was a handful of photographs.
He shook himself. They were meant to be talking about her business, not their past. ‘Sounds good,’ he said lightly. ‘So what’s this?’
‘A new flavour. I’m still tweaking it, so it’s not in production yet. Let me know what you think.’
She actually wanted his opinion? Something shifted inside him.
She put a scoop into the bowl. ‘If you hate it, don’t be polite and eat it—just tell me what you don’t like about it because that’ll be much more useful. I also have salted caramel in the freezer.’
His favourite. And he knew that she remembered. Just as he remembered that she loathed chocolate ice cream.
He looked at the bowl she’d just given him. The ice cream was a dusky pink, studded with pieces of deep red fruit. He took a spoonful. ‘No more tweaks needed,’ he said. ‘Cherry and almond.’
‘Cherry and amaretto, actually—but that’s close enough.’ She looked pleased. ‘So the amaretto isn’t overpowering?’
He tried another spoonful. ‘No. You’ve got a good balance. It’s not too sour from the cherries, but it’s also not oversweet.’
‘Analysed like a true scientist.’
There was amusement in her voice, but there was also respect. And maybe, he thought, a note of affection? But he’d managed to kill her love for him, five years ago. He’d shut her out, hadn’t let her help him deal with the shock of his father’s death. He didn’t deserve her affection. ‘It saves time,’ he said.
‘Thanks. I thought I might have got it right with this batch, though I was thinking about adding pieces of crushed amaretti biscuits.’
He shook his head. ‘It’ll change the texture too much. This is rich and soft and—well, nice.’
‘Good. Help yourself to more. Or there’s salted caramel,’ she said.
He realised then that he’d finished the bowl. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘But thank you.’
He insisted on doing the washing up. And, even though he knew he really ought to go, how could he refuse when she offered him another coffee?
Her living room was just as cosy as the kitchen.
‘Is that one of Ruby’s?’ he asked, gesturing towards the peacock.
‘Yes. It was a special commission,’ she said with a smile. Then she grew serious. ‘It’s going to be hard for you, this week.’
There was no point in lying. He knew she’d see through it. ‘Yes.’
‘I imagine you came back early so you could face things before the wedding on Saturday, instead of being hit by the whole lot on the day.’
How well she knew him. ‘It seemed the most sensible approach.’ Doing the lot in one day tomorrow would be easiest in the long run; and if he did it now he’d cope better at the wedding.
‘I’m working tomorrow,’ she said, ‘but I’m pretty much off duty from Wednesday so I can help Ruby with any last-minute details.’ She paused. ‘If you want someone to go with you to...’ She paused, and he knew what she wasn’t saying. To the church. To his father’s grave. To all the places in the town that held so many memories, they threatened to choke him. ‘Well, you know where I am,’ she finished.
It was a really generous offer, especially considering how he’d pushed her away before.
But he also knew he had to face this on his own. ‘Thanks, but I’m fine.’
* * *
Brad wasn’t fine. Abigail could see it in his dark, dark eyes.
But he was as stubborn as his father had been. Which wasn’t always a good thing. He was making himself miserable, and that made his family miserable. Why couldn’t he see that?
‘Brad. It’s been five years.’ And everyone else had moved on, except Brad himself. ‘I hope by now you’ve worked out that you weren’t to blame.’
He said nothing.
‘Your dad was a stubborn old coot. I loved Jim dearly, but he didn’t help himself and he didn’t listen to anyone.’ Maybe now wasn’t the right time to say it—but then again, when would be the right time? ‘I think you’re going the same way.’
‘What?’
There was a simmering, dangerous tone to his voice. But Abigail wasn’t backing down now. It was a boil that had needed lancing years ago. The poison needed to come out so Brad could move on instead of being stuck in the misery of the past. ‘Jim was the one to blame for his death, not you. If he’d listened to his doctor and taken his angina medication out with him on the boat—or, better still, waited until the following weekend when you could’ve gone out on the boat with him and he wouldn’t have been on his own—he wouldn’t have had the heart attack in the first place; or at least if he’d had his GTN spray with him he would’ve been able to buy himself enough time for the emergency services to get to him and treat him in time.’
He clenched his jaw. ‘My dad’s dead.’
‘And you’re still alive, Brad.’ Though he wasn’t living. Just existing. ‘Stop wearing that hair shirt and thinking you have to atone for something that really wasn’t your fault.’
His face shuttered. ‘I don’t want to have this conversation.’
‘No,’ she said, not sure whether she was more angry or sad. ‘You wouldn’t face it then and you won’t face it now. Brad, for pity’s sake—you might want to