The Winter Sea (Slains, #1)(114)
He’d remodeled the kitchen, keeping its Victorian charm while allowing for modern functionality, and knocking out the back wall to add on a glass conservatory that allowed the sunlight to slant in across the wide plank floor. Stuart had said Graham could cook, and I got some sense of this myself from standing in his kitchen, seeing how he had his things arranged. Everything, from the checked tea towel drying on the oven door to the placement of pots and appliances gave the impression of regular, competent use.
And the way Angus flung himself down with a thump and a sigh on the warm sunlit floor of the conservatory with its unpretentious furniture—a solid low-backed sofa and a faded chair with footstool and a stack of books beside it that rose high enough to almost be a table—told me this, too, was a favorite and familiar spot.
I could understand that. If this had been my house, I’d have found it hard to shift myself from here as well, with the sunshine and the view out to the tidy small back garden, where a wooden feeder hung from one bare tree branch for the birds. And there was warmth here from the kitchen, and the comfort of companionship, with Graham banging whistling round the cupboards while he put the kettle on and got the mugs and things for tea.
It surprised even me how seductive I found the whole set up; how easily my mind adapted to the thought of living here, with Graham. I hadn’t lived with anyone since leaving home. I’d always liked my private space. But standing now and watching him, it struck me this was something I could stand and watch repeatedly. Forever.
It was not a feeling that I’d had before, and so I didn’t know exactly what to do with it. This winter was becoming more and more a time of firsts for me.
‘Good cake,’ said Graham, testing it while waiting for the kettle. Holding the plastic container in one hand, he offered me the fork. ‘D’ye want some?’
‘No, thanks. I had two pieces at lunch.’
‘And how did that go, your lunch?’
‘Oh, I had a good time. I always do, with Jane. We talked about the book a lot.’
He glanced towards my briefcase, which he’d set beside the sofa. ‘You did remember to bring your computer?’
‘I didn’t think you’d let me come otherwise.’ When we’d talked on the phone he’d reminded me several times not to forget it.
‘Aye, well, you can laugh, but you’ll thank me when you’re struck by sudden inspiration in the middle of the night, and need to work.’
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘You think that I’ll be struck by sudden inspiration, do you?’
Leaning on the worktop with his piece of cake in hand he flashed a faintly wicked smile and said, ‘I mean to do my best.’
The room was strange. I didn’t recognize the placement of the windows or the walls when I first woke, and there was little light to see by. For a moment I lay blinking in confusion, till I felt the solid warmth against my back and felt the rhythmic rise and fall of Graham’s breathing and I knew then where I was.
I closed my eyes, contented, wanting nothing more than just to stay there, with his arm wrapped round me and his head so close behind mine on the pillow that his breath moved through my hair. I felt as I’d felt earlier, that moment in the kitchen when I’d watched him making tea—that I could live this scene repeatedly and never learn to tire of it.
But even as that drowsy realization slumbered through my mind, another scene began to stir and shape itself and nudge me into wakefulness. I fought it, but it fought me back, and in the end I sighed, resigned, and gently lifting Graham’s arm slipped shivering from the blankets, dressed, and went downstairs.
There was no sunlight now in the conservatory kitchen, but the moon cast shadows of its own across the floor where I had left my briefcase. I was cold. Hanging with the jackets on the coat pegs by the back door to the garden was a heavy navy rugby shirt with stripes of red and gold, faded and looking as though it had been through the wars. But it looked warm as well, and I shrugged myself into it, pushing the long sleeves right up to my elbows.
Angus, on the sofa, raised his head and gave his tail a thump of welcome as I crossed to sit beside him, then he rolled and held his four feet in the air so I could give his chest a scratch. I did, but absently, and Angus seemed to know what single-minded concentration looked like when he saw it, for he yawned and rolled again to curl himself against my side, his nose and one front paw tucked in the folds of Graham’s rugby jersey, and he fell asleep as I began to write.
XVII
SOPHIA MOVED WITH CARE upon the bed so she would not disturb the baby’s sleep. The feel of that small body nestled warm against her own was still an unexpected joy so sharply new it clutched her heart sometimes and stole her breath with wonder. It had been three weeks since the birth, and yet each time she looked upon her daughter’s face the beauty of it blinded her to all else in the room. And she was beautiful, the baby named for Moray’s sister and Sophia’s: Anna. When the time came they would have her christened properly, as Anna Mary Moray, but for now the baby seemed content to be plain Anna, with her tiny perfect hands and feet, her soft brown hair, and eyes that were already changing color to the green-grey of the winter sea.
Each time Sophia met those eyes she thought of Colonel Graeme standing next to her beside the great bow window of the drawing room at Slains, and saying one day she might come to see the promise of the sea in winter, and she thought perhaps he had been right, for in her daughter’s infant eyes she saw the hope of new life breaking from the depths of this hard season that had held the world so long in frost and cold despair, a life that brought the word of coming spring.