Breakdown (11 page)

“Yes,” she said softly.

“Hope is all I’ve had, for years.” He took a breath and went on before he decided against it. “I’ve got nothing else. In London, I found out that one of my brothers is dead. That was a lot of my hope gone. It was...bad. And I keep thinking, what if I get to Bath and there’s no one left? I couldn’t take that.”

He caught Pauline’s eye, then looked back down at the fabric, his vision blurred, taking a stitch with shaking fingers.

“I’m so sorry, Chris, about your brother. But the chance that someone is there, waiting for you, hoping for you to come back—”

“I’m not sure I’m ready to take that chance.”

“You’re so close.”

Chris took a deep breath, and his ribs barely hurt at all. “It hardly seems real anymore. Look, I’ll push off if you want me to, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, that’s not what I meant. You can stay as long as you want, of course, certainly. It’s lovely having your help. Poor George has shouldered the burden all by himself for so long.”

Chris looked up at her. “You work just as hard as he does.”

She shrugged. “We’d love to have you stay on, of course, if that’s what you want. You’ve been a huge help.”

“I don’t do so very much,” Chris protested. “I know you tell George not to let me do anything strenuous. But I’m not ill anymore, and you’ve got to let me take on more. I want to.”

“Michael said you’re a hard worker in his letter.”

Chris took a few stitches in silence, annoyed at the way she turned the conversation. “What else did he say?”

“That you never smile. That you don’t answer questions.”

Chris swallowed, kept stitching, did not look up at her. He got to the end of the rip, tied a knot in the thread, reached for the scissors on the table.

“He was wrong about the questions, though,” Pauline said. “Where did you learn to sew?”

“Taught myself, I guess. Out of necessity.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Um, red?”

“Why does that sound like you’re not sure?”

“Because I hadn’t thought about it in a long time.”

“Dogs or cats?”

“Dogs.”

“Luxury car or economical?”

“I had both.”

“Definitely wrong about the questions.” She smiled.

Chris grunted, snipped the thread, and tied it off again ready to sew. He switched the cords for the shirt.

“You’re not going to use that color thread on the shirt, are you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. Were you really going to?”

“Yes.”

Pauline rolled her eyes and reached for the needle in his hand. Chris moved his hand away.

“I’ll get you the proper color,” she said, but he kept the needle out of her reach.

“I think I can manage.”

She left her hand stretched out, then pulled it back. She looked down at her mending.

“Have you always done that?” Chris asked.

“Always done what?”

Chris stuck his needle into the pincushion in the basket, then selected another and a different spool of thread. “Tried to do everything for everybody.” He threaded the needle, tied it, snipped it.
That was rude.
He figured he should apologize.

“Since Dad died,” she said before he could. “Since things started going to hell. I suppose it gives me a feeling of control. I’m sorry. I’ll try not to.”

“I’m not used to it. I’m used to doing for myself.”

“Yes, of course.”

Chris kept his eyes on the needle, his face warming. “I don’t mean to be rude. You don’t have to take care of me.”

“I know. But I don’t mind, and Michael asked me to.”

“I don’t know why. I hardly knew him.”

“He said you seemed to be trying to work yourself to death.”

Chris couldn’t help frowning, couldn’t stop a little anger growing toward Michael. “He doesn’t know me.”

“He said you were mates.”

Chris took little stitches in the shirt where the seam had opened, thinking back. “Not really.”

“Because you don’t do that, get friendly?”

He couldn’t get the needle in the right place, had to keep his hands still. He remembered what had happened to Stew on the road in New York; in London, Beryl sitting close to him, her arm touching his. And Jenny, snuggled in his lap, how she had trusted him to keep her safe, and he had failed. “You’ve had the answer to that one already.”

“Yes, I remember.” Pauline tied off the thread she was working with and snipped it. She shook out the dress she had just mended and folded it. “I’m going to get a glass of cider. Would you like one?” she asked, pushing back her chair and standing up.

“Yes, please.”

She got two glasses out of the cupboard and went down into the cellar. Chris flexed his shoulders while she was gone. He had been holding himself tensely and his shoulders were beginning to ache. She tried to make it sound like small talk, but Chris knew she was probing, trying to open him up and see inside.
Don’t fall for it.

She came back shortly, set a glass in front of him.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said easily. She settled herself in her chair and took a few sips before she got back to mending. Chris finished closing the seam of the shirt and stuck the needle back into the pincushion before he took a drink of his cider.

“That’s good stuff.”

“Yes, I try not to guzzle it,” she agreed. “The beer at the pub is good, too.”

“Is it? Why don’t you go, then?”

“I wouldn’t feel right, leaving you here by yourself.”

“I don’t mind. You should go if you want, really.”

“Oh, let’s not go on about it again, all right? Next time we’ll both go.”

He glanced at her with the glass halfway to his lips.

“Don’t say anything. Just think about it, okay?”

Chris took a drink, put the glass down. He reached over and took a pair of George’s jeans off the mending pile.

“You don’t have to—” Pauline started, but then pressed her lips together.

“Would you like to pick the thread color?” Chris asked, straight-faced.

“No, I think you can manage. Here’s a patch for that.” She smiled at him as she handed him a small piece of denim.

She has a nice smile. Cooper was right about that.
He pulled the basket toward him and rummaged for the proper color thread.

“Michael was right about the smiling,” Pauline said, as if reading his mind, and he looked up, startled. She saw the look on his face. “What?”

Chris shook his head, and went back to the basket. “Nothing.”

“When’s the last time you felt like smiling?”

He found a spool, drew out a long piece of thread before he answered. “Wes made me smile when I met him. And I smiled at your mum the day I got here, I think.”

“Oh, well, Mum can make anyone smile. And before that?”

“Not sure.” Chris found the triangular tear on the seat of George’s jeans, positioned the patch, and started to stitch it. He looked up to reach for his cider and saw her watching him. “What?”

“You never sewed? Before? Didn’t do your own mending?”

He shook his head.

“You do that like a pro. I doubt I could do any better.”

“Did you do mending, before?”

“Well, no, I guess not.” She tilted her head to the side. “No, of course not. I took it to the cleaner. Or I threw it away. Well, sent it off to Oxfam, anyway.”

Chris nodded in agreement. “We had Goodwill, or Purple Heart, if you were done with it. For mending, there was a cleaner just down the road. Little old Asian lady. She could fix anything. Five dollars,” he said in a high voice, mimicking an accent, holding up one hand with his fingers spread out. “Five dollars.”

Pauline smiled, took a drink of her cider.

“She sat at a sewing machine in the front window,” Chris continued, remembering. “Stuff piled up all around her, sewing in zips and hemming suit pants and doing alterations...” He took another drink himself. “And her husband did shoes. He had a little corner in the other window, tools piled up, and rows of shoes on the shelf above him...Sophie had this pair of red sandals, with all these little straps—”

Chris stopped, his heart flailing, hand gripping the glass. He looked up at Pauline.

Her face was calm. “Go on.”

No!
He clenched his jaw shut and stared at her, his throat tightening, his breathing getting faster, heat spreading into his face. He wanted to say no, but she just kept looking at him with her calm expression, and he couldn’t yell at her, couldn’t tell her no, couldn’t even look away.

“Go on,” she said again.

He had to clear his throat. “Um, the straps kept breaking. Every time she wore them, a strap would break.” He had to stop, gather his thoughts, clear his throat again. “And the old man would fix them, each time. She’d take them in and he’d fix the strap, and he always told her not to buy that brand of shoe again.” He remembered Sophie, wearing the sandals, modeling the dress she had bought for New Year’s, the one she never got to wear, the little tight red dress with a V-neck and three rhinestone buttons on one shoulder...laughing as he whistled at her...the first time she had gone shopping since Rosie had been born, the first tight thing she had put on in months and months. She had pressed her hands against her stomach and made a face at the mirror, but to him she had looked better than ever. He couldn’t see the needle, the thread, the patch on George’s trousers. “Dammit,” he muttered, wiping at his eyes.

“You’ve never done that, have you? Talked about her like that?” Pauline asked, her voice even and everyday, as if she were asking him if he wanted eggs for breakfast.

“No.” He let the jeans fall into his lap and his head into his hands, resting his elbows on the table. “Oh, crap.” He had to take deep breaths.

“You should,” Pauline said softly. “It’ll get easier.”

“Will it?” He didn’t believe her.

“It’s been nearly five years, hasn’t it? You should be able to talk about her by now.”

“What the hell do you know about it?” he rasped, and immediately regretted it.

“I know a lot about it.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, of course you do.” His voice still wasn’t right. He pushed back his chair suddenly and stood up, dumping the jeans onto the table.

“Chris—”

“Look, I’m sorry.” He rubbed his palms against his trousers. “I’m no good at this.” He glanced around, fidgeting, wanting to move, to release pent-up energy. He looked at her finally. “How did you
do
that?”

The calm was gone from her face. Worry had replaced it.

Chris wanted to yell and break something, but he hadn’t done that in years, and he wasn’t going to start again now.

She clutched her mending in both hands, biting her lip. “I didn’t do anything. Sit down, please.”

“No, I’m just going for a walk.” Chris moved to the door, grabbed the knob. He heard her say, “Take a light,” but he was already counting backwards. He wrenched open the door and escaped into the dark, trying not to slam it shut behind him.

CHAPTER 10

P
auline stared at the door after Chris had gone out. She frowned, sipped at her cider. Had she pushed too hard? No, the memory of his wife had spilled out easily. For a brief moment his face had softened at the thought of her. In her former life, she would have seen him as a fascinating case study. She would have been eager to dig into his psychology, relieve the pressure, like a physician would open a festering wound, clean it, apply medication to promote healing. Now she saw a man hurting. She already empathized with him, and her first thought was to comfort, not study.

She shoved the thought away. He needed help, not soothing. She was trained for this. She’d studied years for this. She could help him.

Like I helped Rob, right.
She frowned again. No, that was different. Completely different. For a moment her confidence wavered, but she took a deep breath and banished that doubt, too.

Michael must have had a similar encounter with Chris. He would recognize the signs of trauma. He would think of her.

Obviously, he had. He had managed to get Chris to Breton to recover from his illness. He knew she would take on the patient, unable to resist the challenge.

In his letter, Michael had said Chris was a mate, but Chris denied it. She wished Michael would be more truthful with people. He always ended up making people feel manipulated, even when he was trying to do the right thing. She went back to her mending.

Less than half an hour later, Chris opened the door and stepped in. He closed it behind him and stood there, not looking at her. She waited, but he didn’t say anything. She broke the silence.

“I’m nearly done. Shall I finish those jeans or do you want to?”

“I will.” He came back to his chair at the table. He found the needle and took a stitch. He noticed his cider, took a long drink, then went back to the mending.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Chris took a few stitches. “Why did you do that?”

“I didn’t do anything,” she said, her hands still. “We were just talking. You started talking about her.”

“I didn’t want to, but you—”

“I didn’t do anything. You wanted to talk about her, or you wouldn’t have.”

He shook his head, not looking at her, his eyes on the fabric in front of him, his hands still. Pauline watched him, a little ache in her gut. She didn’t want to push him too hard, didn’t want him to change his mind about staying, but felt she had to say something.

“I can help you, if you let me.”

Chris took a deep breath. He glanced up at her, then back at the jeans, pulling the thread through. Pauline finished the shirt she was working on, folded it slowly, looked over at him. He was sitting with the needle poised, not moving, oblivious to her, focused inward. His face revealed some of the pain he was feeling. She checked the time; they had probably half an hour before the others came home. She waited, not really expecting anything more from him this evening. She thought it would be a few days before he decided what he would do.

He took another deep breath and went back to stitching, but he hadn’t put the neutral mask back on his face. He tied off his thread, snipped it carefully, pushed the scissors back toward her, and folded the jeans. He finally caught her eye.