herself. She hadn’t said any different, so why would he think she’d changed her mind?
Where do we go from here? he’d asked. She knew where she’d like to go—straight to the church and get married again. Then home with him and Billy, to start afresh. She wished she’d told him that instead of leaving. Yes, they shared heartbreaking memories, but also many, many joyous ones. She’d learned the hard way to cherish the good and endure the bad.
A year ago she’d been prepared to meet someone else, someone who shared her dream of a home and family. She’d come full circle to Darcy. There was no one she’d rather travel through life with. He was a link to her past, a joy and comfort in the present, and part of her hopes and dreams for the future. She loved him. How could she ever have thought she could replace him? It was like Latin dancing. She didn’t want any other partner but him.
Emma looked at her trolley, full of dirt, pots, fertilizer and seedlings. She had everything she needed to make something grow. All she had to do was plant, water and hope for the best. Trust and pray that he cared enough to give her a second chance.
* * *
DARCY LOADED THE last of the boxes of stuff he and Emma had taken off the walls of the pub into the back of his truck. When his dad was feeling up to it, he might enjoy looking through everything and deciding what he would like to keep as a memento.
The tables and chairs were stacked near the back, ready for the workmen to take to a local furniture refinisher. He liked the old bentwood chairs, and the round wooden tables with the turned legs had character. Sanded down, with a fresh coat of varnish, they would look better than modern furniture. He would buy a couple of the tall tables and chairs, though, for along the window onto the street.
The mugs he’d decided to keep on their shelf above the bar. Not many people still used them, but as long as his father and his friends were around, he would maintain the tradition.
Walking through the empty pub with the bare walls gave him a funny feeling inside, part nostalgic, part regretful, part looking forward to what came next.
On the bar sat the box of family photos he’d taken off the corkboard to be distributed to the appropriate people. He and Emma could divide between them the photos of Holly. A photo of the three of them was on top. How would they divide that? He could tear the paper down the middle but to actually separate himself from Emma? In the two years they’d been apart he’d found out he couldn’t do it. It had felt like ripping off a limb, or tearing out his heart. She was part of him. She always would be. Having her and Billy living here for even a short while was the happiest he’d been in a very long time.
When she’d said she wanted them to go their own separate ways, he’d been gutted. Sure, he’d been the one to leave the first time around, but he’d changed since then. And yes, she’d been great about letting him into Billy’s life, but she’d made it clear they weren’t a family.
Riley came through the door wearing his navy pants and white shirt uniform. He walked in, gazing around. “You’re really doing it.”
“Yep,” Darcy said. “It reminds me of the time we jumped off the end of the Frankston pier when we were twelve. We didn’t know how deep the water was or if we would drown or swim.”
“John broke his fool leg as I recall. Those were the glory days, all right. How long will you be closed for?”
“A couple of weeks, until the worst of the construction is over.” Darcy moved behind the bar. “Coffeepot’s still on. Interested?”
“Always.” Riley leaned on the polished mahogany. “If you’re short of something to do while the pub is down, you can come and work with Summerside’s finest as detective.”
“I think I’d do rather well at that. A publican gets to be pretty observant.” Darcy set two mugs of coffee on the bar. “We notice things.”
Riley’s eyebrows rose. “Give me an example.”
“You, my friend, have just come from the barber, where your hair has been freshly cut.”
Riley passed a hand over his dark glossy hair. “It’s that mousse crap they put on that gave it away, isn’t