In Sheets Of Rain - Nicola Claire Page 0,54

rug in dappled colours. Her gnarled old hands gripped mine too tightly.

“How are you doing, darling?” she asked.

“I’m good, Nan. How are you?”

“Oh, you know. I keep busy. Writing to all of my friends back in England.” She nodded toward the ancient typewriter which stood pride of place on her writing desk. “Although,” she added, “there’s not too many of them left, now.”

“That’s no good,” I said, gripping her hand in return a little too tightly.

“When you get to my age, Kylee, you see things a little differently.”

I held my breath.

Her rheumy old eyes met mine. My fingers felt cold in her hands.

“You’ve been through enough, now, darling,” she said.

“Nan?”

“Quite enough, I should think. It’s time to live.”

I pulled into Starbucks in the bay, needing a refuel in more ways than one. I’d just picked up my venti non-fat, caramel macchiato with no whip and turned from the counter when Neal walked in.

He was in uniform.

I was just grateful he wasn’t with Jody.

“Hey,” he said. “Fancy seeing you back here.”

“Old habits,” I said softly.

“You in a hurry?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“I’ll grab a coffee, and we can catch up.”

“Aren’t you on your way to work?” I asked, taking in his uniform.

“Yeah, but there’s time.”

I found us an empty table and took a seat, watching the pedestrians out of the window. Everything looked the same and also different.

Sometimes going back was not as good as you’d think.

I sipped my drink and settled my heartbeat, counting quietly inside my head with every breath.

Neal slipped into the seat opposite me and smiled.

“So, what’s up?” he asked.

I looked at him. He smiled at me. And then I said, “I seem to be away from my home more often than I’m in it.”

“All those sales trips, huh?”

“Yeah. How about you guys?”

“Painted the house,” he said, and I laughed. “What’s funny?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head and smiling.

He looked at me, and I smiled at him.

And then he said, “I think I understand you, now, Kylee.”

“What?”

“I understand you,” he said. “I know why you had to leave the Service.”

I almost squeezed my coffee cup so tight that it burst.

“Yeah?” I managed.

“Yeah,” he said. “You care too much.”

46

Soon

“He grabbed the syringe and waved it around and shouted, ‘I’m Spartacus!’” the surgeon said.

We were standing on the deck of the catamaran; Christmas lights twinkled along the lower edge of the window to the bridge. Wine was flowing, and laughter fell through the air, and the stars shone high above Waitemata Harbour.

“And then,” the surgeon said. “And then, do you know what he did?”

“No,” someone said as I smiled at Michael.

He grinned back and then leaned in close and whispered, “Let’s slip away before he gets to the part about the bedpans.”

I nodded my head in vigorous agreement and followed him off the main deck, wending our way down the tight corridors, until we found a seat on the port side of the boat miraculously empty.

I sat down, relieved to get off my high heels, and snuggled into the seat back out of the wind.

“Are you cold?” Michael asked, making a move to take off his suit jacket.

“No,” I said, resting my hand on his arm to still him. “I’m fine. Really.”

“Just say the word,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to show off my chivalrous side.”

“The moment a shiver racks me, you’re on.”

“Good,” he said. “I’d hate all the practice I’ve done before my bathroom mirror to be for nothing.”

“I practised my presentation in front of the mirror,” I said.

“The ambulance one?”

“Yes.”

“It showed,” he said. Then winked. “You were a professional.”

I snorted.

“I seem to remember you telling me that once in the supermarket.”

“You remember that?” I asked.

“I remember every word we shared, Trolley Girl.”

My breaths sped up for all the right reasons.

“Do you miss it?” he asked.

“Ambulance?”

“Yeah,” he said, settling into the seat, shoulder to shoulder.

“I miss the camaraderie.”

“You don’t get that here?”

“Not so much black humour.”

“I can crack a joke for you if you like.”

“Does it involve mincemeat or chocolate fish?”

“I know a limerick or two,” he said. “I have quite an extensive repertoire.”

“I bet you do,” I said.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he said.

“You’re crazy.”

“That I am,” he said, looking at me in a way that spoke volumes.

I cleared my throat and stared at my hands.

And then Michael reached over and wrapped his larger hand around them.

“You’re fidgeting,” he said.

“I do that,” I admitted. “I also breathe too fast.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“I count to three inside my head.”

He still held my hands