then.”
“I didn't know it then, either—well, maybe I did but couldn't deal with it.”
Andrew leaned down and kissed her.
“I know I love you, too, Andrew … but sweetie, it scares me to death,” she said.
“I know it does. We can take this slowly. I don't want you ever to be afraid again.”
Nicola sat up, the coverlet sliding to her waist. Andrew did not think there could be a more beautiful woman in the world.
“Andrew?”
“Nicki?”
“When are you going back to the States?”
“Never.”
“What?”
“Never. I'm staying here. I'm resigning my position at the university.”
Nicola stared at him for a moment.
“Andrew?” she asked again.
“You certainly have a lot of questions.”
“I only have one more: Will you please get undressed and come to bed?”
They did not go to sleep immediately. As the light outside failed, they traced each other's contours with their fingertips and their lips and their tongues, as if they were archaeologists deciphering an ancient, sacred text etched on their skin.
And later, when it was finally dark, Nicola put her lips to Andrew's ear and whispered, “Would it be okay if I just curled up with you? Could you do that? Just hold me? I'm afraid.”
And he did, drawing her into his arms, her back curled against his chest, her rear cupped in his lap.
She pressed herself into him and he felt her tension ease. They were both asleep in moments.
During the afternoon of the 16th, an incredible amount of rainfall fell, conservatively estimated to have been over 1,422 million litres (310 million gallons) in just two hours. That's over 197,500 litres (43,000 gallons) falling per second, the equivalent of 21 petrol tanker loads of water flowing through Boscastle every second.
Boscastle: The Flood (North Cornwall District Council, 2006)
eighteen
Andrew was frying eggs and bacon when Lee burst through the cottage door Wednesday morning.
“Mum says to tell you that the radio says folks will be allowed into the lower village to collect valuables later this morning! Where's Nicki?”
“Here, sweetie,” Nicola said, emerging from the bedroom wearing one of Andrew's shirts and the skirt from the night before. Lee threw herself at her, and they hugged as if each of them was a source of nourishment for the other.
“Mum also says your clothes will be out of the dryer in a few minutes.”
“Have you ever considered a career as a newscaster?” Andrew grumped. He hadn't had his tea yet.
Lee shot him a look. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
“I'm never funny before lunch.”
“You got that right,” she said.
God help the man who marries her, Andrew thought, but he was chuckling. He was deeply happy. Awakening earlier with Nicola beside him had felt like a miracle; he'd lain motionless for a long time, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, the tumble of dark hair across her face, the relaxed curve of her full lips in slumber. When the morning sun had reached her face, she'd opened her eyes, seen him watching her, and smiled. Without saying a word, she'd pulled him atop her and guided him inside her. Then, very slowly, they made love.
“Good morning, darling,” she'd said afterward, grinning.
“‘Darling’?”
“Yes. Because you are. I'm just a slow learner is all.”
“I'll say.”
She'd punched him playfully. “For that, you get to make me breakfast!”
“You call that punishment? I'd gladly do that for the rest of my life!”
She'd grinned. “You may have to.”
He'd wanted more than anything to make love with her all morning, but he also hadn't wanted to break this spell, to send her back to the dark place that he knew still lay within her.
“Tea, then?” he'd asked.
“That's a start…”
“Yes, madam; coming right up, madam.”
He'd hopped out of bed. She'd sat up, then leaned toward him. “Do you suppose you could leave part of you here?”
“What part.”
“You know damn well what part!”
“I don't think that will be possible, madam; I shall need my wits about me.”
“Is that where you keep them?”
“Yes, madam.”
She'd pouted. “I should have known.”
“I'll just be getting that tea now.”
It was past noon when the two of them reached the bridge. A crowd of shell-shocked residents milled about behind an emergency cordon waiting for the police to let them through, but there was a holdup of some sort. Nicola elbowed to the front and found the elderly but formidable Joyce Manley, who lived in a little cottage on Valency Row, yelling and waving her walking stick at the police officer manning the tape.
“’Ow come all them media jackals can wander about the village willy-nilly and us what lives here can't, eh?