One Last Gift, page 16
Sam felt his spine stiffen but forced his voice to remain calm. “I do know.” He had the missed calls to show for it, didn’t he? And now, apparently, his dad was going to his mum, roping her in. “I don’t want to talk to him.” It felt unnecessary to say it out loud, really.
His mum sighed. “Holding on to this resentment isn’t good for you, Sam. It will only eat you up, make you bitter.” He said nothing. But in his mind, the alternative wasn’t much better. Because the alternative was to let it all go, like her, and open himself up to constant let-down. He didn’t know how she did it, how she maintained the positivity she carried around like a light. He realized, though, that he was grateful for it—she was always positive, had managed to be so his entire life, and in that moment he felt overwhelmed by the thought of it. Because look what she’d gotten for it. A husband who’d abandoned her, and a son who was turning out to be just as much of a fuck-up. She deserved better than the two of them. And it was turning into a self-fulfilling prophecy, wasn’t it? By not wanting to be like his dad, to let people down in that way, he was becoming exactly like him—always underpromising, making sure people knew they couldn’t depend on him, then letting them down in the end anyway. Like Jessica. And like Cassie.
“You should try not to be too hard on him,” his mum continued softly. “He’s not a bad person, he’s just made some bad choices that led him to where he is now. But he loves you.”
“Yeah, well, he has a funny way of showing it,” Sam muttered.
“I think your dad—he never really found the right path in life, or, I should say, he never really found his path, and so he kept messing up a little, going off the beaten track.” Sam frowned, trying to follow the analogy. “I wasn’t for him,” she continued. “I wasn’t where he was supposed to be.” And so, Sam thought, by virtue of that, he wasn’t either. “I’ve come to accept that. But your dad, he’s been searching ever since for something to hold on to, and I don’t think he’s ever found it.”
“Maybe he hasn’t been trying hard enough.” Sam tried—and failed—to keep the bite out of his voice.
“Yes, well, maybe.”
“And maybe,” Sam said, through slightly gritted teeth, “he should’ve figured out that he didn’t want a family before he got married, had a kid.”
“Maybe,” his mum agreed on a sigh. “But life’s full of maybes, and if you focus too much on those then you forget to just be. And really, love, you’ve seen what happens if you force yourself down one path, when your heart is taking you somewhere else.” Sam felt an uncomfortable lurch in his stomach. It was the closest she’d come to pointing out that what he’d done to Jessica was not so different from what his dad did to her. He hated that. But she wasn’t judging him for it—and that infuriating refusal to judge or condemn his dad was perhaps the same quality of hers that made it easy to talk to her, that meant he hadn’t felt the need to cut her out of his life like he’d done with other people, because he knew that she could understand, or at least accept, less than ideal choices.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” he said, his throat tight. “With Dad…I just can’t go there. And I’m sorry for everything else too.”
“You don’t need to apologize to me, love.”
He’d do something for her, he decided. Send her to a spa or something, let her know how much he appreciated her, even if he was a rotten son. For now though, he let it move along. “How are things with you?” he asked.
“Oh, much the same, you know. Did you hear about Linda’s pub?”
“No, what about it?”
“She’s having to sell it. There was some flooding and she can’t afford to keep it.” She sighed. “The village just won’t be the same without it. It’s all very sad, really.”
“That’s…” Sam ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Yeah. Yeah, that is sad.” He thought of how much he and Tom used to hang out there, as kids, doing homework or mucking around, then as teenagers, when Sam would wait for Tom to finish his shift. Linda had been like a mum to Tom and Cassie, Sam knew, what with Claire being so absent, and they’d adopted the pub as a second home. He had a distinct memory of sitting there, playing cards with Tom when they were bored and it was raining. Cassie had been working—she’d have been, what, sixteen? She’d only just started there, and it had been impossible not to notice how proud she was of it. Tom had just beaten him at another round of trumps, and was teasing him about his terrible card skills, when Cassie had come out of the lunchtime shift. She’d come over, face flushed, hair in a bun on the top of her head, wearing the all-black outfit that the waitresses wore. She’d been pulsing with energy. Sam knew Cassie thought that Tom was the one with all that energy, that life—but she was wrong. She had it too, just about different things.
“What are you two doing?”
Tom rolled his eyes. “What does it look like, Chipmunk?”
“Can I play?”
Tom hesitated, looking at Sam questioningly, though Sam knew he was only doing it to wind her up.
“Hmmm, don’t know about that,” Sam said, “trumps is more of a two-person game, don’t you think?” He directed the question at Tom, who nodded seriously.
“Yeah, I reckon so.”
“Fine,” Cassie said. “Be like that.” And she spun away.
Tom grinned at Sam, and even though he knew Tom would call her back, it was still Sam who caved first. She’d barely taken a step when he said, “Ah, come on, Cass, you know we’re only joking. Pull out a pew.” He pulled the chair away from the table and Cassie eyed it suspiciously, clearly deciding whether or not she was willing to take the teasing. “Come on,” he continued. “I’ll even let you win the first round.”
Tom snorted. “You won’t be letting her, mate, she’ll wipe the floor with you.” And Tom—as usual—had been right.
Sam’s head pounded again. “I’ve got to go, Mum, sorry—it’s still night here.”
“All right, love. Speak to you soon—please check in, won’t you? I love you.”
“You too.”
He hung up, and then just sat there, staring at the wispy moonlight. Cassie’s face swirled around his mind, the face he’d never quite been able to shake, even though he’d always told himself she was off limits. Even though he’d tried to stay behind the wall she’d slammed up, tried to tell himself that it was better that way. Tried to deny how much he missed her—missed their easy conversation, the friendship, the fact that he didn’t have to explain anything to her, because she always just got it.
He opened up her Facebook page, unable to help himself. He wanted to see some evidence that she was doing OK. The first thing he saw up there was a GoFundMe. Save our local pub! His heart jolted. Linda’s pub. He clicked through. Thirty grand they needed to raise—and they were on just under twenty, with a couple of days to go. Pretty good going, he thought. Though not enough, obviously. He stared at it, the photo of the pub Cassie had put on the page. He wondered who would buy it from Linda. Developers, probably. It’d be destroyed in that case, turned into a soulless block of flats or something. He knew the type, had worked with them. And Cassie…Her face flashed in his mind again, bright brown eyes, golden hair. She’d hate this. Hate it.
A spark flared inside him—an idea. Cassie had been the most important thing in Tom’s life. Nothing he’d ever do would make up for the fact that he hadn’t been in Argentina when he should have been, but surely the only way of even starting to make it up would be by helping Cassie, Tom’s little sister. And here was the opportunity to do that, right in front of him. He had the power, right now, to help Cassie save something she loved.
It was an impulse decision to donate: to take a huge chunk out of his savings and give the rest of the money that Cassie needed. Who cared about savings, anyway? This was something that would make a difference to Cassie, would help her be happy in the face of an awful tragedy. He’d get more money. It had turned out not to matter anyway, hadn’t it? He’d spent years and years building it up, determined to always make more, to get to some unknown goal. But now, he’d give it all up in an instant if it meant getting Tom back.
So yes, he’d donate this to Cassie, to the pub. But when the page asked for his name, he hesitated. There was a chance Cassie wouldn’t take it, knowing it was from him. And maybe he didn’t want her to know anyway, not after what she’d said to him the last time they’d seen each other. He didn’t want her thinking he had some ulterior motive, didn’t want to have to answer questions about why. So instead, he ticked the box that said anonymous.
Chapter Eighteen
When Sam woke for the second time, he saw Sophia smiling at him from her pillow, sunlight filtering over her face through the gap in the curtains. She looked alarmingly fresh-faced, eyes bright, lips all glossy. “Hey, handsome,” she said.
“Hey, yourself.” Unlike hers, his voice was husky from sleep.
“Last night was fun.” She reached out, tiptoed her fingers down his bare arm.
“Yeah.” And there had been moments of fun, for sure, though he wasn’t totally sure it had been a good idea.
He sat up. “Sorry. Got to have a shower.” He kissed her on the head before heading into the en-suite bathroom, knowing that sort of thing was expected. He grimaced as he braced his hands against the sink, staring at himself in the mirror. Would she want something from him now? But he hadn’t promised anything, had he? And it had been her who had made the move, even if he’d been all too willing to go along with it. Tom used to tease him about that. And he had a flash then of Tom sitting on his single bed, in the tiny room of their first-year university halls, shaking his head, his blond hair flopping with the movement.
“Girls literally throw themselves at your feet, don’t they, Malone?”
“Ah, come on now, don’t get all jealous, green’s a bad color on you.”
Not that Tom had ever had any trouble on the girl front—he had a line of them waiting, but he’d only had one girlfriend at university, and then he’d met Amy, and that was it.
“Pff, whatever, nothing worth keeping hold of ever came easy,” Tom replied.
“Taking a philosophy course on the side that I don’t know about?”
Tom answered that by throwing a pen at Sam, which hit him on the arm.
He smiled, just a little, at the memory.
In the shower, turning the temperature right up so that pinpricks of heat seared his skin, the full scope of last night hit him. Cassie. The pub. His savings.
Shit.
It had been a whim, something he hadn’t really thought through, carried away by the need to do something for Tom.
But would he take it back now, if he could, in the cold hard light of day? No, he decided. No, he was glad he’d done it—if it meant Cassie keeping hold of something she loved. If it meant honoring Tom in even a small way, then he’d made the right decision. But it did mean he had to figure out what the hell to do next. He still had a bit of money, but it wasn’t going to last indefinitely.
Sophia was gone when he came back out and everyone was already in the kitchen when he got there, coffee and eggs on the breakfast bar. Toby’s work, probably. Considering he’d probably had a cook or whatever growing up, the guy was surprisingly good in the kitchen.
Toby caught his eye as Sam pulled up a seat at the granite breakfast bar, and held out an empty mug in question from where he was standing by the wooden cabinets. Sam nodded, and Toby filled the mug with freshly brewed coffee, handing it to Sam.
“Good night?” Toby asked, raising his eyebrows and smirking just a little.
Sam just rolled his eyes and sipped the coffee—black, slightly bitter—and thankfully, Toby said nothing else about it. He clocked Sophia at the end of the breakfast bar, leaning against it rather than sitting, in some sort of intense conversation with Zoe—Sophia doing most of the talking. Both of them were wearing matching black silk dressing gowns, like they’d coordinated or something. The other people from last night—Sam couldn’t remember most of their names—seemed to have disappeared, though the house was big enough for triple that number. It had eight bedrooms, a gigantic sitting room, a separate “movie room” with a screen so big it could definitely pass for a private cinema, and two hot tubs, not to mention the pool. The kitchen was actually the least impressive room in the house. Stylish, modern, and bright, yes, but relatively small, with none of the grandeur of the rest of the place. Maybe you weren’t supposed to spend much time there. Maybe other people were supposed to cook.
Sam tapped his fingers against his mug. “So, Toby, would you happen to know anything about getting a job out here?”
Toby came to lean against the other side of the breakfast bar, opening his mouth to speak, but it was Zoe, down the end of the breakfast bar, who piped up, apparently tuned in to the conversations around her, even if she didn’t usually contribute. “What do you need a job for?” she asked with a frown, as if the idea of someone getting a job was scandalous.
“Yeah, aren’t you just here on holiday?” Sophia added, flicking her dark hair over her shoulder.
“I…” Was he? He supposed so, because he couldn’t move out here permanently, could he? But he hadn’t yet given much thought as to what happened next. He was just trying to get by, day by day, week by week.
“Leave the guy alone, will you?” Toby said with a jokey headshake at the girls. He turned back to Sam. “Not really sure of the logistics, my man, but I could speak to a few people, put out a few feelers, if you like? Don’t sweat the money too much, though, if that’s your worry? You know I’m happy for you to crash with me.”
“Thanks, mate, but I just want to…you know, pull my weight.”
“Sure, sure,” Toby said easily. “I get that.” He grinned—such an easy, instant grin. “You don’t fancy journalism, do you?”
Sam laughed a little. “I’ll leave that to you, I think.”
“Didn’t your friend die in a climbing accident?” Zoe asked. Sam winced at the casual way it was tossed out there, at the same time as Toby said “Zoe,” in a warning tone.
Zoe swished her hair back. “I thought he could do a first-person piece for one of the papers, that’s all. I’m trying to be helpful.” She looked at Toby accusingly. “It was you who mentioned journalism.”
“Sorry,” Toby said soothingly. “I know you are.” When Zoe and Sophia went back to their own private conversation, Toby mouthed “Sorry” at Sam, who tried to shrug it off, though his shoulders felt brittle.
In the pocket of his jeans—he was the only one dressed, he noticed belatedly—Sam’s phone buzzed, and he slipped it out. It was a GoFundMe alert. Cassie Rivers had sent him a message.
His heart jumped. He had done it anonymously, hadn’t he? He was sure he had.
Whoever you are, thank you. This is so incredibly generous and there are no words to say what this means to me and Linda. Your donation has made all the difference and got us over the line.
There. It had made all the difference. He’d done something positive, for Tom, for Cassie.
He typed back. You’re welcome.
He got a reply immediately. If you don’t mind me asking, why did you decide to donate?
It was carefully phrased—she clearly wanted to ask who the hell he was but was too polite to be as blunt as that. Why did he decide to donate…? How to respond to that? I’m a friend of Tom’s, he wrote, then deleted it. It might be too obvious and, besides, it would lead to a conversation about Tom, and he wasn’t ready for that.
I’m just someone who appreciates the value of local businesses. I’ve worked in law, helping the other side too much. I decided it was time to give something back.
It was true, sort of—through working in corporate law he had often ended up helping the people with the most money and had been part of the legal team to kill a small business at least twice. It was a bit of a gray area for him, and not something he’d loved, but he’d managed to put it aside—people could only come to them if they had a legal case, after all, so then it was just about doing his job. This was a different thing—Linda was selling because her business was failing, presumably, not because she was being sued, but still, here was a chance to help something, rather than tear it down. So if he twisted things a little, it wasn’t a complete lie to Cassie.
“You all right, Sam?” Toby was watching him, like he’d been speaking to him, was expecting some sort of response.
“Yeah. Sorry, yeah.”
“I was just saying, maybe you could…”
But he couldn’t concentrate on what Toby was saying, thinking instead of Cassie. Maybe she’d be smiling now, some of that brilliant light in her eyes as she realized that she’d done it. He missed seeing it, that light. Not just since Tom died, but before that. Once, he’d been a part of it—he’d been a cause of it. He used to be able to make her laugh, and he’d caught her looking at him in that warm way of hers when she did so. That quiet, steady way that had such certainty that he’d been almost unable to bear it. It had felt like the only option was to destroy it, so that he couldn’t make things worse—because if he’d given in, if he’d gone down that line with Cassie, he’d just known he’d fuck it up, sooner or later—and that would have been so much worse for both of them. He’d known that he’d lose her in the end, if they went there.
But he’d lost her anyway, hadn’t he? Lost her by betraying her trust back then, and lost her by betraying Tom now. And there was a tiny, selfish part of him that knew—the way his heart had jumped when he’d seen her name wasn’t all about his fear of her finding out it was him, or even the thought of Tom. It was the fact that by doing this, by helping her to save the pub, he was keeping her in his life in some small way—even if she could never know about it.
