Reunited At The Altar. Kate HardyЧитать онлайн книгу.
hardly any different from the way she’d looked five years ago, when Brad had last seen her. She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, with eyes that he remembered being sea-green when she was happy and grey when she was sad, a heart-shaped face and a perfect cupid’s bow mouth. The striking difference was the way she wore her dark hair; he remembered it falling halfway down her back, and now it was cropped in a short pixie cut that made her grey-green eyes look huge.
‘Audrey Hepburn,’ he said.
She frowned. ‘What?’
‘Your hair. Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’
She inclined her head. ‘Thank you, but actually she had long hair for that film. This is more like her hair was in Sabrina.’
Of course Abigail would know. She and Ruby loved Hepburn’s films and had binge-watched them as teens in the summer holidays. And it was a stupid thing to say. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s not important.’ She ushered him out of the house, and waited for him to let her into the cottage next door. ‘OK. The stopcock’s here in the lean-to at the back.’
He found the right key, unlocked the door and dealt with the stopcock.
‘I’ll wait to make sure the water’s working,’ she said. ‘And I’d better ask the agency to put a note about the stopcock’s position in the file they leave for clients.’
‘Good idea,’ he said. Abigail always had been practical and organised. She’d made him feel grounded and back in the real world after a hard day at the lab—and he’d missed that.
Not that he had a right to miss it.
He’d been the one to insist on a divorce. Even though he’d been sure he was doing the right thing for her, he knew it had hurt her.
There was nothing he could do to change the past; but he wanted things to be at least on an even keel between them, for the sake of Ruby’s wedding.
‘Thank you for helping,’ he said, turning on the taps and noting that thankfully the water ran clear.
‘No problem.’
* * *
Abigail knew this was her cue to leave, and to make herself a little bit scarce over the next few days.
Except Brad looked like hell, with dark smudges under his eyes. And she knew why: because he was back in Great Crowmell for the first time since his father’s death. Home, where he felt he’d failed. Even though Jim’s death most definitely hadn’t been his fault, Brad had blamed himself, and that was when their life together had started to unravel.
They were divorced, she reminded herself. This was none of her business.
But Bradley Powell had been her first love. Her one and only love, if she was honest with herself. Right now, she could see he was suffering. She couldn’t just leave him like this. OK, so she knew he didn’t love her any more and she’d learned to accept that; but, for the sake of what he’d once been to her, she wanted to help him.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked, her voice gentle.
‘Yes.’
He was lying. Putting a wall between them, the same way he’d done five years ago. She could walk away, like she had last time; or, this time, she could challenge him. Push him the way she maybe should’ve pushed him back then, except at the age of twenty-two she hadn’t quite had the confidence to do that.
Now, things were different. She knew who she was and she was comfortable in her own skin. And she was no longer afraid to challenge him. ‘That’s the biggest load of rubbish I’ve heard in a while.’
He looked at her as if not quite believing what he’d heard. ‘What?’
‘You’re not OK, Brad,’ she said. ‘You’re lying about it—which is crazy, because I’m the last person you should need to keep a stiff upper lip in front of—and I’m calling you on it.’
He lifted his chin, as if to argue. ‘I...’ Then the fight went out of him and he sighed. ‘No. You’re right. I’m not OK.’
‘Because you’re dreading this week?’ she asked. ‘That’s why you booked into the cottage, isn’t it? So you wouldn’t have to go home and see the ghosts.’
He raked a hand through his hair. ‘You always could see through me, Abby. Except back then...’
‘Back then, I would’ve let you get away with it.’ How young and naive she’d been. In the last five years she’d grown much wiser. Stronger, more able to deal with tricky situations. She’d changed. But had Brad? ‘You’ve just had a three-hour drive from London, in rush-hour traffic. I’m guessing you didn’t have time for lunch and you were thinking about your current project while you were driving, so you didn’t bother to get any shopping on the way here either. Apart from what I left you, your fridge and cupboards are all empty. But there’s an easy solution. Come and sit in my kitchen while I make you something to eat.’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t ask you to do that.’
She folded her arms and looked at him. ‘You’re not asking me. I’m telling you.’
‘Bossy.’ But there was the hint of a smile in the tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes. A smile she wished she hadn’t noticed, because it still had the power to make her knees weak.
We’re divorced, she reminded herself. I’m just doing this for Ruby, to make sure Brad doesn’t get overwhelmed by the past and bail out on her before the wedding. Bradley Powell doesn’t make my knees go weak any more. He doesn’t.
‘Just shut up and come next door,’ she said, more to cover her own confusion than anything else.
* * *
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Brad asked when he’d followed her into her kitchen.
Abigail shook her head and gestured to the small bistro table in the nook that served as a dining area. ‘Sit down and make yourself comfortable.’
‘Thank you.’ He paused. ‘So how long have you been living here?’
‘Two years. Didn’t Ruby tell you?’
‘She doesn’t really talk to me about you.’ He looked at her. ‘Does she talk to you about me?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Though obviously your mum told me you’d got your doctorate. She showed me the graduation photos.’
He’d nearly not bothered with the graduation ceremony—until his sister had pointed out that she and their mother would quite like to be there, so it would be a bit selfish of him not to go. Brad had felt he didn’t deserve the fuss, but he’d given in for his mother’s sake.
‘Uh-huh.’ He didn’t want to talk to Abigail about his graduation and how much he’d missed his father. How it had been a physical ache. How he’d longed to say to Jim, ‘See, I told you I’d make something of myself doing the subject I love.’
He grabbed at the nearest excuse to change the subject. ‘Nice house.’ It looked as if it was the same layout as the cottage he’d hired for the week: the white-painted front door opened straight into the living room, and stairs led between the living room and kitchen to the upper floor. But whereas next door was all furnished in neutral shades, as far as he’d seen, Abigail had gone for bright colour. Her living room was painted a warm primrose yellow, with deep red curtains and a matching deep red sofa opposite the cast-iron original fireplace with a huge mirror above it, a wall full of books and a massive stylised painting of a peacock on another wall, which looked very much like his sister’s handiwork. And the kitchen walls here were painted a light, bright teal; the cupboards were cream and the worktop was grey. It was stylish and homely at the same time.
The perfect size for two.
He didn’t let himself