AN: This isn't exactly new - I posted it on tumblr ages ago and I'm just now bringing it over here.
Outside Newcastle, Co. Wicklow, Ireland: mid-January
They've been driving for an hour and according to the directions on Sybil's mobile the turning should be coming up, but they can't see more than a few meters in front of them through the thick fog. The road is twisty and the guard rail flimsy, where one exists at all. Tom drives slower than Sybil's ever seen him do.
"Bit more of a drive than I thought," he says, his tone neutral.
"The weather's not the best, though, is it?"
"It isn't, no."
The mist coalesces into a light rain. Sybil says, "Anyway, I thought you didn't want to be…" she waves her hand in a way meant to summarize the many conversations they've had on the subject. "...right in town." There are only so many times one can say It isn't that I don't love your mother, darling, only... without sounding insincere. "Though we do want to be within reach, I suppose." That last bit isn't strictly necessary. Tom knows she supports him being present in his mother's life, and he'll make it perfectly clear if he thinks the house is too far away.
"Near enough to go to town and back in a day without too much trouble, that's all," he says.
"And I suppose we should factor in the time we've spent getting lost."
"We're not lost," says Tom, and Sybil wisely shuts her mouth on the subject. She shifts her bulk in the passenger seat, trying not to hear the rain tapping on the windscreen; she's dying for a pee. The baby wakes up and starts stomping on her bladder, which doesn't improve matters. She shifts again.
"All right?" Tom asks, glancing at her with concern. He's terrified of her going into labor at some inopportune moment, of which this would certainly be one.
"Fine. Could use a toilet, that's all." Sybil the nurse sees no reason to shy away from the biological realities, even and especially not with her husband. If he's got any illusions left about the inherent grace of pregnancy, they'll be dashed soon enough.
"Little one's dancing, eh?" He gives her a sideways smile and takes his hand off the gearshift to lay it on her stomach for a few seconds. His smile widens. "Ah, she is."
"Oh! I think she heard you." The baby aims another especially hard kick into Sybil's lower belly. The road begins to climb again and Tom has to take his hand away to downshift.
"This must be it." He slows for a narrow gravel drive that materializes out of the mist. "Well...it's got plenty of privacy," he comments as they bump down the rutted track, and Sybil can hear the effort it takes him to refrain from sighing. He hasn't the slightest nostalgia for the wide-open spaces, or the isolation, of Australia. Even if they can't live in the city (they could just barely afford it, though the place would have to be tiny and it would take a big bite out of the money from Sybil's flat) he'd prefer to be somewhere more populated, where you can't accidentally go an entire weekend without seeing anyone. He's only humoring her, looking at this house.
"But there's so much room!" she'd said when she found the listing. It was at least twice as big as anything they'd seen closer to town. "And it's cheap!"
"Yeah, and who knows what's wrong with it," Tom had replied, and she had to admit he was probably right.
The lane winds around from the back of the house to the front, which faces the sea. On a clear day the view must be lovely, though now it's nothing more than a wall of cloud. The house itself looks much like it did in the photo on the website: a quintessential snug Irish cottage, white walls and a riot of flower-beds in the front garden. The windows are ablaze with electric light, a warm welcome on this gloomy day. The feeling Sybil got when she first saw the listing comes back. This house is pulling at her.
All right, have a look inside before you fall in love, she tells herself. But she can't resist commenting. "It's pretty."
"Hm."
Tom turns off the car and they get out. The realtor, an excitable woman called Fionnuala ("Call me Fi"), comes out to greet them. "Lovely setting, isn't it?" she says. "Nature all round, not having to look in your neighbors' windows…but only a few minutes' drive into the village!"
"Nature," mutters Tom, quietly enough that only Sybil hears. "Great."
"At least there aren't any snakes," she murmurs back.
Sybil asks where the toilet is as soon as they enter the house. Fionnuala-call-me-Fi looks a little askance but laughs lightly and says something about seeing the most important rooms first. She directs Sybil toward the back of the house to a powder room that's like something out of Kubrick, with wallpaper in a garish flower pattern and a gold-framed mirror much too heavy for the small space. Through the door Sybil can hear Tom asking relentlessly practical questions about the heating system and how long it's been since the roof was replaced; Fi chirps back that it is a bit of a fixer-upper, isn't it, but it's got loads of character, and this is such a desirable area that anything in move-in condition might be, ahem, a bit out of their price range…
"The last buyer had planned to pull it down and build new, I think," she's saying from down the hall as Sybil comes out of the toilet, "but then the bottom fell out of the economy, and…"
"So how long's it been empty?" They're in the kitchen, Tom trying the taps and opening and closing cabinet doors hard enough that Sybil can tell he's not pleased with whatever he sees inside. Instead of joining them she wanders into the back parlor.
There are no lights on in here, since it would be lit by lamps and the house has no furniture. Still, a feeling of coziness settles over Sybil immediately. Maybe it's the rain outside, the murmur of voices and light spilling from the kitchen; maybe it's the stone fireplace and the golden-brown floorboards, dusty and uneven as they are. Inside her, the baby swishes around and then stops, for all the world like a dog turning its circles before settling down.
Sybil can see where Tom's chair will go, next to the fireplace with a lamp overhanging it so he can sit and read the paper. She can feel the hearth-rug under her knees as she crouches to encourage their as-yet-unborn child to take its first steps toward her. She knows exactly what color the light will be, slanting in the large window at sunset. Home, she thinks, we're home.
"Tom?" She calls, and then louder: "Tom! Come here!"
He arrives breathless, his hand fluttering at her elbow as he looks her over for signs of trouble. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she says. For a second he looks confused but then he sees it, in her soft eyes and the sheepish, besotted smile she can't stop from spreading across her face. Bless him, there's not even a flicker of resistance in his eyes.
Fi pokes her head in the door. "Shall we have a look upstairs?"
Sybil and Tom exchange a glance, and he has to laugh. "Might as well pick out which bedroom we want for a nursery."