"I am glad you're here, dad," Catherine told him earnestly as she deftly navigated through the desultory Sunday afternoon traffic. His daughter wasn't looking at him, her eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead, but Harry could see a genuine smile upon her lips, and he returned it at once. Though he'd never imagined his daughter making a life for herself here, in America, in this sleepy corner of the world beyond a tree-lined highway, she seemed content, and he was glad to share in her life, in whatever way she would allow him. The heat was oppressive, made all the worse by a startling humidity, but Catherine's car was mercifully air conditioned and Harry was comfortable enough, in his khaki trousers and lightweight white button down shirt. This was the first holiday Harry had taken in some years, and his announcement that he was going to the States had left Towers in a state of apoplectic indignation, but in the end common sense had prevailed, and he had made his way to his daughter unhindered by the political machinations of the Home Secretary.
It had been over a year since Harry had last seen his daughter and his grandsons; after Fabian's death Catherine had spent a few weeks in London, staying with her mother and stepfather while she tried to sort herself out. Though it had been somewhat awkward, stepping into Jane's house as a visitor, chatting politely to her husband, Harry had borne the indignity of it for his daughter's sake, had gone to sit beside her, to hold her hand, to offer her what comfort he could. After all, Harry knew a thing a two about a love lost too soon. True, Ruth wasn't dead, but she might as well have been, for in seven years he had not caught a glimpse of her, nor would he, ever again. They had spent a few blissful nights together and then she had been ripped from his side, lost to him for the sake of the realm, for the sake of his own pride. He did not think of her often, these days; too much time had passed, there was too much work to be getting on with, too many other losses to grieve, but those days he had spent with his daughter following her bereavement had brought Ruth back to his mind once more. He had wondered where she'd gone, if she were happy, if she ever thought of him, had asked himself how different things might have been for them, if only they'd had just a little more time.
At present, however, his thoughts were firmly fixed on his two young grandsons. Louis was six, and Gabriel - or Gabe, as his mother insisted on calling him - would be four in just a few days' time. It had come as quite a shock, when Catherine announced she was expecting her first child; at the time she and Fabian were only recently returned from Lebanon, her leg still in a cast as she healed from the explosion that had nearly cost her her life, but when Harry, flabbergasted and taken aback by the very idea that his little girl could have a child of her own, had asked how on earth could this have happened Catherine's sheepish grin had nearly been enough to bring a blush to his cheeks. He knew how it could have happened, of course, how a near death experience could push people to do all sorts of impulsive things, and he had already seen enough of his daughter and her partner together to know that they loved one another truly. They had been quite happy together, Catherine and Fabian, and while Harry's heart ached for her, to know that she had lost him so young, that her boys would grow up without a father, a small piece of him was glad to know that she had been loved so well, however briefly.
"I'm happy to be here," he said. "It'll be good to see the boys."
"It may take them some time to warm up to you," Catherine warned him, a hint of trepidation in her voice, and in truth, Harry shared those concerns. He had met his grandchildren for the very first time immediately after their father died, and their lives had been much too tumultuous - and his visits much too brief - for him to develop much of a rapport with them. Likely Gabe did not remember him at all, and Louis only vaguely. Harry had wondered whether they would be very keen to see him; he'd always been a bit awkward around children. Babies he could manage quite well, but once they grew old enough to talk he found his meager childcare skills could no longer stretch to accommodate them. What did he have to say that could possibly entertain a child? He spent his days soaked in death and terror, doing things he could not discuss as a matter of national security, and he had not participated in pop culture for decades now. His telly was only used for the news and the occasional quiz show, and he was terribly out of touch with children's programs or the sorts of things that might otherwise fascinate his grandsons. He imagined the boys would be particularly indecipherable to him after having spent a year in America, but it was too late for such concerns to stay his hand; he had come, and he would do his best, to be a good father and a good grandfather.
"That's fine," he said. " Really, Catherine, I just want to spend some time with my family. I don't have any grand expectations."
"Good," she said as she turned the car into a narrow drive beside a small, respectable-looking house on a quiet street. "This is it."
In a moment Harry was out of the car, fetching his bag from the back and then watching as his daughter led the way to her front door. The heat washed over him and sweat began to bead on his upper lip, and so he rushed to join her.
"Rachel's watching the boys," Catherine said as she let him into the house. "I imagine they're out back."
Harry raised his eyebrow at her, incredulous at the thought of anyone voluntarily spending time outside under such conditions, with the air thick and sticky, the sun blistering hot overhead. Catherine caught his look and laughed, and his heart was lighter for it, for seeing his daughter smiling again after all the grief she'd endured.
"We have a little pool," she explained. "They love it. Just drop your bag there and come and have a drink. I'll let Rachel know we're here."
Those were instructions Harry could follow with relish, and so he did as he was bid, making his way down the corridor, taking in the sight of his daughter's house. There were artistic looking photographs on the walls and children's toys piled in the corners, and the corridor opened into a bright kitchen, painted a cheery shade of yellow. Wide windows let in the sunlight (and a fair bit of heat), but the house was cool enough, and through those windows he could see lush green grass and a line of huge, gnarled old trees forming the perimeter of her back garden. The location might have left something to be desired, but it seemed a pleasant house, and a nice place for his grandsons to grow up.
Catherine leaned out the backdoor and shouted something unintelligible, probably a greeting to her neighbor who had been kind enough to watch the boys. That had given Harry pause, at first, the thought of his grandchildren being left in the hands of such a casual acquaintance, but Catherine had set him straight in that regard, explained that her neighbor was in fact a colleague and a fellow single mum, and his natural paranoia receded somewhat. Not everyone's life was as rife with deception as his own, he knew, but the habits of a lifetime were hard to break.
"Now," Catherine said, swinging back into the kitchen. "How about a drink? Gin and tonic?"
Harry made a face, some quip about preferring a real drink almost slipping past his lips, but he bit it back at once. For all her attempts to appear collected and cool he knew that Catherine was nervous about him staying with her and the boys, uncertain as to how things would go, whether they would survive a week without killing one another, and he knew that she was trying her best to be hospitable. Her offer had been a kind one, and it was after all really bloody hot outside.
"That would be fine, thanks," he said graciously.
She smiled at him once, sharply, in a way that let him know that she was well aware what he had been thinking, and he turned away from her, his heart feeling lighter than it had done in months. Lucas and Ros were manning the Grid, his mobile was switched off, and he had one whole blissful week in which to enjoy simply being a father, without the weight of the world on his shoulders. Relaxation did not come easily to him, but he was confident that with Catherine's help he would manage well enough.
A whirlwind in the form of two small boys came tearing through the kitchen door before Catherine finished making their drinks; she sent them off to their rooms to change their clothes while they dripped water on the floor, laughing with one another and paying Harry no mind. It didn't bother him overmuch, their apparent disinterest in him; they had a week to get to know one another, and he would not ask more from them than they were willing to give.
"They seem happy," he said softly, but before Catherine could respond the door was opening once again.
Having bundled the boys inside to go and say hello to their grandfather Ruth followed along at a much more sedate pace, carrying a tray littered with the remnants of lemonade and snacks she'd given to the boys while they played. Emma had been invited at the last minute to spend the afternoon with one of her little friends from school, and so Ruth had been alone with the boys for the last two hours or so. She didn't mind, really, losing the opportunity for a quiet afternoon alone; Louis and Gabe were sweet, and she had fun, splashing with them in the little pool, playing silly games and listening to their chatter. That was the thing about being a mother, she'd realized; she often dreamed of having a moment to herself, just a little time to spend alone, but the instant she was without her child she missed Emma something fierce. The quiet she had once treasured was now oppressive without the sound of her daughter's gentle laughter.
Juggling the tray and the door knob she managed to swing the door open and stepped into the kitchen.
"We had a lovely afternoon," she said, kicking the door closed, but before Cate could answer her Ruth's eyes landed on the stranger in the kitchen.
"Jesus," she swore, nearly jumping out of her skin. The tray tumbled from her hands, the lemonade glasses shattering on the floor, her heart suddenly racing so fast that black spots swam across her vision. A terrible, choking little sound left her next, tears and fears and hopes threatening to drown her, for of all the people who could have been standing in that kitchen, the very last one she had ever expected to see was Harry Pearce.
Through the fog that swirled through her mind a few details struck her; the lines of his face, the way his shirt collar opened to expose his neck, the way his hands reached for her all unthinking. This was Harry, the one man she had not dreamed to ever see again, the one who had so indelibly changed her life, left his mark upon her heart forever. The questions would come in time, the hows and the whys and the what the bloody hell do we nows, but in that moment her went almost totally blank, simply staring at him, soaking in the sight of his face, the soaring of her heart in her chest, the wonder that such a thing could come to pass.
"We had a lovely afternoon," a melodic voice called as the door swung open once again, and Harry felt the sudden sting of shock as sharp as if he'd been struck across the face, for he knew that voice, better than any other in the world, and he had not dared dream to ever hear it again.
"Jesus," she swore, giving a starled little jump, the tray she carried clattering to the floor as she lifted one hand to stare at him in wide-eyed horror.
"Christ," Harry said at almost the exact same moment, taking a single, involuntarily step towards her, his hands reaching for her as if of their own volition before he remembered himself and drew back.
This is a dream, he thought faintly. Ruth was gone, had left him all alone so many years before, and he had, before this moment, been resigned to the loss of her. Now, though, now he ached for her, his eyes devouring her hungrily, the curve of her hip, the curl of her dark hair. This was Ruth, real and here and shaking from head to foot, obviously as overwhelmed and utterly blown away by his appearance as he was by hers. It seemed a gift too beautiful to be real, that he should find her quite by accident, that she could be standing here, wearing a soft white shift over a black swimsuit, her hair damp from the pool, the color high in her cheeks. She was alive, and here, and he had absolutely no idea what would happen next.
"Jesus -"
"Christ," they swore almost in unison, and Catherine looked up from the drinks, wondering what on earth could have caused such a commotion from two so normally even-keeled individuals.
Rachel and her father were staring at one another, frozen in a somewhat comical standoff like something from a bad western. There were tears in Rachel's eyes, Catherine saw, and she found herself suddenly overwhelmed with dread. She turned her head, and saw that there was an expression on her father's face she'd never seen before, never even imagined, a look that spoke of a depth of emotion she would never have previously ascribed to that reserved and somewhat repressed old man. There was a familiarity to their gaze, a sense of recognition that turned Catherine's blood to ice in a moment.
All her life she had hated her father's job and everything that went with it, the lies, the secrecy, the betrayals, the smug patronizing of the spooks, all of them so certain that they knew best, all of them so proud of their classified lives, though those same lives were devoid of warmth and affection as far as Catherine could see. But in the instant immediately following Rachel's appearance it became readily apparent that this woman she trusted, cared for, counted her best friend in all the world, was one of them. That truth was bitter, and Catherine could already feel her heart beginning to harden, her mind racing as she wondered whether her whole life here had been a setup, carefully arranged by her meddling father.
But then, oh then, something happened that turned her world completely upside down.
"Harry," Rachel breathed in a broken little whisper, her eyes full of tears, and the memory of a hundred quiet conversations crashed in on Catherine all at once.
How many times had she sat and listened to Rachel speaking fondly of my Harry, the man she had loved, the man she had lost, the man who had fathered her child? My Harry...
"Oh, shit," Catherine swore.
