As Harry left Ruth's cottage behind, he pulled his mobile from his pocket, and rang the shop phone at Something Wonderful. Ruth had given him the number early on in their acquaintance, though he'd had no reason to use it before now. He was supposed to pick up a large supply of flowers and seeds that afternoon, and he wanted to see if perhaps he could come and fetch it a bit early. Sam sounded as chipper as ever, telling him that his things were all ready and waiting for him, come any time. He stopped by his cottage and spoke to a sweaty, smiling Dimitri for a few minutes and then, satisfied that the mulching was going well, he climbed into his car and drove on down to the village.
As it was now mid-morning and a Saturday besides, the village's main thoroughfare was as alive with people as Harry had ever seen it. Everywhere he looked he saw familiar faces, some whose names he knew, some he didn't. The street was full of the sounds of cars and laughing children and friendly chatter, and shoppers wandered from storefront to storefront at a leisurely pace, enjoying the summer sunshine and the companionship of those around them. Harry found himself quite happy, in the midst of this most ordinary of scenes. He had kissed Ruth this morning, and would eat dinner with her tomorrow night, he would plant his flowers and bring his garden back to life. This place wasn't so bad, really.
There were a few customers milling about inside the shop, but Sam didn't seem particularly bothered by his deciding to pick up his things early.
"How is she then?" Sam asked as she finished ringing up his purchases, which consisted of a small box of various seeds, several trays of little flowers ready for planting, two green shrubs and, surprisingly, one fledgling Japanese maple in a pot. Harry didn't remember having decided on the maple, but if Ruth felt it should be included, he was more than happy to take it home with him.
"Oh, I think she'll be all right. She was just finishing a cup of tea when I left," Harry said half-truthfully. He didn't want Sam to know that Ruth had been feeling "out of sorts" because of him, or that she was now most likely feeling much, much better, for the exact same reason.
"Good of you to check in on her," Sam said as he handed her a wad of bills, payment for the profusion of plants on the countertop between them.
"Oh, it was no trouble at all. She's just across the way. What sort of neighbor would I be if I didn't look in on her?"
Sam just looked at him as if she didn't believe a word he was saying, and he shifted uncomfortably under her frank, knowing stare.
"Well, you're all set now, Harry," she said finally.
"Actually, Sam, I've just had a thought," he said impulsively.
By the time Harry arrived back at his cottage, Dimitri had perhaps half of the mulch spread, and was working happily to the sounds of some awful modern music blaring from a radio perched precariously on the roof of his truck. Harry dragged his plants out of the car and onto the porch, careful to sit them in the shade. He didn't want to stay outside and loom over Dimitri, giving the impression that he was trying to rush the young man along, but his pride would not allow him to go inside the house and simply wait for the work to be finished. Flying in the face of good sense, and utterly disregarding the protests of his dodgy knee, Harry asked Dimitri if he had a spare shovel. The young man gave him an incredulous sort of look but, seeing that Harry was quite serious, he eventually acquiesced. Feeling more than a bit ridiculous in his starched shirt and crisp trousers, Harry rolled up his sleeves and set about helping Dimitri spread the rest of the mulch.
It was hot, dull work, but Dimitri was a pleasant companion. To pass the time he told stories from his days in the SBS- only the humorous ones, Harry noted. Harry knew what that was like, knew how it felt to try to hold on to the good memories and not be drowned by the bad. In return Harry regaled him with tales from his own Army days. Dimitri talked a little about his girlfriend, Erin, and her daughter, Rosie, and Harry told him a few stories about his children when they were small. In just under two hours they had the whole lot finished, and Dimitri offered Harry a firm handshake, which he gladly accepted. It was strange, Harry thought as he watched Dimitri drive away, how quickly he had come to think of the people in this village as his friends. Perhaps, he mused, the difference was not in the quality of his neighbors, but in Harry himself. Now that he was no longer a detective, now that he no longer carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, now that he no longer let himself be ruled by guilt, it seemed that Harry Pearce had become a rather likeable fellow.
Harry limped into his kitchen in search of some lunch after Dimitri's departure. Now that he was alone, he could admit to himself that he had rather overdone it with his exertions in the garden. His dodgy knee protested violently every time he tried to bend it; he'd broken his leg badly, several years ago, during a particularly tense altercation with a drugs dealer. What little cartilage was left to him was tight and unyielding after two hours' mulching, and he grumbled to himself as he eased into his chair, sandwich in hand. Harry had been entertaining the idea of going back out into the garden after lunch to plant the flowers he'd brought home, but he knew now that he simply wasn't capable. He might not even be capable tomorrow, he mused, stretching his leg straight out under the table and wincing slightly. The flowers would keep in their little trays for a day or two, he knew, but he didn't fancy the idea of going off schedule. The schedule (which existed only in his mind) said he would plant the flowers on Sunday, and, dodgy knee or not, he intended to stick to it. Perhaps Ruth could help him; Something Wonderful was closed on Sundays.
Would that be too much, though? He wondered. Would Ruth want to spend the morning helping him in the garden, and even if she did, would she then still be willing to cook him dinner that night? The thought of spending an entire day with Ruth was quite appealing to Harry, and, given the way she'd responded to his kiss in her kitchen, he was beginning to think that perhaps spending time in his company was appealing to Ruth, as well. As impossible as that seemed.
While he ate his sandwich Harry thought a great deal about Ruth. He thought about how she'd told him she could barely manage pasta on her own, and then offered to cook him dinner. He hoped he wasn't putting her out; she had been the one to suggest he come round to hers, after all. He didn't much care if she served him nothing more than burned toast. Whatever she made for him, he would eat it and be happy, because it meant spending more time with her. He still had so many questions he wanted to ask her, so many things he wanted to learn about her.
As he pondered their next dinner date, his thoughts drifted back to their last, only the night before. The closest she'd come to talking about her family was the comment she'd made, about how she'd give anything to talk to her father one more time. Harry knew how that felt; his last conversation with his father had been a bitter shouting match, followed by years of silence until he got the call from a very apologetic solicitor, telling him his father had passed away. Harry very sincerely wished, to this day, that he had taken the time to make amends. There had never seemed to be enough time, back when he was in London. No time for his wife, no time for his father, no time for his children. Now, though, he felt as if he had too much time. Too much time to sit and ponder, on the mistakes he'd made, the people he'd disappointed, the lives he hadn't quite managed to save.
There had been a young woman, a few years ago, the much younger wife of a wealthy and very influential banker. There had been whisperings that said banker had been taking liberties with his wife's person, idle gossip that turned into something rather more sinister as the young lady in question was seen in public less and less. Towers had asked Harry to look into it, quietly. They didn't want a scandal, but if something untoward was going on, it needed to be handled, and quickly. Harry had gone round to the house, to speak to the wife while her husband was away on business.
Rebecca. That was her name. Rebecca.
Rebecca had been hesitant to let Harry in the door, but when she realized that her only choices were to either invite him in or carry out a rather unpleasant conversation through the letterbox, she had finally relented. She wore long sleeves, he remembered, even though it was high summer. The shades were all drawn and the house was oppressively hot, and still the young woman had wrapped her arms around herself and almost shivered, as she talked to him. No, her husband was not hitting her. No, he had never done anything to hurt her. No, she was fine, thank you very much. Everything about her was cold and sad and hard, from her strained voice to her big brown eyes. Make up caked on too heavy, answers to every question quick and concise and so well-rehearsed. Harry left that house certain of two things; one, that the banker was most definitely hurting his wife, and two, that she would never, ever admit it.
He'd gone round after round with Towers, arguing about how the young woman was in trouble, how they needed to do something, but Towers's only response had been that there was nothing they could do, without a complaining witness.
Rebecca died two days after she'd spoken to Harry. Apparently, when her husband came home from his business trip, a nosy neighbor had enquired about the gentleman who'd stopped by to talk to her, the one in the cheap suit who looked like a government man, and the banker had lost what little self control was left to him. If he concentrated, Harry could still picture the photograph that Towers had handed him afterward, could still see her face; what was left of it, at any rate.
Rebecca.
And now, Ruth.
Standing in that storeroom with her after George's departure, hearing her insist that nothing was wrong, saying I fell like it wasn't the most cliché lie in the book, had felt to Harry like nothing so much as a very familiar nightmare. Seeing her like that had brought all those memories back to him, and he swore he wouldn't let Ruth meet the same fate as Rebecca. He wasn't a detective any more, didn't have to follow the rules of procedure, and he was damned if he was going to let anything bad happen to her ever again. The next time George came round, if indeed there was a next time, would be the last.
Harry heaved himself out of his chair with a groan, crossing the kitchen on creaky legs to drop his plate in the sink. He needed to get a hold himself, needed to keep his memories and his guilt from interfering with the here and now. As overprotective as he felt of Ruth, he knew she would not appreciate his meddling in her life. She was fiercely independent, was Ruth, and she was stubborn as a mule, to boot. He needed to deal with this the right way, needed to be kind and understanding, not proud and overbearing. He needed to show her that he had no interest in controlling her, in locking her away from the world. He'd begun to form another one of his infamous plans, as regarded the George situation, but he needed more time to put it into action.
And thus his thoughts returned once more to time, and the abundance of it he currently found himself saddled with. He dragged himself into the sitting room, not quite ready to attempt to climb the stairs and shower away the sweat and the dirt from his earlier foray into the garden.
With all this time on his hands, it seemed to Harry that he ought to be making the most of it. He'd been in this village for nearly two months, and though he had made a great deal of progress on the cottage and had met and befriended a lovely woman, there was one thing he'd promised himself he would do that he had not yet even attempted.
He had not called his daughter.
The conversation he'd had with Ruth the night before had reminded him that he'd been promising himself since the day he left London that he would call Catherine, and start to mend fences between the two of them. Jane was a lost cause, and happier with him out of her life as it was, and he had no way to reach out to his son, but his daughter had tried, over the years, to stay in touch. He received emails from her, once or twice a year, updating him on her career as an up and coming filmmaker. He'd snuck into a screening of one her documentaries a few years ago, watched her introduce the film and felt his heart nearly burst with pride as he saw how passionate and articulate she was. And like a coward, he had left before she ever caught sight of him.
He had no excuse not to call her, and so he fished his mobile out of his trouser pocket and dialed her number before his own insecurities could sabotage his attempt to reconnect with his oldest child.
As he listened to the endless ringing coming down the line, he wondered what he'd say to her. What could he say to her, to the woman who had grown from the child he'd abandoned? How could even begin to make up for years of absentee parenting, for all the heartaches he knew he'd caused her? Should he even try to explain that he and Jane were never any good for each other, that his children were better off with their bitter, angry mother and over-enthusiastic step-father than they ever would have been with their distant, duty-bound father? Did he even believe that, any more?
Still the phone rang, and he realized she wasn't going to pick up. Once more, twice more, and then-
"Hello, this is Catherine. Sorry I'm not available at the moment, please leave a message and I'll get back to you when I can."
There was a sharp beep. Harry cleared his throat.
"Hi, Catherine, it's dad," he said, heart thundering in his chest. "I just wanted to call, say hello, see how you're doing. I know it's been a while. If you could, call me back-" he left his number, and then faltered for a moment. "Bye, then," he said, not knowing what else to say, and hung up the phone.
It wasn't much, but it was a start.