"Yes, Mom, I'm doing fine here. I've met some very nice people." Lana sighed as she listened to her mother. "Yes, Mom, I do still remember that you didn't approve of me moving away. I know, I'm very far away, but you're fine. Jack is there and he'll take good care of you." She listened a few more moments. "I'm sorry mom, I've got to go now. I love you too, yup, bye." Another sigh as she slipped the phone into her crossbody purse and sat down on the steps she had just come to during her walk.
"Twice in two days. We do seem to keep running into each other, don't we?" a voice behind her called out. She turned and saw Alec Hardy standing there.
"Mr. Hardy, yes, we do. But at least this time it wasn't as literal as it was yesterday. What are you doing in these parts."
"I work here, you?"
"Just taking a walk, doing a little exploring." She glanced back and he couldn't help but notice that her face went pale. "You work at the police department?"
"Aye, I do. I'm a detective inspector."
"You…you're a cop?"
"Yes, I am." He paused, waiting for her to say more, but she only stared down at the ground in front of her, so he thought he'd try to pull her back out of whatever train of thought she'd gone down. "What kind of work do you do?"
"I, um, I'm a writer. Well, that is, I'm trying to be one."
"What kind of writer?" Hardy asked, a sense of dread coming over him. "A journalist?"
"No, no—though at one time I thought that might be what I ended up doing. No, I write fiction these days. Well, at least I will when I start writing again. It's been a while"
"So you are a writer, were a writer, or are going to be a writer? Which is it?"
She frowned, clearly flustered. "Was, am, will be—what does it matter anyway?" She stood quickly, making her a few inches taller as he had moved to the bottom of the stairs as they talked. It caught him off guard momentarily and she was already starting to walk away when she spoke again. "I should go. Goodbye, Mr. Hardy."
"I'm sorry, have I said something to offend you?"
"No, no, of course not. I just—I should go."
"You're not going to believe what I just found out, Hardy."
"Oh?" Hardy said as he looked over the reports on his desk, not looking up at his partner who stood in his doorway. "If I'm going to find it so unbelievable, why even bother to tell me?" he asked, hoping she'd bugger off and leaving him to finish up this undesirable task.
"Don't be a knob. It's about that American we saw down at the sea wall the other day."
That got Hardy's attention, just yesterday he'd encountered the same woman, and had been mystified by her suddenly cold behavior towards him. He'd been on his best behavior with her, hadn't even been his normal grumpy self—yet she seemed content to turn and walk away as if he'd offended her. He looked up over the top of his glasses. "Oh? What have you found out about her?" he asked, attempting to look only half curious.
"I found out what the tragedy was that brought her here. Seems her husband was a policeman…"
"Was?"
"Yes, well, from what the papers say, he was an undercover cop and got involved with some shady dealings. He was put under investigation and just before it was rumored he was going to be fired—he shot himself."
Hardy felt his gut drop. No wonder she'd had such an aversion to finding out his job. "That's terrible."
"Yeah—apparently she's the one that found him—in their home."
He couldn't believe he was doing this. But here he was. He'd felt compelled, so he did a little quiet checking around and found out the address of the new American woman.
Now, he stood at the door to her cottage, which, as luck would have it, was just a very short walk from his own.
He hadn't knocked yet. He still wasn't sure if he should be doing this. But something about her story compelled him. He finally raised his hand and knocked.
It took several long minutes before he saw the curtain move at the bay window near the door, then heard the latch being pulled and the door finally opened. "Mr. Hardy, is there something I can help you with?" she asked, frowning as she looked him over and saw the large potted plant in his hand.
"I've, um, I've brought you a housewarming gift—-as a welcome to Broadchurch."
"You brought me a…plant?"
"Yes," he said, holding out the pot. "I did."
"You really didn't have to do that."
"I know how difficult it can be in a small town—especially Broadchurch—coming in, the new person, trying to make friends, when everyone already knows everyone and you're the odd man out."
"Speaking from experience?"
"Yes—and…well, I got the feeling the other day that perhaps I did something to offend you, and well—I wanted to apologize for…well, for whatever it might have been."
She sighed, looking away guiltily. "It wasn't anything you did."
"Perhaps not," he said, looking at her sadly. "Perhaps it's what I do rather than something I've done."
She looked up at him now and frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Only that…well, I've heard what happened—"
He saw her whole body tense. "Oh isn't that wonderful, I can't even escape it here. I thought that perhaps crossing an ocean might give me a bit of space, some fresh air to breath that wasn't stifled by the supposed guilt of my husband. He's been gone over a year and I can't escape him, no matter how far I go, no matter how much time passes…as if I…as if I haven't lost enough, God seems determined that I must suffer some sort of punishment for a guilt that wasn't even his to bear—shouldn't God know he was innocent? Why must I continue to suffer." The bitterness in her voice and force of her tirade left Hardy staring wide-eyed, unsure of what to say. Then, she shoved the plant back into his chest. "No thank you, Mr. Hardy, I don't need your gifts of pity. Please go and leave me be." And with that, the door was slammed in his face.
He stood there, in shock, for a moment, eyes blinking as he stared at the closed door again. Then, in a move that shocked even him, he set the plant down by the door, stood back up straight, and knocked again. With no answer, he took a deep breath and knocked again. Still no answer. "I'm just going to be sitting out here on your patio, when you decide to stop making assumptions and let me speak," he said loud enough to be sure she could hear it on the other side of the door. If he was correct, she hadn't gone far.
He turned and found a chair by a small patio table and made himself as comfortable as possible, looking out over the cliffs. He'd felt the bitterness she was feeling. He'd taken on someone else's guilt as his own before and lived through the judgmental stares and opinions of others. If anyone could understand her, it was him. A few minutes later he heard the door quietly open and saw out of the corner of his eye as she came and sat down in the chair opposite his at the table. She stared out at the cliffs as well.
He decided to start speaking first, in case he didn't have much chance to once she decided to lay into him again.
"I really don't know much about what happened. My partner came upon a few news articles when her combined investigative prowess, desire to be everyone's friend, and her nosiness, all got the best of her. I can tell you, Mrs. Reynolds, that I know all there is to know about the crap reporting of newspaper journalists who will spin a tale however they see fit, whether the truth is in it or not, to sell more papers. I've been in their firing line plenty of times. Knowing, and believing, what you say to be true, it irritates me to no end to know that they did you and your husband wrong—and that he couldn't bear the burden."
He paused but she remained quiet, so he continued.
"When I was in my deepest darkest pit of despair, it was my partner, Ellie—the nosy one I mentioned—who helped me out. She believed in me, believed my story, and helped me solve the case that had almost killed me—quite literally. I've the pacemaker in my chest to prove it…Sometimes, Mrs. Reynolds, we just need—we just need someone to listen. We need someone to believe us, to believe in us. I think I might be going off the deep end here, but I'm going to just come out and say it—I'd like to listen, and I promise I'll believe you." He paused for a breath and was about to speak again when her quiet voice stopped him.
"Why? Why would you do that?"
He turned and looked straight at her. "Because you deserve to be heard, you deserve to be believed."
He watched as her face melted and she began to sob. And there, sitting on her patio, only a few feet and a table separating them, he reached across the table and took her hand that rested there. He held her hand as she sobbed.
He couldn't explain the bond he felt to this woman—born out of the unfairness of the mistreatment they'd both received, and out of some still yet mysterious attraction that he couldn't quite explain.
