The next morning Henry gets up early—he can't snooze in bed while he owes an apology, can he? So when Faith steps out of her home, he's already standing in front of the door, waiting for her.
"Good morning."
"Good morning, Henry."
She's already smiling at him, and it's not fair, he doesn't deserve her kindness. Henry wants to sink in shame and never resurface.
"I think I owe you an apology," he starts but Faith stops him with a gentle touch on his elbow.
"I owe you an apology, too." Henry opens his mouth to protest but she doesn't let him. "Will you hear me out this time?"
"Yes, uhh, yes, I'm sorry," he stammers.
"Good. I need one of Abigail's amazing scones for breakfast. Shall we go?" They start walking towards the café. Faith takes a deep breath of the fresh, chilly morning air, then says, "I believe there was a miscommunication between us yesterday. I changed my mind about sending you to the mercantile because I remembered how you were treated all week. It was unjust and cruel, so I decided to spare you from any more malicious glances. I don't think that you're a thief and I understand why you volunteered to help us—I just didn't want to send you out to the wolves, figuratively speaking."
Henry can't help but smirk at her choice of words. Florence Blakeley as a wolf? More like a hissing cat.
"You see, my intentions were good, but I made my decision without asking you about your thoughts concerning the matter and I'm sorry for that."
"It's alright. My reaction was— Well, I wouldn't be surprised if you never wanted to see me after my atrocious behaviour." His face is burning hot. "I apologise. I shouldn't have taken out my frustration on you; I acted like a petulant child."
"Apology accepted. Let's not brood over our mistakes but learn from them."
Henry has learnt that people smile differently. If someone asked him, he would say Faith's smile is like the sun—it radiates warmth and holds the promise of spring. They reach the café where Abigail is sweeping the porch. She greets them with a smile and her smile is like honey—sweet and holds the secret of the sun.
"Good morning. It's nice to see smiling people at such an early hour."
It takes a while for Henry to decipher Abigail's words—they're the two smiling people, Faith and him. He was so lost in her smile he didn't even notice the corners of his own mouth turning up. Well, it's good to know his facial muscles still remember how to smile.
Henry's so absorbed in being surprised he trips and almost falls over. Faith and Abigail don't laugh at him, but he still feels like an idiot. For the second time this morning, he wants to be swallowed by the earth and never resurface.
"My legs are still asleep, I'm afraid," Henry says sheepishly. "I need a coffee before I make a spectacle of myself."
"And I need some scones."
"Let's see what we can do about it."
Faith takes the scones with herself but Henry decides to drink his coffee in the peaceful café. The place is empty, the morning rush hasn't reached it yet, and he allows himself to enjoy the moment. The coffee smells sweet but tastes bitter—just the way he likes it. Abigail is humming in the kitchen, preparing for the day, and Henry tries to stay as silent as possible to hear her better. His senses are lulled by the perfection of the moment—that's the only explanation why Bill can catch him unguarded.
"I'm glad to see you have a good morning, Henry."
"It was good until you appeared," he grumbles.
"I'm not here to spoil it."
"Hard to believe that." Henry sighs. "Are you going to sit down or do I have to crane my neck all the while we're having this unpleasant conversation?"
"Thanks." Bill takes a seat, then just sits there in contemplative silence.
Henry gets tired of Bill's mysterious silence. "So? Do you need my coffee? It's so strong it'd surely spur your mind into action, trust me."
"Yeah, right, let's not beat around the bush." Bill straightens in his seat.
"Thank goodness for—"
"I'm sorry."
Henry fidgets with his cup. If he wants to be honest with himself, it feels half as good as he hoped it would. A small part of him is satisfied with hearing the great Sheriff Avery apologise, but the major part just wishes the last week had never happened. He wishes Bill had no reason to bother him with apologies. But of course, when was the last time his wishes got granted?
"Apology accepted."
"We won't ever become friends—"
"No, we won't."
"—and I don't understand you but I kind of understand why didn't you want to tell me about your brother. I mean, it's a very personal topic and I might have not asked the right questions—"
"Wait a minute," Henry frowns, "I never mentioned James to Jack."
"Jack? No, I don't know about that, but Abigail told me—"
"Abigail?"
A huge, dark cloud shadows Henry's so far pleasant morning, stealing all the warmth and light in a single second.
"Excuse me for a minute."
He rises from his chair and Bill follows suit, grabbing Henry's elbow.
"What's wrong, Henry?"
"I need to talk to Abigail."
Right on cue, she appears from the kitchen. She freezes to the spot seeing Bill firmly holding onto Henry.
"Are you two fighting?" she asks, knitting her brows.
"We aren't—" Bill starts but Henry cuts him off.
"Can I have a word, Abigail? In private."
Bill lets go of Henry but doesn't move from his spot. "I'm not comfortable leaving you alone with him."
"We're adults," says Abigail, "I'm sure we can have a civilized conversation, can't we, Henry?"
"Oh, I'm civilized."
"I don't like it," Bill shakes his head, "but be it. The only reason I leave you alone with him is because, despite his history, I know that Henry would never hurt you. I mean, physically because emotionally, well, I'm not so sure about that— Actually, I know for a fact that he—"
"Bill, you're really not helping."
"For goodness' sake, I don't want to hurt anybody!" Henry exclaims. "I just want to clear up a misunderstanding."
"Yeah, misunderstandings always turn me into a caveman, too," Bill grumbles.
"Don't exaggerate," Abigail warns him. "I don't know what happened between you two in the past few minutes but if Henry wants to talk to me, well, I'm here."
"I'll be around."
One day he won't be able to hold himself back and Henry will to punch the good sheriff. But until that he settles for bitter remarks like, "Fine, and tomorrow every guest at the saloon will gossip about how I gave a black eye to Abigail."
"I already apologised for that and—"
"—and now everything starts all over again." Henry throws up his hands in the air. "I know, I know. It's my fault just as much as it's yours. Maybe we should ignore each other in the future."
"Brilliant idea." Bill rolls his eyes. "It might be your first good idea ever."
Abigail crosses her arms in front of her chest. "If you don't stop this— this— whatever is this right now, I'll ban both of you from my café."
"Okay, I'll leave you two alone," Bill surrenders. "Have a nice day, Abigail. Henry."
When he's finally out of the door, Abigail turns to Henry. "So? What is so important that it made you two fight—again?"
Henry braces himself. "Abigail, you promised me you wouldn't talk about James to anybody."
"Henry, I—"
"You promised," he repeats, his voice firm and unforgiving.
"I know, Henry, and I'm sorry for breaking my promise but," she looks fiercely into his eyes, "I'm not sorry for talking to Bill."
"Abigail, you shouldn't have—"
"Please, don't tell me what I should or shouldn't do." Abigail takes a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. "Henry, you never ask for help, not even when you need it, but I couldn't just stand aside and watch you suffer from the gossiping folk of Hope Valley."
Henry shakes his head. No, she doesn't understand the problem, she really doesn't. "Abigail, listen. I'd never break a promise that I made to you. Never."
Abigail pales but stands her ground. "Actually, I didn't promise anything." She also seems to be growing impatient. "You said you'd prefer if I didn't tell anybody about your brother's death—and I respected your preference up to the point when I couldn't stand it anymore. As I said, I'm not sorry for that and I'd do that again without hesitation."
"Then we have nothing to talk about."
"What do you mean?"
"If you're capable of breaking a promise because you want to feel good about the fact that you made an effort, then we might not be friends at all."
"Is that what you really think?" They are almost shouting now. "Because if you value so-called but not-really-is promises more than your friends, then no wonder you're a lonely man, Henry Gowen."
Henry silently puts a few notes for the coffee on the table and walks out of the café into the cold, dark morning without looking back.
For once and all, they're done.