Henry spots Lucy Montgormery turn onto the road leading to the Montgomery house, carrying a loaded basket and, driven by a sudden impulse, he quickens his pace to catch up with her.
"Let me take that," he offers and takes the heavy basket from her without waiting for an answer.
"Thank you." Once again in their short acquaintance his efforts are greeted by a shy smile. "You're most kind."
It's been a long time since he has made any kind of a first impression, least of all a good one. Surely the younger Mrs. Montgomery hasn't met too many of the people of Hope Valley if she still considers Henry kind. Well, the least he can do is to try and to act friendly.
"How do you like the town so far?"
"It's nice. Very peaceful."
"You mean, it's very boring after the hustle and bustle of Cape Fullerton."
"Yes, that too."
Henry gives her an amused glance. "Don't worry, although winter here is usually less eventful, it has its charm."
"Oh, I don't mind it, not really. It will be nicer for the baby here."
His brain takes its sweet time to process the meaning of her words but once it sinks in, Henry nearly drops the basket. It is one thing to accept that little Gabe is now a grown and married man but it's a completely different thing to learn that Gabriel Montgomery is going to be a father.
"Uhh, I see, I guess con— I mean, congratulations," Henry says, ever the wordsmith. "That's… that's great."
"Thank you. We haven't told many people yet." She pauses, then corrects herself. "Actually, we've only told Mrs— I mean, Gabe's mother so far."
"My lips are sealed."
Nowhere near relieved, Lucy blushes furiously. "I'm sorry. I can't imagine what you're thinking of me for talking to a complete stranger about—"
Henry lifts his free hand to stop her babbling. "I'd prefer to think of ourselves as good neighbours, not strangers. How does that sound?"
"I'd like that, Mr. Gowen." Although she is still bright red in the face, Lucy is smiling again.
"Please, call me Henry. Or else I'll have to call you Mrs Montgomery." And he put his foot into his mouth, again. "I mean, that would be perfectly all right, since that is your name—"
It's Lucy's turn to put an end to his embarrassed stammer. "No, I perfectly understand your meaning. Even though we've been married for months now, I am not yet used to being called Mrs. Montgomery."
"I suppose the majority of young brides feel the same way. Not that I would know."
"Maybe when you get married, you could adopt your wife's name! Then we could compare our experiences in the field."
"Like, I don't know, imagine that Gabe was called Gabriel Montgomery—"
"Gabriel Montgomery-Smith, yes, exactly like that."
"An interesting thought."
"Goodness, I'm so sorry! What was I thinking? That was far too personal and very improper. I apologize."
"No, no, it's fine. We merely discussed a theory." Henry flashes her a smile and Lucy shoots him a grateful look.
And, much to his own surprise, he means it. As much as he hates talking about private affairs or his non-existent family life, he doesn't mind chatting about his hypothetical married name (as if) with Lucy. There is something charmingly awkward about her and God knows that Henry can relate to awkward.
"Here we are." Henry glances at the Montgomerys' house, hesitating. He lifts the basket. "Shall I take it inside…?" The rest of the question (...or should I not intrude and bother the family with my presence?) hangs in the air between them, unsaid.
"It's alright, I can take it from here. You've been far too kind—" But as Lucy takes the heavy basket back from him, a small pocketbook slips from the top of it and, before any of them could react, lands in the muddy puddle at their feet. "Oh, no."
"I'm sorry."
"It wasn't your fault. I should have packed differently, put it in more safely." She picks up the sodden pocketbook and turns it over with a crestfallen look on her face. "I suppose I can still use it to write down Cat's recipes after drying it."
The Montgomery household obviously can't afford to spend too much on paper; even this pocketbook must have cost Lucy a fortune. Judging by the look of it, drying won't help much, and at least half of the pages will be useless after this accident. Henry can only guess that Lucy's plan was to meticulously take down Cat's recipes, so she can cook Gabe's favourites for Christmas—and more importantly, to preserve them for a time when Cat won't be with her family anymore. That intention calls for a proper notebook, in Henry's opinion, not a soiled one.
"Wait here," he says, rushing into his house, only to return with a hardcover notebook. It's bigger than Lucy's palmful pocketbook, also thicker and definitely cleaner—ready to preserve many, many family recipes. "Here, you can use this."
"I can't—"
"Seriously, take it. I have a ton of these, back from my, er, businessman years, and I don't need them anymore."
Lucy's face lights up like Henry has just given her an early Christmas present. She looks at the notebook with such childish joy that it's easy to forget that she is a grown woman—married and expecting a baby.
Henry still can't wrap his head around the fact that little Gabe is going to be a father.
"Thank you, Mr— Henry."
"You're welcome."
He watches her disappear into the house, carrying the basket in one hand, cradling the notebook close to her chest with the other. Maybe he is not so hopeless at being a friendly neighbour after all.
-:-:-:-
Inspired by Lucy's loaded basket, Henry fills a box with richly red apples and takes it to Abigail's house. Abigail opens the door and while she still looks worn out, he is glad to see that she is smiling.
"How is Cody?"
"Much better, thank you. His fever broke last night and when Carson checked in on him this morning, he was very hopeful. He expects a quick recovery."
"Glad to hear that." Henry lifts the box. "I brought some apples, in case Cody works up an appetite for your excellent apple pie."
He loves how she blushes at the small praise.
"Thank you, Henry, but you really shouldn't have."
"Nonsense." The warmth in her voice finds its way right into his heart, making it beat faster, and he is within an inch of blushing, too, so he pretends to be very interested in those apples. "Just tell me where to put them and I'll be out of your hair."
"Who is talking nonsense now? Please, let me make you a cup of coffee or tea."
Stalling for time, Henry places the box in a dry corner of the kitchen. He would love to stay, to bask in her presence, but he knows that she must be bone-tired after worrying day-and-night about Cody.
"I should be the one making tea for you," he jokes but then— "I mean, why not? I'd love to have a cup of tea with you—but only if you let me make it." Something akin to gratitude appears on Abigail's face but she seems to hesitate. "Please. One cup of tea. I won't set your kitchen on fire, I promise." Her face is long and pale with exhaustion, and there are dark circles under her eyes. "Let me take care of you."
Finally, she gives in. "Yes, please. A cup of tea would be great, thank you."
"My pleasure."
True to his promise, Henry manages to make two cups of tea without setting the kitchen (or himself) on fire. And without spilling the hot liquid all over Abigail when their fingers accidentally brush while handing the tea to her. Or without spilling it all over himself when he moves to sit in the armchair but Abigail invites him to sit next to her on the sofa with a small gesture.
They don't talk much after that, just sip their teas in comfortable silence. Henry doesn't know how Abigail feels about it, but he finds this shared quietude very relaxing.
-:-:-:-
Henry has barely stepped out of the church when he hears the reverend call after him.
"Mr. Gowen!"
He stops, reluctantly, and waits for him to catch up. They face each other out there in the cold, on top of the stairs, and a sudden breeze nearly blows away the yellowed piece of paper that the reverend shoves under Henry's nose.
"What is it?"
"You tell me."
Henry eyes the paper suspiciously. Its creases show that it used to be handled a lot, but some folds run deeper, suggesting that it hasn't been touched for some time.
"This is old correspondence," he guesses.
"Regarding mine safety." The reverend nods, then unfolds the letter and starts to read. "'Dear Henry, after careful review we feel your concerns regarding any safety issues are unwarranted. Please consider this matter closed.' What is this?"
Hearing those blood-boiling words read aloud to him, Henry feels old anger swell up in his chest.
"What does it look like?"
"It looks like you knew this mine was unsafe six years ago before it collapsed and killed 47 people," the reverend retorts, not even trying to sound calm.
"Where did you get this?"
"Mrs Montgomery found it."
Henry feels the blood freeze in his veins at the thought of Cat reading this letter.
"She found it in a notebook you had given her."
So it was Lucy, not Cat. Henry lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Small mercies. Although Cat will find out about the contents of the letter sooner or later anyhow. Henry knows that he can't give anything but a lame excuse.
"I had my concerns, I mentioned it to the company and this was their response."
But who is he kidding? This is no excuse, no excuse at all.
"Well, either they were lying or they were wrong."
"I know that now."
"But did you know then?"
He has never believed, not for a single moment, that what had happened at the mine could ever be left in the past. It will always stay with him, as it will always be a part of his present. Nevertheless, he let himself be lulled into a state of calm acceptance by getting used to being judged but not questioned. Now everything shatters once again because the reverend is asking questions Henry has spent many sleepless nights trying to find answers for and, not finding any, hoping that nobody would ever ask them from him.
So now he panics.
"No! Maybe I should have insisted upon an inspector, maybe I should have gone to the newspaper, maybe I should have shut down the mine."
"That's a lot of maybes."
"It is a lot of maybes! And I have to live with each one of them every single day." Henry knows that he shouldn't lose his head but he feels caught and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, he can bring up in his defense. "I didn't do enough! The company told me to shut up and I did!"
Even the reverend looks taken aback by his outburst.
"Mr Gowen!"
Rapidly losing the remains of his crumbling self-control, Henry moves to leave—only to turn back and point a finger at Reverend Anderson's chest, who involuntarily steps back. Henry would laugh at the situation (the only person he wants to punch is himself) if his blood wasn't churning in anger, self-hate and desperation.
"You go ahead and tell everybody in this town how I screwed up. I chose the company over my friends and neighbours in this town. Lord knows I have it coming."
With that he rushes down the stairs and heads home with long steps, oblivious of Elizabeth stepping out of the church.
"Reverend? Is all that true?"