Chapter 79: Arrival

Joyce tried her best to ignore the murmured words from the front room after the first knock on the door, her eyes trained down on the ironing board and the last of the laundry after she at last left her husband alone with his troubled thoughts. Their voices were quiet—she could hardly who was speaking, Cully or Gavin—and their conversation was short before the door to the back garden squeaked gently, as it often did. They need to be alone, she knew, folding the final tea towel with rather too much precision. And perhaps she could give them at least that—at least until Tom finally arrived home.

Whenever that might be. Some days—these last months through, certainly—she knew he threw himself even more desperately into his work to escape the world outside of CID. Whether Aunt Alice's death or Cully's growing feelings for Gavin that he couldn't quite fathom, her husband could bury himself in his paperwork and photographs, the misery and stress of England's maddest county—perhaps even the maddest corner of whole UK! All to silence the grief and nagging questions he couldn't answer himself, but perhaps until tonight hadn't dared to properly ask aloud.

For probably near half an hour, Joyce waited in the kitchen for him, only once venturing to the front room to find a book to pass the time as with a late night cup of tea. And Then There Were None, vicious but simple, no motives to discern, no questions demanding an answer for why. It was the sort of mystery novel her husband despised—"Christie hasn't written anything that wasn't full of clichés," he said more than once—but with all the questions desperate for an answer in her own home, she was glad to not have more to ask in another world.

The last of her tea drunk—her book crushed open on the small table as she washed the delicate cup with a swirl of soapy water, only the first chapter or so into the island mystery—Joyce now heard the so familiar groan of the front door. Her eyes jumped to the clock on the cooker: quarter after ten, and she still hadn't heard Cully or Gavin come back in. No footsteps, no whispered words. I know you want to be alone with him, Cully, but you should have some sense, she thought, nestling the tea cup on the draining board and at last closing her book properly, folding it into her hand as she went to find her husband.

His briefcase and coat in hand, Joyce drew a deep breath. The lines that had spread across his face little by little over the years were now stronger and sharper, the weight of this evening sagging into his skin. For the first few moments, Tom was silent, simply dropping his briefcase with a clatter, throwing his coat onto the rack by the door. "Are you all right?" she asked quietly, her fingers running over the book she still clutched.

He had that little smile she knew well, a look that had drawn her to him a quarter century ago, a young constable still in uniform rather than the chief inspector whose suit coat was rumpled and tie half torn apart. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you look unhappy."

"Not true—"

"Or like you want to say something," she added, dropping her book on the side table. The judge's strange scheme of justice and malice had no place here. "I know that."

Her husband shook his head, closing his eyes for a second. "I am not going to say anything."

"That's what you've said all along."

"And you don't believe me?" he asked, finally stepping away from the door, into the new world he could no longer ignore—perhaps was no longer willing to ignore?

"Not now," she said softly. "What happened at the office, Tom?"

"I suppose I thought I could talk him out—"

"Talk?" Joyce interrupted. There was no talking anyone out of love, he should know that himself. "A lot of good that did my parents when you were first coming around!"

"You never let me get away with anything, dear." He kissed her cheek, and like she often did, Joyce felt herself shiver beneath his touch; she always had, even all those decades ago. "I guess I tried to yell it out of him instead."

"Oh, Tom, you should know what good that does more than most, even if you tried to forget."

"Quite."

She offered him one of her hands, and he grasped it tighter than she expected. Trying to hold onto something he understands? she wondered. Or still trying to find his way through a new world? "But you'll have to talk to them sometime."

"I never doubted that. I don't look forward to spending tomorrow in the car with Troy—"

"I mean you'll have to talk to both of them—I already told you that a long time ago."

He shook his head. "Can't be avoided, can it?"

"I don't think so."

Turning back to the front door for half a second, Tom said, "I saw Troy's car. Where are they?"

"Out back, in the garden." He pulled her forward with him through the front room still clutching her hand, to the far side where, just next to the corridor that led to his study and the dining room, the door to the back garden still lay open. One fresh gust of night air cut through the warmth of the house and her husband beside her. They've already forgotten everything, Joyce thought, tugging the door closed and hoping the hinges wouldn't complain as they so often did. For once, they remained silent.

Just at the edge of the concrete patio, there they were, Cully and Gavin. It was hard to catch sight of their daughter sat in his lap, but through one of the windows, set askew from where the pair huddled together in the dark, it was easier, even with just the light from the house. His arms were in just their shirt sleeves, his hands on her stomach—Joyce could just see Cully wore his suit coat against the chill—and he was whispering something in her ear. Mostly, she laughed, though even through the few seconds she and Tom looked on, the young man kissed her cheek twice, one of his hands rising to her shoulder, like he meant to hold her so she could never quite get away.

"Who would have thought it," Tom muttered, running his free hand through his hair, against his forehead. "Cully Barnaby and Gavin Troy, more than ships just passing in the night."

"Just because you didn't see it coming—or didn't want to..."

Still peering through the window, Tom shook his head again. "At least they'll catch their death of cold together."

"I think that's the least of their worries now." He didn't resist as Joyce drew him back, turning him around, away from the young love finally blossoming in the open air. "They've got to decide what to do now, just like we did."

"I suppose so." His face loosened, and Joyce knew he was still far away, in London all those years ago. Back in yesteryear, remembering a uniformed constable eager for advancement and a young woman already teaching art to the neighbors' children, both struggling not to fall in love. "But, either way, Cully can wait."

"They both can."

"Right now, yes. But tomorrow, when we go back to Midsomer Worthy, I will have to talk with Troy."

"I'm sure that can wait as well—"

"It is of the utmost importance."

Joyce rarely rolled her eyes at her husband, but she found herself unable to resist now. "Really?"

He shrugged his shoulders, "I just have to remind him of the necessity of taking the driving course again."

"Tom."

"As soon as possible."

"Tom," she said again, louder this time.

"If our daughter is about to volunteer for this, I'd rather she didn't risk her neck in the car for—" He stopped, just turning his face over his shoulder to the window and the back garden, just catching another glimpse of everything growing there, though neither Cully nor Gavin had moved, still wrapped about one another and what might lie ahead. "For perhaps the rest of her life. I don't think you've ever experienced Troy—Gavin's driving firsthand."

She'd rarely heard him use his sergeant's first name, always preferring either his title—Detective Sergeant—or simply his last name. Perhaps now he finally understood that Troy was something new, now, something more than simply a coworker. "You've survived it."

"But that's me, Joyce. A daughter is different."

She almost laughed, would have done if his face wasn't so strict, so serious. "You'll never trust him to drive, will you?"

"Not at all."

"You'll have to trust him eventually." she said, offering him another hug.

"Oh, I will." Tom wrapped his arm around her upper back. "I think." Another second before he clutched her against him. "Just not with that. Not until he's earned it."

"What about otherwise?"

"I suppose that's different as well."

She nearly smiled, her head falling on his shoulder. "Well, you're right about one thing, at least."

Her husband didn't speak for a few seconds, but he was quiet when he finally did. "It wasn't for me to worry about, was it?"

Looking up at him, she shook her head. "Not at all."

"Never my trust he had to earn," he went on, still holding her tight to him. Remembering the pain of absence and disapproval?

"He has hers."

"Even through..." He didn't go on, but Joyce knew. Just a few weeks ago, whatever had bubbled between their daughter and Sergeant Troy had suddenly appeared lost and rotten, something broken and never to be patched together again. And now, somehow it was all right again, the way it had been—the way Joyce had wondered since the middle of the summer if it was the way it should be. "I know—"

"You know now," she finished for him.

He finally managed a smile, small but real. Genuine, not forced. "Yes, now."

A/N: OMG, there's only one chapter and an epilogue to go, we are gonna MAKE IT after more than 8.5 years! Also, as always, Joyce's chapter is spare, I think because she's more observational than active as a character.