Страница 27 из 89
forehead.
“Okay.” Casey starts the engine. “Where to?”
“Rosie?” Andy asks gently, his voice million miles
away.
“Anywhere,” mumble. “Anywhere but here.”
lean my head against the cold window, my eyes
heavy as
watch the raindrops streak across, changing
color as they smudge their haphazard way down, down,
blurring the world outside as we pull off, leaving the hotel,
my mother, and all my hopes far, far behind. Forever.
Goodbye, Kitty Clare
sigh.
Goodbye, Holly Woods
153
watch the raindrops streak quickly across the
window as the city lights stream past, trying to ignore the
sick feeling in my stomach.
My fingers play with the ring, new and strange on
my finger, weighing heavily on my conscience. think of
the photo nestled in my bag, of my new life, my new
fiancé, my secret
“Babe?” turn to him, but he’s already asleep, his
head lolling heavily against the seat.
stroke his cheek. He looks so happy, so peaceful.
glance again at the ring, gleaming on my finger,
then kiss it tenderly.
Goodbye, Holly Woods sigh.
Hello, future.
154
Chapter Twelve
wake suddenly, startled and disorientated. Warm
sunlight streams onto my face, and I’m curled under
blanket on the backseat of the empty taxi.
My neck aches as stretch and struggle upright to
look out of the window—at the ocean. The ocean? Where
am I?!
Rap- rap- rap!
turn to see Andy outside the opposite window, his
arms filled with bags, flower between his teeth. reach
over and open the door.
“Not quite
rose, I’m afraid, but the best could
find at short notice.” He grins, putting the bags down and
presenting the flower to me. “Happy birthday.”
“What?”
smile, confused, stroking the delicate,
velvety petals, my stomach growling as the rich aroma of
coffee fills the cab.
“Happy birthday!” Andy repeats, reaching into bag
and handing me steaming Styrofoam cup and muffin. “I
decided that yesterday wasn’t so great, as birthdays go …”
“No kidding,” sigh.
“So,” he says. “Today we’re going to start again. Do
it properly.”
155
“Hence the waking up in
cab in the middle of
nowhere?”
smile, gazing out at the pale blue sea and
soaring seagulls.
“Come on.” He grins, taking out his own coffee. “All
the best birthdays begin by waking up in
cab in the
middle of nowhere.” He winks. “Welcome to Plymouth!”
“Plymouth?” stare out the window. “How long have
been asleep?”
Andy laughs. “Plymouth, Massachusetts, New
England. Though
am surprised you slept all night,
especially in car. You must’ve been shattered.”
“Yeah.” take sip of my coffee. “Shattered.”
“I’m so sorry, Rose,” Andy says gently. “I never
dreamed Kitty’d react like that.”
sigh. “What doesn’t kill you, right?” smile weakly.
“Right.” He sighs. “She’s the one who’s missing out,
okay?”
look up at him, my throat swelling. “Thanks.”
take another deep breath. “I just want to forget about it,
really.”
“Of course,” he says. “And that’s what today’s all
about.
fresh start. Casey and Lola have buggered off
sightseeing for the morning, so it’s just us, I’m afraid—
you, me, the beach and the sea.” He grins.
beam. “Perfect.”
“Almost,” he says, pulling candle from his pocket
and sticking it into my muffin.
156
smile as he lights it, the warmth of the flame
spreading through me, chasing away the shadows of
yesterday, of the past eighteen years.
“Make
wish.” He grins, his eyes twinkling in the
candlelight.
take deep breath, close my eyes and blow.
New England is the perfect antidote to New York.
Peaceful and sleepy, with its quaint little picket fences
lining the gardens of the pretty white clapboard houses, it
feels like it’s tucked away from the world and all its
worries and problems. Mum would’ve loved it.
We spend the morning wandering lazily round
Plymouth. buy some postcards and call Nana; then we
meet Casey and Lola and drive right along to the farthest
tip of the Cape, to Provincetown. The tiny town is
practically shut up for the winter—letters that once
spelled OPEN now rearranged to NOPE in the shop
windows, while others cheerfully proclaim SEE YOU IN
APRIL!; streets and restaurants that are probably
crammed with tourists in the summer, now reclaimed by
the laid-back locals: the fishermen with their enormous
Christmas tree built from lobster pots, the families digging
for clams along the empty shore. It’s perfect.
After
delicious seafood lunch, Andy and finally
wave goodbye to Casey and Lola and book into gorgeous
little B&B. We unpack, shower, and then wander slowly
down to the boardwalk pier, the Pilgrim Monument
spearing the clear blue sky behind us, the huge black-and-
white faces of fishermen’s wives staring out from the
157
wharf walls as little brightly colored boats bob up and
down beside us, the waves splashing wildly below. For the
first time in ages feel like can really breathe.
“Surprise!” Andy a
shiny
white boat with Wesley’s painted on the side.
“Sorry?”
“This is your birthday surprise—I organized it this
morning!”
raise my eyebrows. “A boat?”
“A boat trip,” Andy corrects, helping me aboard.
“But not just any boat trip—now, take
seat and keep
your eyes peeled.”
“For what?”
“It’s surprise, just—watch the waves.”
We ride for what seems like hours, salty spray
peppering my lips as the wind tugs wildly at my hair, the
glittering waves glinting blindingly as stare out at the
distant horizon—blue sea merging into blue sky. The sun
beams down on my face, sea air filling my lungs as the
steady rise and fall of the boat lulls me with its lazy
rhythm, my thoughts drifting with the seagulls reeling
high overhead—wings outstretched, surrendered to the
wind like great white kites.
Mum bought me kite for my sixth birthday. It was
beautiful. Snowy white with
long tail of ribbons. She
held the string, and ran and ran as fast as could, but it
kept dropping to clumsy heap on the ground. When got
tired Mum took over, holding it high above her head and
ru
158
gust of wind took the kite soaring high, high into the sky,
so had to squint to see it.
“Hold on, Rosie!” Mum had called. “Hold tight!”
And did, gripping the string with all my might as
the kite danced high up above, gleaming bright white
against the blue sky, its ribbons sparkling in the sunlight
as it flew, soaring and dipping like bird, forever pulling
at the string in my hand—higher, higher—tugging to get
free.
Then let go. The string snapped from my grip and
was gone. Mum raced after it, but it was too fast, soaring
up, up and away, higher than the trees. She scooped me up
in hug and told me it was all right, she’d buy me another
one. But didn’t want another one. That was my kite, and