Chapter Text
Chapter 12
Not far above Jack’s farm, as he suspected, the road is closed: a wooden barrier bars access to vehicles before the square marker for Beacon Hill. In front of it where he pulls up the snow is rutted and muddy, but beyond it stretches unmarked, any tyretracks obliterated by fresh recent falls. When Billy gets out of the car the cold hits him like a punch to the chest – they’re into the deep freeze of the year, the temperature gone stubbornly down into the basement, and his breath hangs in a cloud before him as he starts off on foot through the trees, snow squeaking under his boots and his camera bag bumping at his hip.
Animal tracks thread across the path from time to time, the uneven trails of hares and the delicate prints of a deer, but it’s obvious that no human’s set foot up here; he finds it difficult to say what it is that’s brought him back. Curiosity? A search for proof, that what he remembers was all real? Or a remnant of unease that he needs to lay to rest? He flexes his hand, a newly-learned habit, and feels the pull of tender new skin under the fabric of his glove.
He knows what happened here, but it’s still a shock to come out from the trees and see the house a ruin. Even with its roof collapsed and the stonework blackened by smoke it manages to be imposing, and he half-expects to find Bogue at the door again, coming out to greet him in his old-fashioned clothes, rubbing his hands. Closer to, though, the empty windows open onto charred timbers and patches of dirty snow; a crow flaps and settles again on the remnant of the turret, watching him. No one’s come to rake over the ashes: probably there’s nothing in there to find.
He walks around the house, skirting fallen heaps of masonry and tiles, to the unmarked back lawn where the remains of the bonfire are no more than an indistinct mound under the snow. The outbuildings are untouched by the fire and everything just as it was, the axe still leaning against the chopping-block. The door of the stable stands slightly ajar and through it he catches a glint of reflection: Tallulah. He pushes open the door and steps inside where she sits in the dim light.
It’s only been two weeks: how can she have gathered so much dust, her gleaming paintwork dulled and her chrome beginning to spot? Ageless all these years, it’s as though time has started a race to catch up with her, the rust and mildew long held at bay now quick to overwhelm her. A tracery of spiderweb runs from her headlamp to the front grille, trembling in the shaft of light from the doorway: the image is irresistible and cold though it is Billy drops his bag and squats to unpack his camera.
His hands are stiff and clumsy, but through the viewfinder the photographs seem to compose themselves: the abandoned car and fallen house, the circling crows black against the sky. He leaves a trail of prints across the lawn, backing up to frame the house among the encroaching trees; it seems as though the rest of the estate too has grown months in the space of a week, the forest surging in to erase the shallow print of civilisation.
This isn’t what he came to see, not really. The way is still oddly difficult to find, the icehouse all but swallowed up by the undergrowth and the track down the hill brushed over with leaves and pine needles. When he gets there, though, it’s an anti-climax, the grove no more than a clearing of burnt stumps, any remains of the burning hidden in ash and undergrowth. He flexes his hand again, eyes closed at the memory, but even here there’s nothing of Bogue, the immanence gone to leave it hollow, like the house and Tallulah, all things that should have died long ago.
A clatter in the branches overhead makes him jump; a black and white bird swoops away, indistinct, and in its wake a single long feather drifts down to land at his feet. Magpie, he thinks, picking it up, but the feather’s downy, graduating pale to dark and spotted with white: if he didn’t know better he might have said it belonged to a loon.
Walking on to the overlook he twiddles it in the fingers of his good hand, brooding on Jack and Red. He hasn’t seen either of them since they disappeared into the woods. They’d played as great a part as Josh and him, greater, calling on gods as old as the land and forging a weapon from their belief to weaken Bogue’s hold, but what has it meant for them now?
Out on the vantage point, alone in the winter hush, he scans the snowy landscape. Rose Creek lies small and huddled below, a network of roads around the dark thread of the creek. That’s the question, isn’t it? The stones down in the graveyard are all still there, the Hornes’ tall white one and Lily Peretz’s smooth and worn; Riley Gill and Ginny Coulter are still gone. The case files will be closed but the past won’t alter; the ones who vanished will never be found and justice will never be done. Things are going to change, that’s certain, but who wins, in the end?
He’d asked Sam that when he came to see them in the strange in-between time, when Billy was bandaged and sore and their ordeal still raw and impossible to believe. He and Goody had turned inward, seeing no one until Sam appeared, calm and prosaic, to inspect Billy’s hand and arm and report what had happened. ‘Faraday’s still under treatment,’ he told them, ‘but Alejo’s moved in for the duration. Harp’s already put in his resignation.’
When the three of them were settled round the fire, ‘What about the house?’ Goody had asked. ‘There going to be an investigation?’
Sam’s mouth had twisted. ‘Hasn’t been for the last thirty years and it won’t start now. No reason for anyone to assume it wasn’t just a tragic accident.’
‘And the town?’ Billy had demanded. ‘Most of them – they wanted it to stay the same. They were on his side up there.’
‘The ones who were his won’t stay.’ Sam’s face was hard, a lifetime’s grudge too big a thing to lay down easily. ‘Harp, McCann, David – there’ll be no place for them now, and they know it. But the rest –‘
‘They’ll take what’s coming to them.’ Billy couldn’t criticise the harshness of Goody’s words: Emma and the women had had their small revenge, but all those years, when everyone in the town had known… His skin still crawls.
‘Yes,’ Sam had said slowly, ‘we will. And we’ll have sorrow to carry and debts to pay.’
‘We?’ Goody leaned forward in consternation. ‘Thought this was the end of the road for you. Your chance to go someplace new at last.’
Sam had reached to shake his shoulder. ‘So did I. Had some plans. But now – Ellie’s better.’ Billy couldn’t but be warmed by the affection that showed on Sam’s face. ‘Like the sun’s come out again. And the district office - I expected there’d be changes, never did make any sense for Harp to run it as his own little fiefdom, but I didn’t think it would be so quick. They’re merging the two departments under one chief, and they’ve offered me the job.’
‘More than Rose Creek deserves.’
Sam sat back with a sigh. ‘Is it about what anyone deserves? We’re part of the story, Ellie and me, and now we’ve got the chance to write it ourselves.’ His gaze lingered on Billy’s bandaged hand again. ‘No obligation on you to do the same.’
‘We’ll do some thinking about that,’ Goody had said shortly.
‘Take your time,’ Sam had been mild. ‘We owe you that and more.’
And that’s why he’s here, partly, for the question they can’t resolve. What should they do? Stay and struggle on as as the prosperity drains from Rose Creek and the real world overwhelms the dream? Leave the town to its own devices and start again somewhere new, chasing the vision of what they had? Or go back to the city, back to a life that no longer fits, if it’s even there to be taken up again?
Lost in thought, he doesn’t realise how still he’s been standing until a deliberate tread through the trees behind him and a shout of greeting shake him from his reverie. He’s not entirely surprised to see Jack, stoutly dressed in boots and a heavy coat, and a hat with earflaps. ‘Thought I saw someone pass by on the way up,’ he greets Billy; he seems more focused, eyes brighter and his otherworldly air diminished. He walks right to the edge to take in the view. ‘Haven’t come up here for years. Forgotten how much you can see.’
‘I came up to …’ To what? Billy trails off, but Jack seems to understand.
‘To see if anything was left. Was there?’
‘No.’ Something inside Billy relaxes. ‘It’s just – derelict. Everything fading away.’
Jack nods, satisfied. ‘Give it a year or two, there won’t be much to find.’ He turns, surveying the treeclad slopes with an air of ownership. ‘Did you hear, the logging’s stopping? Lumber company’s pulled out – no more cutting or clearing, no more gouging out roads and blocking the creeks.’
Billy joins him on the viewpoint, Jack’s bulk at his side making him feel small. ‘Will it all grow back, like before?’
A cloud passes over Jack’s face. ‘No, it won’t be like it was before. But the forest can heal a lot, if you let it.’ He turns to Billy. ‘You’d be amazed how fast it comes back. Few folk I know are even talking about getting it made a reserve.’
‘The forest needs the fire to let it grow, and we need the flames to scour us and make us whole again,’ quotes Billy softly. ‘Is that right?’
Jack looks at him keenly. ‘I think so. How’s the hand?’
The sudden change of topic takes Billy aback. ‘Getting better.’ He pulls off his glove and Jack reaches for his hand to turn it over, his touch as delicate as with one of his seedlings. ‘It’ll be fine once it’s healed,’ Billy tells him, then, ‘…and you?’ he ventures. Clarity of mind must be better for Jack, but is it easier?
Jack drops his hand to look out again to the town below. ‘I’ll always have the past to mourn,’ he says in his soft voice, ‘but I hold it with me, and it’s something, to have the hope for better.’
Billy remembers the feather in his other hand. ‘I found this,’ he says, holding it out for Jack to see.
Jack takes it, his fingers brushing it almost reverently. ‘Never far from the heart of things, out here in the wild.’ He turns a mild, knowing gaze on Billy who holds it for a moment in a wordless exchange. ‘You should go back down to that husband of yours.’
‘I should,’ agrees Billy.
Jack tucks the feather into the band of his hat. ‘Reckon I’ll stay on here a little now I’ve found my way.’ And Billy leaves him there, standing sentinel on the side of the mountain like a great pine.
--
Three weeks later, just after New Year, Billy stands on the doorstep of Teddy’s house, shivering slightly as his finger hovers over the bell. Do I really want to do this? But he can’t back down now: he presses the button, then when there’s no reply, raps impatiently at the door. It’s late afternoon, but it takes Teddy a long time to appear, and when he does, greasy-haired and blinking, he’s clearly taken aback to see his visitor.
The cracks in the dream have spread faster than Billy had thought now Bogue’s protective hand is lifted, the town coming down from its collective high to a greyer and more difficult world, and Teddy’s Ba-Q-ry had been one of the earliest casualties. Teddy could have fought harder, perhaps, when the property was sold on to a faceless corporation and his lease suddenly terminated, but the abrupt end of his relationship with Red Harvest, and the general sense of pervasive guilt, had weakened any resolve he might have had. And painful though it is to admit, Billy had been sorry to see the Ba-Q-ry go, its inventive baking and quality coffee leaving an unexpected hole in his and Goody’s lives.
Now Teddy’s greeting is stammering and awkward, eyes darting guiltily to Billy’s gloved hand; eventually Billy has to abandon pleasantries, march him into his own house and send him to shower while he stacks the dishwasher in the messy kitchen and puts the coffeepot on. Once Teddy is sitting, cleaner and a little dazed, at the kitchen table, Billy makes his pitch: a new gallery in McCann’s old premises, a showcase for his own work and that of other local artists, with a café. ‘You can even keep the name,’ he offers magnanimously, and that finally brings the ghost of a smile to Teddy’s face, though he picks nervously at the table, unwilling to meet Billy’s eye.
‘You and Goody are staying?’ he asks.
‘Every town needs a bookstore.’ It’s an oblique answer, but Billy’s not sure how much he wants to give away. ‘And a bigger public space for art – real art that isn’t all about colonial heritage – would help. Might even think about an arts festival in the summer.’
Teddy finally raises his head, stubborn in the face of the lifeline he’s being thrown. ‘I don’t deserve this.’
Billy flexes his fingers around the warmth of his mug. ‘No, you don’t.’ Teddy’s stricken expression is too much even for him and Billy relents. ‘I don’t know everything that went on here, only people who lived with it can know. But from now on Rose Creek is going to make it on its own two feet and you’re going to help.’
Teddy straightens his spine, though he still sounds dubious. ‘You’ve seen Langston. Won’t be easy.’
‘It won’t,’ agrees Billy, ‘and unfortunately for me your baking’s an asset I need.’
Teddy seems to waver, unable to tell if he’s being serious, but Billy waits until he holds out a hand, solemn. ‘OK.’
Billy sits back. ‘There are conditions.’ Teddy stiffens. ‘Green tea on tap for me if I bring my own mug, and Goody gets a free muffin twice a week. He likes the cranberry-maple ones.’
At last Teddy relaxes into a genuine laugh. ‘Hard bargain.’
Billy pushes back his chair. ‘Tomorrow morning good for you? Come and find me, and we can hash out the bottom line.’
Teddy stands up too, more purposeful already. ‘Guess you could use some help getting it painted and set up too?’ At the sight of such new-found enthusiasm Billy doesn’t know whether to be gratified or to curse himself. What have I done?
Outside it’s no warmer than it was and he’s glad to be able to drive the short distance to the main street. Teddy’s isn’t the only business to be facing difficulties – the antique store has a ‘Retirement Sale’ sign in the window and a notice on the door of La Huerta tells them that it’s lunch only Tuesday-Thursday. But Psyche’s Garden is hanging in there, presumably sustained by faith and crystals, the farm shop is stacked high with crates of cranberries, winter pears and forced asparagus, and at the end of the street the bookstore’s still bright and inviting, Goody visible at the desk poring over a catalogue.
Billy pushes through the door with a shiver of relief and Goody perks up at the sound of the bell: Billy’s his only customer. ‘Trade still slow?’ Billy circles round behind the desk to press his cold nose into Goody’s warm neck and Goody leans back into him.
‘Been better.’ He waves a hand at the catalogues spread out in front of him. ‘Ellie came through with some school orders for Langston.’ The changes in here take a more subtle eye to see: the old cash register’s gone, its place taken by a display of handmade cards, and a prominent new display highlights histories of the Abenaki people and books by indigenous authors.
‘Teddy’s in.’ Billy tells him. He glances up to the balcony. ‘I can start tomorrow getting the prints down, give you back the space.’
Goody gazes sadly at the art section they created so carefully. ‘Shame to see them go, though I know they’ll be better placed with you.’
Billy can’t but share his regret for the store as they first conceived it, their passions and visions combined in the bright new titles and literary reviews below and the monochrome prints and art books above. ‘We don’t have to—’ he starts as Goody bundles up his receipts, but Goody smiles.
‘Everything changes, cher. Town would be worse off without a bookstore, and if crafts and games are what it takes to keep it viable, I can’t be purist about it.’ He wraps himself in coat and scarf and slings his satchel over his shoulder. ‘How was Teddy, anyway?’
Billy shrugs. ‘All over the place.’ He holds the door open while Goody snaps off the lights. ‘And no, I didn’t ask him about the breakup.’
‘Pity.’ Billy counts silently, and before he reaches ten, ‘Guess that means Red will be heading off soon,’ speculates Goody. ‘Nothing to keep him here now.’
While Goody locks up Billy can’t resist walking the few yards to the newly-empty window where he spans a hand proprietorially on the glass. It takes him back to May, peering into a vacant store with a vision of what it might become. It’s a risk, now more than ever – is he foolish to be so optimistic? Goody comes up behind him, ‘Teddy going to help you set it up?’
‘He’s coming first thing tomorrow.’ Billy cranes up at the façade, picturing what it can become. ‘We can be open in a fortnight if we put our backs into it.’
‘On your personal crusade to save this town from pansies in milkchurns and views of fall colours?’ teases Goody.
Billy strikes an attitude. ‘Modernity’s what these people need. They just don’t know it yet.’
‘Oh God.’ Goody manages to look suitably appalled. ‘You’re going to be just like Leo and let power go to your head, aren’t you?’
‘Just watch me,’ promises Billy. ‘I’m going to be insufferable.’
‘Quoi de neuf?’ Goody elbows him and Billy elbows him back, the pair of them scuffling down the street like children.
It’s not far from the main street to Josh’s; they pass the auto shop, now boasting a prominent sign out front announcing ‘Reopening Monday’ and pull up at his house, just a couple of streets behind. Despite the cold Josh is out in the yard with Blue, Donna and Luis, fielding practice shots while two dogs bark and chase with giddy enthusiasm; one is ugly Jack, but the other is a big thick-furred white dog which Billy eyes suspiciously. Josh raises a hand in greeting; ‘Looking good!’ calls Goody.
Truth to tell, Josh is red-faced and puffing, paler patches of burns still clear on his arm and neck; the sight has Billy clenching his fist reflexively at his side. But though he’s out of shape Josh is alight with enthusiasm. ‘Business end of the season – everything to play for,’ he declares as Alejo opens the door. ‘Come and join us!’
Goody blenches. ‘Perish the thought.’
‘See?’ Alejo tells Josh, plainly an ongoing argument. ‘No one else is loco like you.’
‘Too soft,’ cackles Josh and Alejo shuts the door with a huff of disapproval.
‘Should he be doing that?’ asks Goody, shrugging out of his coat. ‘Doc told Billy to stay out of the rough stuff for a while.’
Vasquez snorts. ‘Of course he should not. But when did he ever listen to good advice?’
Billy’s never seen the inside of Josh’s house: it’s unpretentious, homelike and full of comfortable clutter – a stack of Disney videos, a dress-up box spilling over, a Raptors team pennant on the wall beside Josh’s framed coaching certificates. There are traces of its new occupant too: a shelf of painted wooden animals, a guitar propped next to the fireplace, a set of bright Mexican plates. It’s a far cry from Alejo’s lifeless, barely-occupied apartment, and Alejo himself seems newly alive too, more handsome than he has any right to be in a worn blue shirt and a healthy scruff.
‘Settled in?’ Billy recognises the mischievous spark in Goody’s eye, but Alejo seems too serene to rise to the bait.
‘It was not a difficult decision,’ he agrees.
Billy refuses to let himself be distracted. ‘Red’s here, isn’t he?’ he demands.
‘He is.’ Alejo waves a hand. ‘Go ahead.’
Red’s not alone in the big living-room: Sam is with him, and TV, chattering animatedly to the woman at their side. ‘Sam!’ Goody goes bounding over to envelop him in a hug and the woman, tall and striking with a vibrant orange scarf wound round her hair, holds her hands out to Billy with a flashing smile.
So great is the change in her that it takes him a moment to reconcile her, warm and confident, with the diffident woman he met. ‘Good to see you,’ he says, and Ellie takes his hand with a careful grip.
‘It’s great to be back.’ She grabs Goody for a hug of her own, the ends of her scarf trailing like comets, and Billy turns to Red, who’s waiting with folded arms.
He doesn’t waste a moment. ‘Heard you’re going into business with Teddy.’
Billy grinds his teeth. ‘I am opening a gallery. For the display of contemporary visual and conceptual art.’
‘And a café.’
‘It’s hardly a novel idea,’ snaps Billy.
‘Why Teddy?’ Is that something akin to an expression on Red’s face?
‘I missed the Ba-Q-ry,’ admits Billy defensively. ‘No one more surprised than me.’
Red shifts, still challenging. ‘So he gets a second chance. Just like that.’
It makes Billy think of Jack up on the hillside, looking to the future. ‘Yes, he does. They all do. What’s the alternative?’ Red stares at him, a flush of colour on his cheekbones, and Billy thinks he understands. ‘I’m seeing him tomorrow,’ he offers. ‘Want me to tell him anything from you?’
Red looks at him in silence, the most human Billy’s ever seen him, and Billy stares back, unabashed; eventually Red offers grudgingly, ‘Tell him – tell him I might come in. When you’re open.’
As the implications sink in – he’s going to have to sit and watch the whole awkward show, isn’t he? – Goody moves in, seizing on the significant element of Red’s remark. ‘You’re staying?’
Red fixes him with a combative gaze, obviously regretting his show of emotion. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘That’s great news!’ At the look Billy turns on him Goody adopts an expression of wounded innocence. ‘A properly experienced vet is essential to Ha-Eun’s wellbeing, cher, we all know that.’
Billy turns his back on his treacherous husband to find Sam unsuccessfully stifling a smile. ‘You two made up your minds, then.’
‘I imagine you’ve heard all about it?’ asks Billy resignedly; Sam chuckles.
‘What d’you think? I’ll expect an invitation to the grand opening.’ He eyes Billy over his glass, something speculative in his gaze. ‘Goody said your new photo series is doing well too.’
‘My agent says Orbit in Portland are interested,’ Billy admits. ‘They want to take over the exhibition and expand it, give me a bit more exposure.’ Behind them Ellie is deep in conversation with Goody and Red: Billy drops his voice. ‘But that’s not why you asked, is it?’
Sam hesitates, on the brink of denial, then he blows out a breath through his moustache. ‘He’s still up there.’ The words are no more than a murmur. ‘He hasn’t gone.’
Billy holds his gaze. ‘I know.’ When he opened the images to edit his afternoon’s work it hadn’t been a surprise to find in each one the ghost of a presence among the trees, a figure half-glimpsed in the distance or a blur at the edge of the frame, a tiny glitter that might have been the light reflecting from a jet button or a diamond tiepin. Hopes and dreams, prayers and promises, waiting there to be summoned back into being should the flame of longing burn bright enough. Now he smiles at Sam. ‘All the more reason to stay.’
Sam puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, a silent acknowledgement. ‘Well, you tell Teddy my officers will be paying for their coffee from now on.’
Without warning the room is engulfed by what seems to Billy a tidal wave of children, all shouting at once, and two dogs barking excitedly. As Josh appears in the doorway behind them TV bellows over the others, ‘Aunt Ellie has a boat! She’s going to take us sailing!’
Ellie smiles brightly over the clamour of excitement. ‘Once the weather warms up we’ll take you all out on the lake, won’t we, Sam?’
To Billy’s eye Sam seems less than enthusiastic at the prospect, but Josh lights up, as thrilled as Blue. ‘I’ll look out my fishing gear.’ He beckons TV and Luis. ‘Hey, boys, why don’t you go tell your tío?’ he suggests. There’s something suspicious about the way he listens when they run off; Billy catches his eye and Josh smirks. ‘You know how Ale’s so handy? Can carpenter and do electrics and ride a horse and all that stuff?’ The sound of argument rises from the kitchen and Josh creases into a truly evil grin. ‘He gets seasick in a bathtub.’
‘You two getting on well, then?’ Goody deadpans.
‘Cooking’s taken a turn for the better,’ boasts Josh. ‘Might keep him round.’
‘Got him on permanent KP?’ A lesser man than Billy might be piqued by the envious look on his partner’s face.
Josh slaps his midriff. ‘Ain’t helping me get back into shape, though, what with sitting round on my ass for a month. Sooner I can get back to work the better, for me and the business.’
Sam frowns. ‘Couple of weeks closed can’t have hurt that much, can it, not over the holidays?’
‘You’d think.’ A cloud passes over Josh’s face. ‘You must have seen the new repair shop on the Huntsford road. They’re just a bunch of kids, wouldn’t know their asses from a hole in the ground, but they’re close enough to here and they’re cheap.’ Just what Bogue promised, the charmed life gone and the cold wind blowing.
‘Won’t your customers show some loyalty?’ Goody asks.
Josh sighs. ‘Money talks, yeah? Saw Caleb Frankel rolling back yesterday with a new set of tyres, too ashamed to look me in the eye.’
Sam claps him on the shoulder sympathetically. ‘Well, we have cars to keep on the road – have to see if I can put some official work your way.’
‘’Preciated.’ Josh draws himself up with determined positivity. ‘And quality counts in the long run, right? I’m in this for the long haul.’
‘That so?’ Goody quirks an eyebrow as Vasquez appears behind him.
Where Josh would once have flushed and deflected with a joke, now he winds an arm around Alejo’s waist with a smug confidence. ‘A good mechanic’s always in demand.’
‘You make sure to tell me if you find one,’ scoffs Vasquez.
He and Josh are plainly in their element, the house noisy and lively with children and dogs; as the conversation ebbs and flows around Billy he’s struck by the contrast with the tense Thanksgiving at Emma’s. Then he’d been unsettled by the hothouse of happy-ever-after, uneasily aware of the hidden snags beneath the smooth surface. Now, though, the threats are plain to see, rocks and rapids to weather, but there’s a truth to it, an honest vision to replace the sugar-coated dream. That’s what everyone gets, isn’t it, good and bad mixed, and it’s how you face the bad times that tells you most about yourself. He watches Goody joking with Sam, Alejo playing with his nephews, Ellie teasing Red. But what about Emma? And Matt? prompts his conscience. Sorrow to carry and debts to pay, but what now for them?
--
Inevitably, when he wanders into the kitchen later on in search of another beer, he interrupts Alejo and Josh enjoying a private moment, Josh backed up against the fridge with Alejo’s hands under his shirt and his own fisted in Alejo’s dark curls. Billy freezes, about to retreat quietly – it is their home, after all – but Josh spots him and wriggles free with a curse. ‘You have some kind of sixth sense for it, to make you come crashing in soon as we start kissing?’
‘I don’t enjoy it any more than you do,’ Billy assures him; Alejo snorts in laughter.
‘He enjoys it a whole lot, don’t you, güero?’ He reaches to pull Josh back in but Josh dodges his outstretched arm.
‘Ain’t putting on any more shows for his benefit.’
‘How about for me later?’ purrs Alejo lasciviously and Billy shudders.
‘Words cannot express how little I want to know.’
Josh cocks his head, speculating. ‘Hey, maybe we’ve been going about this the wrong way…’ He grabs Alejo by the belt, and Alejo rumbles a laugh as he lets himself be reeled in.
‘I can do without a drink,’ Billy assures them, averting his gaze as he beats a hasty retreat.
He emerges empty-handed into an uproar of childish disagreement, Luis’s and Blue’s voices raised.
‘He wouldn’t, that’s stupid.’
‘He will so, he promised like Daddy promised me.’
It doesn’t seem his business until Josh appears behind him. ‘What’s up, guys?’ he asks, and to Billy’s consternation Blue points to him.
‘You said that if you get married Billy and I can be the bridesmaids.’
All conversation comes to a screeching halt and Billy’s heart sinks as the unfortunate memory returns. Josh’s horse-collar grin is back. ‘I did say that, didn’t I, dino?’ Billy looks around for help and sees only an audience looking vastly entertained.
‘Promise is a promise,’ Alejo observes helpfully; Josh’s green eyes are unmerciful. Billy looks from him to Goody’s delighted smile and down to Blue’s hopeful face. How likely is it really, Josh being who he is?
He goes down on one knee, face-to-face with Blue. ‘If the day comes when anyone is brave enough or crazy enough to marry your dad,’ he tells her, ‘I will certainly be a bridesmaid with you.’
‘See!’ cries Blue triumphantly to Luis. ‘I told you!’ She smiles gappily at him with all of Josh’s enthusiasm. ‘We can wear matching dresses, all blue and sparkly!’
Billy makes a show of considering it. ‘Dark red is a better colour on me,’ he says with a sly look under his eyelashes at Goody, then he takes Blue’s hand. ‘And I’ll promise you another thing – you and me, we’ll be the stars of the show.’
--
‘One more trip for the chairs and the counter fittings.’ Teddy pauses optimistically, jingling the keys to the van in case Billy’s finally going to offer to help, but, ‘You go on,’ Billy tells him with cheerful callousness. ‘And mind you don’t scuff the paintwork!’
He doesn’t catch Teddy’s muffled reply before the door closes behind him, leaving Billy alone in the three-quarters finished gallery, the scent of sawn wood and fresh paint still heavy in the air. An intermittent wash of noise tumbles from the speakers set high in the corners of the room – low creaks and rumbles, bursts of running water, thrumming echoes interspersed with soft, almost inaudible shifts – keeping him company as he contemplates the empty walls.
He’s placed his own photographs already, and the cases in the centre of the room are filled with tiny delicate structures formed from wire and moss, paper scraps and leaf skeletons: the weather garden will go at the foot of the wall furthest from the door, he decides, and the fragmented birch bark works beside them. It’s been a revelation, the untapped artistic potential he’s unearthed in the communities around: Jack put him in touch with some of his exhibitors and Ellie helped him find others, and now he has enough innovative and thought-provoking art to fill the place twice over.
A shadow falls on the boards at his feet, cast by a woman peering in through the glass: it’s Emma, hair flaming red against a bright green coat. It’s time she came: he’s found a new tentative balance with the town, they both have, things unsaid but acknowledged as they adjust to the new reality, but Emma was the fulcrum, the fire’s spark…
When he opens the door she flinches. ‘Is Teddy not here? I said I’d meet him.’
‘He’ll be back soon. Come on in,’ Billy offers.
Emma flushes, wary. ‘Would you rather -- I mean –‘
Billy stands back in invitation. ‘Gallery won’t be much use if no one’s welcome.’
‘I suppose not.’ She steps inside and looks around curiously. ‘Good use for it, after McCann. And to see Teddy back in business.’ Awkwardness hangs in the air between them and he realises he’s flexing the fingers of his right hand. There’s a sudden rush of what sounds like cascading gravel followed by a series of cracks from the speakers: Emma jumps. ‘What’s that?’
‘Sound art.’ That’s been a surprise to him too, how much he enjoys sharing his discoveries. ‘The artist – her name’s Swasen – she sinks microphones under the ground, in old shafts or boreholes, and they relay to a mixer here. What you’re listening to is the land itself, like it’s a living thing.’
‘That’s amazing.’ Emma stands in concentration: like Jack and Alejo, there seems something more vital about her, as though a weight’s been lifted from her shoulders.
‘How are things?’ Billy asks.
‘Good. Well...’ Her smile is wry. ‘You know we’ve had bad news at work like everyone else.’ Billy nods: the hospital board hadn’t been able to prevent the rumours surfacing, about consolidation of resources and per-capita oversupply. ‘We’re all having our hours scaled back, and it’s hard to see...’ She stops herself, self-consciously pulling her shoulders back. ‘But it makes sense to spread health provision round the county.’ She stops, obviously gathering her courage. ‘I’m glad you’re staying, you and Goody. Not just –’ She gestures around her. ‘Because it’s you. You could have walked away, left us to what we deserve.’
‘”If everyone got what they deserved” – the proverb echoes in his grandmother’s voice – “the world would be a sorrier place.”’ He smiles. ‘No one’s pretending it’s going to be easy.’
Emma nods, serious. ‘It’s not supposed to be, is it? We’ll do what everyone else does, build the future ourselves, brick by brick, and it won’t be perfect.’ She raises her chin.’ But it’ll still be a good place for a baby to be born into.’
Goody, ever demonstrative, would sweep her off her feet; Billy just says, ‘I’m glad,’ and he is. They stand together as the restless movements of Rose Creek rise and fall around them, listening to the land beneath their feet, until Teddy taps on the door, wrestling a stack of chairs, and Emma goes to rescue him with a laugh.
‘Come back when we’re open,’ Billy urges her before she goes, and to his surprise she reaches on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek. ‘I will.’
After she and Teddy have gone Billy walks along the display of his prints. Halfway along is the one he’s already resolved not to show anywhere else, the glittering trunks of the grove caught in all their sinister fascination. This new space could be a tabula rasa, a place to begin afresh, but change doesn’t mean forgetting everything from the past. If Rose Creek is to have a future, it’ll be because they took the elements of the past that were good – the openness and friendship, the diversity and creativity – and built them into something new. We’ll fight, Goody had declared, and we did, it took all of us to defeat him, but Sam’s right, the story didn’t end there – it’ll take all of them to construct the new as well.
‘There you are, cher.’ He smiles before he turns around to see the man who’s always made him better, bright eyes in a weathered face and a sly grin that holds the certain promise of finding trouble. Goody brandishes a bottle. ‘I know you’re not open as such, but Jack gave me this. Blueberry champagne – something of an experiment, apparently - and I thought, what better for a toast?’
He sets the bottle on the empty counter, snags two of Teddy’s glasses and uncaps it, and Billy comes up behind him to slide his arms around his waist and rest his head between his shoulderblades. Goody, stronger and fiercer than he looks. ‘Did you ever meet a bad idea you didn’t like?’ he asks.
Goody turns in his embrace to hand him a glass. ‘You know me, cher. Never had a knack for finding the quiet life.’
Billy clinks their tumblers together. ‘Just how I like it.’ He lets Goody take the first swallow, watching as he tries and fail to suppress a grimace. ‘Bad?’
Goody considers, tongue chasing the taste over his lips. ‘Bold. Uncompromising. Challenging?’
‘Perfect.’ And Billy leans in to kiss the flavour of Maine blueberries from his husband's mouth. Then he raises his own glass. ‘To…’ To all of them, Josh and Ale, Sam and Ellie, Red and Teddy, Emma and Matt. ‘To the future.’