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He waited on her in the dark. The stars were especially bright over the ocean tonight, so he sat in the rocking chair the previous owners of the cottage left, and mulled. He could still smell the faint traces of his date’s perfume on his shirt. He considered changing, then decided against it. Despite Daisy’s efforts, he didn’t really have anything to change into - the lady who came in to do light cleaning and chores would be in tomorrow, though.
He bowed his head and sniffed. It was strong, the perfume. He went into his bedroom and put on a sweater. The smell vanished.
He sat back down, and looked at the sky.
Her insistent knocking woke him from his sleep. His beard was damp with drool. He hissed and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his sweater. Her cheeks were florid with drink, her hair a tangled mess that made him ache.
He turned on the light and opened the door. “It’s after midnight, Miller. Daisy’s sleeping.” He put his finger to his lips.
She fidgeted, pulling her coat around her. “How was it, then?”
He walked inside and to the kitchenette to wash the saliva from his beard. She followed him. She was only slightly unsteady. He patted his beard dry with a paper towel.
“How was what?”
She sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes. “You know, you could’ve just told me you didn’t want to grab a drink because you had a date. We’re close enough for that, aren’t we?”
“I’m making you a cuppa,” he said, and grabbed the kettle. It was not a question. She yanked off her jacket and slung it over a chair.
“I drank enough,” she said, and sat down.
He poured the water into a flowered mug, and threw in a first- paused, looked at her - and a second tea bag. She liked it strong. He knew, even if she never explicitly said so.
“You were alone,” he said. “Why didn’t you ask someone from the station to join you? They like you way better than me.”
She stared at her open hands, then started worrying her already short thumb nail.
“Nah.” She asked who she wanted to celebrate with, but he’d declined.
He put a plate over the cup so that the tea would brew quick and strong. He went into the fridge for some cold cuts and cheese and hoped Daisy hadn’t eaten all the bread. He meant to make her a sandwich.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say hello,” he said as he slid two pieces of bread into the toaster.
She shrugged. "It’s early days. No use introducing acquaintances like me yet.”
Acquaintances. The word made him wince. Gladly, his back was to her.
He pulled the teabags out of the water, pressed them against the side of the cup with his asbestos thumb, then sucked it as he poured in milk. He added two spoonfuls of sugar.
He put it in front of her. “Drink this. After you eat, I’ll give you a ride home.”
“I don’t need a ride. In any case, I could use the cold wind and some time to think.”
He harrumphed at her comment, and turned as the toast popped out.
“How’s Daisy?” she said. He put the toast on a plate and went into the fridge for some mayo. He thought it vile, but Daisy loved it.
Ellie hissed behind him. “I don’t like that. Do you have Marmite? Or butter - the proper kind, not that margarine shit they keep at work?”
He smiled. “It’s not toast. It’s a sandwich.”
She settled back into her chair. “Then mustard will do. Mayonnaise is disgusting, isn’t it?” He gave her a soft look, then got back to assembling the sandwich. “And now I really want chips. That’s a non-sequitur.”
“I don’t have any potatoes in,” he said, looking in the cabinet by the sink, “but there’s a late night chippie open in town, I could-“
She waved her hand, but the flush on her cheeks was not caused by glasses of wine she had. “No, Hardy. It’s okay. The sandwich will do just fine.” She sipped on the tea. It was velvety and delicious. The perfect tea/milk/sugar ratio. At least, to her.
She stared at him as he made her something. He rarely ate - he seemed to survive on tea, toast, and angst - but he was always concerned about her. Did she really look like she needed feeding that bad? Her eyes drifted down his tall, slim body. If anything, he needed it. But she was a shit cook.
Yes, it was a euphemism. And all too true.
He cut the sandwich into four triangles and put it in front of her. Roast beef and cheddar. Despite her feelings, her mouth watered.
“Yum,” she said, and bit into the first triangle. He leaned on the counter across from her and gave her a precursor to a smile. It made her jaw go slack. Maybe she shouldn’t have had the fourth glass of wine. The golden light from the lamp over the kitchen table shone into his brown eyes, making them shimmer like carnelian. Fire licked sweetly over her limbs, and burned into her cheeks.
He’s beautiful. The crotchety, sour bastard. So beautiful.
The woman was beautiful too. Younger, dressed in bright, discordant colors. Her yellow hair shone like brushed gold in the shitty pub light. Her bluebell eyes made Ellie's mouth fill with bittersweet saliva.
After Tess - after everything - it was what he deserved. Beauty. Light. Happiness. Even the woman’s laugh was attractive, rich and sincere. She wondered what he said to make her laugh that way, what he might joke about to a beautiful woman. With them, since the beginning, it had been mostly pain. They were bound together by it. But now she wanted to undo all the knots and start over.
She pushed the plate aside. “Thanks, but I’m not very hungry.”
His eyebrow rose.
She pouted. “What? It’s not always about food. I love other things.”
“Like what?” he said frankly.
“I love my boys,” she said. “And the primroses in my garden. They dry up into a brown, crunchy, thorny tangle each winter but come spring, they’re there again to greet me. Every single time, no matter how bad the winter was, or how much I neglected them.” She couldn’t look him in the eye. “Seriously, how’s Daisy?”
“She’s … doing okay. Not worse, not better. I’m starting to wonder whether it was the right thing to do.”
“What?”
“Tearing up the ticket. Telling her to stay.”
Ellie sighed. “Even the truest love can be selfish sometimes,” she said. It seemed like capitulation on her part.
“So I should let her go with Tess?”
“That’s jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire,” she said without thinking. Her eyes darted up to meet his. His face was illegible. She didn’t want him to know how much she knew, and how much she had come to miss him while he tried to mend things with her. What a spectacular waste.
“I guess so,” he said, nodding. “She’s strong.”
“She is. Far more than you can imagine,” she said. She wasn’t only speaking of Daisy.
“What else do you love?” he said, sitting down opposite her.
“What are you going on about, Hardy?” she said, fidgeting with discomfort.
“We never talk about things like this. it’s always sadness, death, despair.”
“It’s our job,” she said. Now she wished she could have another drink.
“That’s precisely it. That’s what we talk about, mostly, even when it’s about our private lives. Problems. Pain. Never the good things.”
“Then you say something. I already gave you three things.”
“Two.”
“Three. Tom, Freddie, and the primroses. Don’t lump my two boys together.”
He actually smiled. It filled her with a sudden joy she couldn’t hide. He noticed, and smiled harder.
“Okay, then. Um … Daisy. She’s the biggest thing.”
“Of course.”
“And ice cream, especially if eaten in a bathing suit, in haste because it’s melting down your arm.”
She laughed, clapping her hands. “Horse shit. Liar.”
"What?” he said with an innocent look.
“We live in Broadchurch. That’s all there is, and I’ve never seen you have a single 99. You hate the beach.”
He patted his flat belly. “I can’t anymore. I’m, um…it makes me ill.” He looked genuinely sad.
“Ohhh,” she said, tugging on his sleeve. “In that case, I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t always hate the beach, Ellie,” he said.
“I can barely imagine you, a skinny little boy covered in freckles, running in and out of the surf like Freddie.”
He shrugged.
“Did your mum adore you?” she said, leaning in.
He threw away the remainder of the sandwich, turning his back on her again. “She did. She read poetry to me. Not Lewis Carroll or Dr. Seuss, but Anne Sexton and Emily Dickinson.”
Ellie gave him a blank look. “I hated English class,” she said.
“Lewis Carroll, the man who wrote Alice in Wonderland?”
She smiled with recognition. “Oh yeah! Tom loved those books. But don’t say so, he thinks it girly now.”
Hardy rolled his eyes. “Would it have been girly had Alice been Alec? Just the gender, and nothing else changed?”
“I think it’s ridiculous, but you know teenage boys. All caught up in their masculinity.” She bit her lip. She worried so much about Tommy. “And with a father like he had-“
He squeezed her hand hard to stop the trajectory of her thoughts. “Shhh. No more of that.”
She pulled her hand from his reluctantly. “You were talking about your mum?”
He took her tea mug, sipped it, and winced. It was cold. “Poetry was her passion, and she shared it with me. My da didn’t approve, but it was our little secret. Can you believe it? Hiding Sylvia Plath in the cover of Where the Wild Things Are?”
He microwaved the tea. He wasn’t going to waste it.
“Was she beautiful?” she said. Why did it matter? But she was curious what he would say.
“She was tall, and slim. Some might even call it skinny, but she was graceful as reed bending in the wind. I told her that once, and it made her cry.”
“It’s like poetry,” she said, smiling.
“That’s what she said. She was so proud. One day when I was 11, my ma and I were at the shops together. I hate shopping, but I loved her. One of the shop women took my face in her hands and told me that I had my ma’s eyes. I cried.”
“Why?” Ellie asked.
“Because my ma had the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. Like fire encased in amber glass.”
Ellie had never heard him speak that way. He bloomed for her in the penumbra of his kitchen.
“Hardy?”
His eyes focused on her face. “Yes?”
“What was your favorite poem as a boy?”
He smiled. “Ah. I had many, but there was one that we used to whisper together before I went to sleep when I was a boy of just six or seven. She wasn’t really religious like my da, but we spoke it like a prayer.”
She nodded. “Go on.”
He took a sip of her rewarmed tea. “Hmm. Let me see if I can remember it all -
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.”
His soft voice skipped over the words in a soothing sing song that made her smile. She wasn’t a fan of poetry, but this poem was beautiful, coming out of his mouth with so much love.
“That’s … gorgeous,” she said. “Did you make it up together?”
“Oh no. It’s Emily Dickinson.” He smiled. “I’m so glad you like it. Odd how those rituals of youth spill over into adulthood. It’s sometimes good, sometimes not.”
“How so?”
“I shouldn’t have left Broadchurch, Ellie. But that little bird was pecking at my head, pressing me to get my family back.”
“You love your daughter. I don’t blame you.”
“I loved Tess,” he said, pouring out the rest of the tea. “Much good did it do me.”
He bent over the sink. She wanted to touch him, but how? It seemed like she was the one always slapping away his gentle advances. And Tess is a cunt. But she would never dream of saying that to him. At least, not yet.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I’m glad you came back, despite the circumstances. I missed my grump … y partner.” Her face tingled. She almost gave herself away. “It was quite lonely at times, working with the newbies.”
“Was it?”
“Awful,” she said. “I don’t have the patience to train anyone. And the empty chitchatting involved. Ugh. I realized I prefer the quiet.”
She meant his quiet. Which, apparently, was far more nuanced than she imagined.
“The date went fine,” he said, changing the subject. “and I am sorry I didn’t introduce you. It was just not that type of night.”
“No worries.”
“I met her to tell her that it would be best not to pursue anything further. I’m a busy man, and already have too much on my plate for a young girlfriend. We’d been speaking on the phone and got on well enough, but I didn’t want to text her that I didn’t want to see her again. It’s rude.” He scrunched up his face.
“Oh,” she said. Why had the girl been laughing? After seething for a bit, she had moved outside, where she couldn’t see them. Maybe he’d told her then.
“Busy, though? All you do is work. You need something. Young and pretty - she might’ve been good for you,” she said. She couldn’t believe it came out of her mouth. Love was coming out her pores.
“She was very pretty,” he said, raising his eyebrow. “Very.”
She nodded, defeated. She, on the other hand, was beginning to show her years, especially around the eyes.
“It’s not what I’m after,” he said.
She rolled her eyes and groaned. “Oh, don’t be a twat. It’s what all men are after.”
“And you’re the authority on what all men want?”
It stung. But it was true. What did she know?
“In one of our final arguments, Tess finally said what was on her mind. I could tell she resented me for still caring just enough to be jealous-“
“-she was jealous? Of what?” she interrupted. She didn’t like speaking about her.
“Of you. The way you handled the Sandbrook case. The way - and this is a quote - you handled my ‘cantankerous hide.’”
“I had no choice. You were it. All I had left. The only person who didn’t look at me with suspicion, disgust, or, worst of all, pity. Did you tell her that?”
“Yes, I did. But she wasn’t buying it.”
“What does it matter what she bought and didn’t buy? She caused her own problems. So did you. I didn’t have a fucking choice.”
He drew back, wounded. Again, she’d fucked up.
“You could’ve told the truth, Hardy,” she said quietly, looking down at her hands. "You didn’t have to suffer all that humiliation."
“Can’t you see I was gonna suffer regardless?” he said. “That way, Daisy didn’t have to suffer too. But look what’s happened to her. It’s like it’s contagious.”
He sniffled, and when she looked up, his eyes were glimmering with tears.
“No no no no,” she said, walking around the counter. She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “That was not your fault.”
“Maybe if I was around more, paid more attention to her, gave her more love, she wouldn’t have taken those photos,” he said. A teardrop plopped on the counter.
She rubbed his back. “Can I be honest with you?”
“Aren’t you always?” he said.
“Daisy’s not a little girl anymore, and those mobiles have made making mistakes so easy,” she said. “She’s a good girl. At that age, you should hear the stuff I was thinking about." She bit her lip. He held his breath. "It’s something natural that technology has tempted people into expressing unnaturally.” She thought back on her boy, and his porn.
Damn it.
The tear trails shone bright on his cheeks and disappeared in his stubble. He looked so tender, so vulnerable. She wanted to wipe them away, hug him tight, as much for herself as for him.
“I just wonder. Is she going to be okay? How can I make it better?” Another tear rolled down his freckled cheek. She caught it with her thumb. It was hot, and thick as oil.
“Will you ever be all the way okay? Will I? There’s no running away from sorrow, just wading through it until there’s no more. We can hope, though. Like the poem.”
He pressed her hand to his cheek. His stubble pricked her palm. When he blinked, his wet lashes tickled her fingertip. She thought back on the man she had been in love with when she first got on the force. Her boss. He wasn’t as burdened as Hardy, but he’d been just as married. She had once fed on the memory, but now it faded to nothing.
It wasn’t a memory. It was premonition. He saw her eyes go gentle and moved her hand to his lips, and kissed it.
“Hardy. What else did Tess say?”
“That I was a coward for nearly falling in love with you, since it was just the same old story. That I didn’t have the balls to go out and find a woman the old fashioned way. I just settled for what was available.”
Her lip trembled. Her palm was still warm from his kiss.
Nearly falling in love? She rocked on her heels.
“I told her she was wrong, and a hypocrite to boot.”
“Why?” She longed to kiss the spot he had kissed, but resisted.
“She was wrong first because I fell in love with you - not nearly, but completely - and a hypocrite because she cheated on me with another detective. How was she any different?”
She wanted to hear these words. But now she didn’t know how to react to them. A sudden terror made her muscles tight. Hardy is not a monster. He is kind. Gentle. Too noble for his own good.
“Why the girl, then?”
“Because for a while her words prickled at me. Maybe she was right. Tess was my first serious girlfriend, and I made her my wife. I didn’t think it strange - I loved her with all my heart. Why do I need to be with a dozen women when I know I want only one? Why am I less of a man for being this way?”
He was agitated. She put her hand over his heart.
“You’re not. Never. I'd only been with one other bloke before-“ she bit her lip to prevent herself from saying his name “-and I regretted it just as soon as I met him. It’s beautiful to not give yourself away so easily, to know what you want and hold on for it.”
Her eyes were rimmed with tears. She thought back on the nameless man she’d fucked while trying to gain Claire’s trust. She thought of how Hardy might feel if he knew she did it, and felt hot shame - not because of the sex, but because the thought of his reaction made her feel horrible.
He would be perplexed. Hurt, maybe. And it bothered her.
This was before her feelings for him revealed themselves plainly - that happened after he went away and left a giant, aching gap in her heart. What made it worse was it was her who sent him off. She nearly pushed him in the cab, then wept privately for weeks when he actually did what she wanted.
She was a contrary bitch. Yet he loved her.
Loved her.
And she loved him back. Completely.
“She was so pretty,” she said dumbly. She didn’t know what else to say.
He stood and took her face in his hands. His body pressed against hers. Her trembling hands moved to his waist. Slim, maybe even skinny, but to her, perfect.
“But you’re beautiful, in every way,” he said softly.
“Fuck off,” she said in jest. She wasn’t used to him being so intense with her. But she loved it. He saw, and wasn’t offended.
“No. Not this time,” he said. He bowed his head. His lips were so close she felt their warmth, but he did not kiss. His eyes searched hers, waiting for permission. “Never again. If you’ll have me.”
She looked to the door, which was still open a crack, and at the sleeping town beyond. Somewhere down there, her sons slept, safe and sound. But what of her?
She took in every detail of his face. His tear-wet lashes. The little red and gray hairs in the edges of his beard. The dizzying depth of his eyes. The warmth of his body, pressed against hers. She smelled the faraway scent of the other woman, and knew why he’d put on the sweater.
He’d been waiting for her to come to him. All this time.
She rose on tiptoes, and finally closed the gap between them.