Page 123 of Carry Me Home

I’m not sure if she’s talking about herself, or if it’s a lesson for me.

Chapter Twenty-Six

NINA

The Ship is packed.

Wet the baby’s head. Village tradition. Any excuse for a gathering, really, but this one feels earned. Baby Peter is two weeks old and Isla has finally emerged from the newborn fog long enough to put on actual clothes and drink half a glass of wine before Kit confiscates it.

‘Half a glass won’t hurt,’ she protests.

‘The book says⁠—’

‘The book can bugger off. I pushed a human being out of my body. I deserve wine.’

‘You deserve everything. But maybe tomorrow. When you’ve slept more than three hours.’

‘I’m never sleeping again. Sleep is a distant memory. Sleep is something that happened to other people in a past life.’

Kit takes the wine glass anyway. Isla doesn’t have the energy to fight him.

‘Here.’ She lifts Peter towards me. ‘Take him. My arms are dead. Everything’s dead. I’m just a milk-producing zombie at this point.’

‘You’re a radiant milk-producing zombie,’ Kit says.

‘That’s not the compliment you think it is.’

I take the baby. He’s heavier than two weeks ago – filling out, losing that scrunched newborn look. His eyes are open tonight, dark and unfocused, staring at something over my shoulder that only babies can see.

‘Hello, you.’ I settle him into the crook of my arm. ‘Causing trouble already?’

He makes a small sound. Not quite a cry. More like a comment.

‘He’s got opinions,’ Isla says. ‘Strong ones. About everything. He gets that from Kit.’

‘I don’t have opinions.’ Kit is all growly and grumpy for a split second until his utterly stunning smile breaks through and he laughs. When Kit Harding smiles the whole world knows about it.

‘You have nothing but opinions. You’re made entirely of opinions and stubbornness.’

‘That’s not⁠—’

‘See? Opinion.’

Helen – Kit and Jude’s mum – laughs loudly and rubs Kit’s hair. He honestly looks like a cat that’s preening, but who can blame him after a lifetime without his mum, and now she’s back. Lily, her daughter, is talking to Brynn across the room. ‘I can’t believe I’m a granny again,’ Helen says, but I can’t help but notice she averts her gaze from the bar where Reuben is sitting. ‘Now we just need Jude to step up and the family will almost be complete.’

Isla laughs. ‘He’s only starting university next week; I think you might have to wait for that.’

Helen nods, but her face is full of pride. ‘I can wait. Marine biologist first, and then he and Brynn can give me a baby.’

It’s adorable that although they’ve only been together for a few months everyone assumes – no, everyone knows – that Jude and Brynn will be together forever. I wonder if that’s what people thought when Peter and I got together. I’ve never thought to ask.

My thoughts of Peter have become less painful the last couple of weeks, no longer jagged little sharp stabs, more rounded, like a rock that’s become a pebble under the sea. They don’t sting; they just are.

I think the joy of my little godson might have something to do with it.

The pub swirls around us. Dot’s holding court in the corner, telling everyone who’ll listen about the time she delivered a baby in the back of a taxi in 1987. Bill and Frankie are arguing about fishing quotas, again. Tilly’s brought a cake shaped like a boat, which makes no sense for a baby celebration but nobody’s questioning it.

And at the bar, Kit’s moved to join Jude, who looks like he’s three pints deep and getting louder by the minute. Reuben’s with them. He looks different these days – slower in his movements, more careful with his words, like a man checking the ground before each step. But he’s here. He showed up. He’s nursing a pint and standing close enough to Kit that their elbows touch, and Kit hasn’t moved away. Reuben doesn’t look at Helen, the same way she doesn’t look at him. I guess some things can’t be healed. Maybe some things shouldn’t be.