Page 158 of Carry Me Home

When they separate, Nina reaches into her pocket.

‘I wanted to give you this.’

The ring box. Peter’s ring. The one Nina found in the sock drawer. The one that started everything.

Ellen’s hands shake as she takes it. Opens it. The simple gold band. The aquamarine – the first ring, the one I helped Peter choose, the one that was meant for Nina’s finger and ended up in a drawer because the sea took him before he could ask.

‘Nina—’

‘It should be with you.’ Nina closes Ellen’s fingers around the box. ‘It’s not goodbye. It’s just making sure he’s with the right person.’

Ellen looks at the box in her hand. Then at Nina. Then at me, over Nina’s shoulder – a long, steady look that says she sees the shape of my jacket pocket, or guesses it, or simply knows, the way Ellen always knows.

‘Thank you,’ she says to Nina. But her eyes are on me. ‘For loving him. And for loving well, after.’

By four o’clock, the coffee’s sold out and the pastries are nothing more than scattered crumbs.

Nina collapses onto one of the deck cushions. Exhausted. Glowing. The look of a woman who’s dreamed about something and watched it become real.

‘We did it,’ she says. ‘We actually did it.’

‘You did it.’ I sit beside her. ‘I carried trays.’

‘Very important trays.’

‘Essential trays.’

She laughs. Leans her head on my shoulder. The harbour stretches out before us, the village settling into evening, the light going golden.

‘Thank you,’ she says.

‘For what?’

‘For being here. For believing in this. For—’ She stops. Shakes her head. ‘For eleven years of everything. Even the years I didn’t know.’

She turns her hand over in her lap. The finger where Peter’s ring never sat. The finger I keep imagining a sapphire on. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘I’m thinking this is a good day,’ I say.

‘Yeah?’

‘The best day.’ My hand is in my pocket. On the box. The velvet warm from my body heat, the shape of it as familiar now as my own keys. ‘One of the best days.’

‘One of?’

‘There might be better ones coming.’

She looks at me. Her eyes narrow slightly – the Nina look that says she’s caught a thread and is deciding whether to pull it.

‘Tom Darcy. Are you being mysterious?’

‘I’m never mysterious. I’m a vet. Vets aren’t mysterious.’

‘You’re being something.’

‘I’m being optimistic. It’s been known to happen.’

She studies my face for another moment. Then decides to let it go. Leans back against me. Watches the harbour.