Page 160 of Carry Me Home

Kit blinks into the distant horizon. ‘I think it’s for Sea Salt Bay. This is where dreams are made, and now you have your Lavender Dreams too.’

My throat is so tight it’s actually painful to swallow.

Kit clears his throat. ‘And anyway, you don’t need to thank me. Just bring her back in one piece.’ He turns to go, then stops. ‘And Nina?’

‘Yeah?’

‘It gets easier. Not better, exactly. But easier.’ A pause. ‘You’re doing all right.’

He’s gone before I can respond. Footsteps fading up the harbour. The boat-shed door swinging shut behind him.

I stand there, looking at Jess’s dinghy, and I let the tears come.

Just for a moment. Just enough to let the pressure out.

Then I wipe my face, roll up my sleeves, and get to work.

Tom finds me an hour later.

I’m rigging the sail, fingers clumsy with cold, swearing under my breath at a knot that won’t cooperate. He appears at the edge of the boat shed, two coffees in hand, wearing his old Barbour jacket and an expression of fond concern.

‘Brynn said you’d be here.’

‘Brynn needs to mind her own business.’

‘Brynn has never minded her own business in her life. It’s part of her charm.’ He sets the coffees down. Studies the boat. ‘Jess’s dinghy?’

‘Kit lent me it.’

‘Kit lent you his dead wife’s boat.’

‘He said she needed airing out.’

Tom’s quiet for a moment. Then he steps forward, takes the rope from my hands, and finishes the knot in three quick movements.

‘Show-off,’ I mutter.

I lean into his touch. Let myself breathe.

‘Come with me,’ I say. ‘Out on the water. I want to— I need to say goodbye. Properly. And I want you there.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

He kisses my forehead. ‘Then let’s go.’

The sea is calm.

We sail out past the breakwater, past the fishing boats heading in with the morning catch, past the point where the village disappears behind the cliffs. Just us and the water and the endless grey sky.

I know the spot. Roughly. It’s hard to be exact – the sea doesn’t keep landmarks, doesn’t hold still long enough to be mapped. But I remember the shape of the coastline, the angle of the sun, the way the water felt that day when we scattered Peter’s ashes.

‘Here,’ I say. ‘I think. Somewhere around here.’

Tom lowers the sail. The dinghy slows, rocking gently, carried by the current, and then he drops the anchor.

Silence.