Page 162 of Carry Me Home

‘And’—his voice is as tight as a taut rope—‘and I want to love you forever. If you will let me.’

My tears fall and when I wipe them away so I can see, Tom’s own tears are falling, proudly, with truth, with love, all of it for me.

‘Marry me, Nina.’

I lean over and wipe his cheeks, he wipes mine, his hands cupping my face, holding me tight, and I know he will never leave. I know we will always be together.

‘Try and stop me, Tom Darcy. Try and stop me.’

He opens the box, and a sapphire set with diamonds blinks under the cloudy sky.

‘Like the sea,’ I whisper.

His smile is everything.

‘Just like the sea.’

We sail home in silence.

But it’s a good silence. A full one. The kind of silence that doesn’t need filling because it is full of the future, full of plans that haven’t been made yet, perhaps not even dreamed of yet.

The village comes back into view – the harbour, the boats, the café with its purple shutters. Home. Still here. Waiting for me.

We walk up the harbour together. Past the fish shack, where Bill raises a hand in greeting. Past The Post Office, where Dot is already installed behind the counter. Past Lavender Dreams, quiet and waiting. No one knows there’s a ring on my finger.

‘Take me home, Tom Darcy.’

‘Gladly.’ He takes my hand. ‘But there’s something I need to show you first.’

I frown. ‘Now? It’s still early.’

‘Now.’

With trailing relaxed steps, I follow him up the lane. Up the steps to the flat above the café.

‘Tom, what⁠—’

Using his new key he opens the door.

And there, in the middle of the living-room floor, sitting in a nest of blankets with a red bow around her neck that she’s already half-chewed through, is a puppy.

Scruffy. Tan and white. Ears too big for her head. A terrier – a terrier with wired hair that looks like she’s been dragged through a hedge backwards and is extremely pleased about it.

She sees me and her whole body vibrates, while my hand flies to my mouth. ‘Tom?’

‘Brynn’s been looking after her since yesterday. She’s twelve weeks old. Rescue from Falmouth. They found her wandering the streets, no collar, no chip.’ He crouches down, and the puppy launches herself at him, all wriggling joy. ‘She needed a home. I thought⁠—’

‘She looks like Chips.’

‘I know.’

I kneel beside Tom. The puppy abandons him immediately, throws herself at me instead, climbing onto my lap, licking my chin, my cheeks, anywhere she can reach.

‘Hello, you.’ My words are hard to choke out. ‘Hello, hello. Look at you. Look at your ridiculous face.’

The puppy yaps. Her tail is wagging so hard her entire back end is moving.

‘She doesn’t have a name yet,’ Tom says. ‘I thought you’d want to choose.’