Page 18 of One Last Gift

“I know it’s not much, but you have me, OK? I’m here for whatever you need.” She pulled back, waited for Cassie to nod before she let go of her. Cassie fought the rising heat in her chest. Everyone wanted to touch her today. She knew it was in comfort, but every squeeze, every hug, brought her that little bit closer to the breaking point.

Linda wiped her eyes, her rings flashing in the process, and smoothed down her hair—still the bob Cassie remembered from her teenage years, though with a little more gray threaded through the brunette. Linda’s gaze traveled to the walls of the pub, where photos of Tom had been put up all around. Cassie knew it was supposed to be nice, a celebration of him, but she couldn’t help feeling torn apart by it each time she saw his smiling face.

Linda chuckled a little, looking at one photo. “That was taken here on his final shift before he and Sam left for Manchester,” she said. Cassie saw Hazel turn her head to look. She knew which one Linda meant without looking, though. It had been a lunchtime shift on a Friday, so she hadn’t been able to come along, but she’d joined Tom and Sam here at the pub after school, when they were already well and truly on their way to being sloshed. “He tried to get me to open a bottle of my most expensive whisky, just so he could try it.”

“And did you?” Hazel asked.

“I most certainly did not,” Linda said, smiling again. “He was nineteen and definitely unable to appreciate whisky, and the bottle he was after would’ve put a severe dent in my profits for the week. But it became a thing—he made a bet with me that if he could convince a customer to buy two glasses of it, we could crack open the bottle. He never managed it, though. Kept trying to turn on the charm, but he never got very far.” A little smile was still playing around her lips. “He was a terrible waiter. Kept forgetting to put orders in—that might have had something to do with it.”

Cassie frowned and Linda shook her head. “I still loved him.” She glanced at the photo again, then turned toward the waitress behind the bar, pointing to something as she spoke. The waitress returned with a bottle, and Linda held it out to Cassie and Hazel. “It’s the same brand,” she said. “Been on the menu for a good fifteen years—no one ever orders it.” She opened it, poured out three measures into glasses that the waitress handed over, and gave one each to Cassie and Hazel. “To Tom,” Linda said, and they all took a sip. Cassie immediately started coughing as the harsh liquid slid down her throat and though Hazel managed not to splutter, Cassie saw her eyes water. It nearly made her smile.

“Why whisky?” Cassie asked.

“David—your dad—drank it,” Linda said, glancing up again at the photos of Tom on the stone wall behind Cassie’s head. “And I made the mistake of telling him that one time.” Cassie hadn’t known that—about her dad or Tom. And she’d never known that Tom had tried to be like their dad, in this small way. She’d known he’d wanted to follow in their parents’ footsteps, of course, but this small, personal need to be connected…Well, maybe she hadn’t given it enough thought, hadn’t tried to talk to Tom about it. Because he’d always been the one looking after her, had been almost like a parent, in so many respects. And now it was too late to rectify that, to understand just how losing their parents had affected him, in ways she might never have considered.

“He brought whisky to my birthday party one year. Do you remember, Cassie?” Hazel asked. Cassie nodded, and Hazel started telling Linda the story, but Cassie excused herself under the guise of needing to go to the ladies’ room, unable to bear the onslaught of memories. She was fighting a losing battle, though. The whole damn pub was a reminder of him.

A man with a crooked nose, as if it had been broken at some point, and wide upper body intersected her on the way to the loo. “Cassie Rivers?” His accent was very posh, old-school English. She thought she recognized it from somewhere, but no one she knew actually spoke like that. “My name is Toby. Toby Jenkins.” He stuck out his hand, like he was introducing himself at a work event, and Cassie took it, a little numbly. His hand dwarfed hers and gripped a bit too tightly. “I…” He dropped her hand. “I was the one who called you. I was there, when Tom fell. We’d been spending some time together, both of us on our own, and we went climbing together and I, well…”

His eyes, a light gray-green color, focused on her face but Cassie found herself unable to meet his gaze, so she looked down at the floor instead. “Oh.” It was all she could think to say. She wanted to flee, to run from this man who had been there, had seen Tom fall, watched him die.

“I’m ever so sorry.”

Cassie nodded.

“I saw the funeral announcement and I wanted to…well, pay my respects.” He put a big hand on her shoulder, rested it there for a moment in comfort. Cassie still couldn’t look at him. Where had he been when Tom fell? Had he been close enough to see Tom’s face? Had he been close enough to see the moment of impact?

The hand disappeared from her shoulder. Cassie looked up, opened her mouth to speak, to ask one of the questions, to torment herself further with new images of Tom’s death. But the man was already walking away, and she didn’t have it in her to call him back. Maybe it was better that she didn’t ask, didn’t know.

She saw Claire at a corner table by the ladies’ room, alone, staring into the distance. She hesitated, then crossed to her. “Are you OK?” she murmured. Claire jolted, then ran her hand through her dyed-red hair, nodded.

Claire’s gaze traveled away from Cassie’s face, toward the photo of Tom on one of the wooden beams above them. “He looked so like your mum,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. Cassie said nothing. She knew that. Her mum—Claire’s sister. Maybe it was partly why Claire had found looking after them so difficult—she saw her sister whenever she saw Tom. Maybe it was why she’d never fully been there, in the way a parent should be. She’d taken care of them, yes, but there had never been that emotional connection. And Cassie hadn’t minded. She hadn’t minded, because she’d had Tom, and he was enough. He was the one she’d gone crying to if she fell over, he was the one who had come to comfort her when she’d had a nightmare. And now…“I didn’t think I’d have to go through it again,” Claire said, her voice breaking. “I didn’t think I’d have to lose anyone else before I went myself.”

Cassie pressed her lips together and nodded. What else was there to do but nod? They’d never been good at discussing feelings together, and now Cassie didn’t know how to bridge that gap, the grief widening the wedge between them rather than bringing them closer.

“So,” she said. “Bordeaux?”

“Yes,” Claire said with a shaky breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I was going to tell you and Tom together, once I’d sold the house and everything. I mean, neither of you need me anymore. Or, well…” She took a breath. “If you need me now…” She brought one hand up to smooth down her hair. “I mean, I could…I don’t know. I just mean, if you’d rather…”

“No,” Cassie said quickly. Then she bit her lip, hoping that it didn’t sound overly harsh. She appreciated the offer, but Claire was right—it had been a long time since they’d needed each other. “You should go to France,” she said.

Claire gave her a brief smile. “You could come and visit.”

“Maybe,” Cassie hedged.

She left Claire and gave herself a few moments alone in the bathroom, grateful that no one else was in there. She splashed water over her face, not caring how she looked, just needing to feel the coolness on her skin.

When she came out, Linda and Hazel’s parents were still by the bar, so she started toward them. Though she tried not to look for him, she saw Sam out of the corner of her eye, on one of the sofas by the fire, his fiancée next to him. Jessica was her name, Cassie knew, from her correspondence with her about the wedding. Jessica, with glistening auburn hair and high cheekbones.

The man who had spoken to her—Toby Jenkins—was there too, a hand on Sam’s shoulder, as it had been with hers. He was saying something and Sam was nodding as he swigged a beer, a few empty bottles already strewn on the table next to him. The thought of him getting drunk at her brother’s funeral made her feel slightly sick, and she turned away.

But it was too late—Sam had seen her and had gotten to his feet. He was staggering toward her, leaving his fiancée and Toby on the sofa. Anger whipped through her, hot and hard. She was almost grateful for it, because it took away some of the grief, the numbness. It gave her something to focus on, something to feel that was more bearable.

“Cassie,” he started, and she could smell the beer on his breath. He looked awful. His tie was scruffy, hair messed up in a way that suggested he hadn’t washed it in days, and there was too-long stubble around his jawline. “Are you OK?”

“No,” she said shortly, and then, instead of snapping something she’d regret, something that would make a scene, she turned from him, took a step away. He reached out, grabbed her arm, and she shook it off. He stumbled away from her, unsteady on his feet. “Get off,” she said firmly. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I’m—”