Page 52 of One Last Gift

Sam took a sip of water, looking out across the scenery. Then he raised his water to the sky in a toast. “I wish you were here, mate.”

“I just don’t know why they don’t—” Sheila frowned at him. “Are you OK?”

He cleared his throat, took another sip of water. “Yeah.” He wasn’t, quite, but the fact that he could be somewhere like this, think of Tom, and not fall apart was, he thought, an improvement. And Tom would have loved it. He would’ve been out here too, getting involved, making all the kids laugh. Sam could just picture it.

Sheila was still looking at him in that mind-reader way of hers, so Sam picked up his phone as a distraction. There was an email from Cassie, which had come into the fake email he’d set up a couple of months ago. He still felt a bit guilty about that, setting up a separate email account just to message her and hiding who he was—but the alternative had been to refuse to help her, and he hadn’t been able to do that, either.

It’s official! The pub is ours to keep. Or Linda’s, I suppose. But anyway, just thought you’d like to know.

He smiled as he wrote back. That’s amazing! He sent a line of champagne bottles. A part of him tugged. He kind of wished he was there to celebrate with her, to raise a glass with her and Linda and toast the pub where they’d all grown up. To see the light in Cassie’s warm brown eyes, at the fact that she’d done it. And though it was done now, his part in it over, he couldn’t help asking a question in the desire to keep the conversation going, keep the connection with her alive.

Are you doing anything to celebrate?

Sort of. I’m heading off to an events exchange thing this weekend.

An events exchange? Sounds ominous…

It’s this thing where they let me manage an event at a different venue. This gorgeous manor house in Sussex—it’s called Gravetye. Anyway, it may be work, but it’s been something I’ve wanted to do for ages, so it’s kind of like celebrating!!

Sam snorted quietly to himself, earning a curious look from Sheila. She was working to celebrate? Didn’t sound like much fun to him. But then, Cassie had always been so sure, when it came to doing what she loved. He envied her that. He didn’t think she loved her current job—and he knew Tom had thought that too—but she’d never had any doubt on the type of career she wanted. So, if she wanted this “events exchange,” as ludicrous as it sounded to him, then he could imagine it would be a kind of celebration. Though he definitely couldn’t imagine ever working for fun.

It took a moment to realize that was exactly what he was doing here.

“So, honey,” Sheila said. “Now that you’re out of a job, what are you gonna do?”

Sam put his phone down, shook his head. “Shit.” He winced. “Sorry,” he said quickly, but Sheila only snorted quietly.

“Honey, you don’t work with teenagers like I do and not get used to a bit of swearing.”

“Right.” He didn’t know what it was about Sheila—she was far from old enough to be his mum, but he still had that kind of protective feeling toward her. “Well, ah…” He pulled his hands through his hair, gave her a blank look. “I have no idea.” And it was true. The youth center job had kept him going for the last eight weeks, given him some semblance of purpose and helped to pull him out of the hole. And now that it was gone, he had absolutely no fucking clue what he was going to do next.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Cassie stood outside the block of flats staring at number 4a, working up the courage to knock. Amy was waiting for her inside—she’d asked Cassie to come round today. But Cassie needed a moment before the inevitable onslaught of memories, the grief that would punch through her, being in Tom’s old flat for the first time since he died.

When she lifted her hand to the wooden door, it felt heavy. “It’s open!” Amy called, and Cassie turned the door handle, stepped inside. “I’m in the kitchen!”

Cassie followed the sound of Amy’s voice and headed through the living room to the little kitchen. She couldn’t help looking around, trying to assess what had changed since Tom had lived here. So much of it was the same—same TV, same coffee table in the living room, same blue sofa. But there were differences, and the lack of Tom’s things was a punch to the gut. The bookshelf was less than half full, and some of the kitchen appliances had been put away. A few paintings had been taken down off the walls. The photos of Tom and Amy were still up, though. How Amy could face that every day was beyond Cassie.

There was a part of her, though, that was looking at more than just the memories. She was looking for clues.

Light a torch for the boats if you dare…

She hadn’t figured it out yet. But Tom was sending her to a beach for the next clue, she was sure of it. And unlike the previous one, there had been no suggestion of a deadline, so she didn’t have the anxiety hanging over her that she might miss a specific date. But she hadn’t got much further than that. She’d looked at a map of the UK, trying to see if any of the beaches held a particular connection to Tom. They’d been to loads of them together. Cornwall. Bournemouth. Brighton. A beach in Wales. So how was she supposed to know which one?

There was nothing on Amy’s bookshelf to help her. No photo of them all at a specific beach, for instance. She’d look later, she reasoned. Maybe see if Amy had any ideas.

Amy had her back to Cassie and was rummaging around in one of the top cupboards when Cassie found her in the kitchen. “What can I get you?” she asked, still not turning to face her. “I’m out of regular tea,” she continued, and Cassie thought her voice was a little high. “I’ve got herbal, though. Mint? Lemon and ginger?”

“Sure,” Cassie said. “Anything’s fine.” Amy took down a box of something from the cupboard, but didn’t turn around right away. “Amy? Is everything…?” But she trailed off. Because Amy finally turned around. And despite the fact that she was wearing a loose top, there was no hiding it. No hiding the bump.

Cassie stared at Amy’s stomach, before snapping her gaze to her face. “You’re pregnant,” she breathed. Amy winced, just a little, then nodded. She crossed the kitchen to flick the kettle switch on, and her hands came to rest on her belly, perhaps slightly protectively.

Cassie shook her head, a dull ache starting up there. “What…?” She wet her lips, tried again. “When…?”

The kettle boiled, clicked off, and neither of them did anything about it.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t know how to.”