Chapter 31 Now
George moves in at the end of September. He gave his notice at the pub after we returned from Devon and they’ve already released his room to hotel customers, but in hindsight, I wish we’d waited a bit longer.
I’m still upset about Theo and I think I need more time to process everything. I’m grieving for my husband all over again and that’s something I want to do in private.
I know George would be horrified if he knew how I was feeling, so I try to put on a brave face. But he sees through it, and barely an hour after he’s taken his bags to his room, he’s cornering me in the kitchen.
‘Are you okay?’ he whispers, his hand on my hip.
I’m torn between needing to run away and wanting to kiss him senseless.
I nod. ‘I’m okay. It’s okay. Please don’t worry.’
‘Is this too soon?’
He’s very, very concerned now, and I’m inwardly kicking the hell out of myself for causing him to have doubts.
‘No,’ I try to reassure him as Mum comes back into the room.
He hunts me out later. I’m in the Yarn Barn, spinning from the cloud – that is to say, I’ve simply broken apart the lock structure of some alpaca fleece with my fingers and what I’m left with is a big ‘cloud’ of soft fluffy fibre. There’s more inconsistency when you spin it into yarn this way, pinching, pulling and sliding to create a twist that will be drawn onto the bobbin. It requires more concentration, which is exactly what I need right now.
Unfortunately, my concentration breaks when George pulls up a chair and sits down in front of me.
I sigh as the twist tears apart and I have to reconnect it.
‘I’m getting seriously freaky vibes from you, Leah,’ he says. ‘Have you been avoiding me since Devon?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
I peek up at him and realise my vague reassurances are not going to cut it. His jaw is set, his dark eyes disquieted.
‘Maybe a little,’ I whisper.
He looks crushed. ‘Why?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry, but please tell me the truth.’
I can’t. If I say he’s moved in too soon, he’ll be mortified and will probably move straight back out again. I’ll never get him to come and live at the farm. And I really, really do want him here in the long term. I could’ve just done with a few more weeks to properly lay Theo to rest.
‘Will you trust me?’ I ask.
He stares at me apprehensively. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and scuffed jeans and a wave of longing over-comes me.
Christ, he wears his clothes well…
‘I want you,’ I say, and then I’m instantly wide-eyed with surprise that the words spilled out of me so easily and without filter.
His eyebrows jump up, but in a good way.
I let my instincts lead me out from behind the spinning wheel. He unlinks his hands and looks up at me as I stand in the space between his legs.
We stare at each other, and then he very slowly brings one hand behind my knee.
My breath hitches at the feeling of his palm heating my bare skin. I take his face in my hands and bring him towards me, cradling his face tenderly against my stomach. He wraps his arms around my waist and holds me.
And that’s all we do.
Without me having to tell him, he understands that I need to take it slow.
* * *
The weeks that follow are deliciously torturous, full of covert looks and clandestine brushes of our fingertips on each other’s skin. It’s the most exquisite foreplay I could imagine.
One morning, I exit my bathroom as George exits his, and the sight of his bare chest and nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist makes me stop short.
My eyes travel over every inch of his naked flesh, taking in his broad shoulders and his chest with its dark smattering of hair, and, holy hell, the V-shape that forces my gaze from his hips to his happy trail.
And he just stands there.
I assume he’s indulging my need to stare, but then I realise he’s soaking up the sight of me in turn.
I’m also wearing nothing but a towel: my dark-blond hair is damp and falling in a tangle around my shoulders, and my skin is glistening with the shimmery body butter I’ve applied.
I can barely breathe as his gaze roves from the swell of my breasts to up past my neck and mouth, eventually resting on my eyes. He gives me a darkly warning look and, in the space between his legs, the towel kicks out. He very slowly shakes his head at me and goes into his room, locking the door behind him.
He doesn’t come out for some time, and the thought of what he’s doing in there makes me feel slightly insane.
But the gradual build-up to what is certain to happen one day soon is exactly what I need. The chains of my grief are loosening as my fixation with George climbs to dizzying heights, and before long I know I’ll be free to take things further without the burden of guilt.
* * *
With George living at the farm, the work is more than manageable. Alpacas are so low maintenance anyway, but it’s great to have an extra pair of hands, and I’ve loved seeing him spending more time with Emilie.
He’s still going to the pub every day and I’ve been knitting children’s clothes that will go on sale at Mum’s next workshop, which takes place in a few days. She’s had five so far, and they’re going from strength to strength, so much so that she’s had to put on an extra session for a group of women from a book club who recently read The Friday Night Knitting Club by Kate Jacobs. They thought it would be fun to do something different together.
Part of my reason for setting up a website for the workshop was to highlight the idea of special days out for groups of friends, so I’m thrilled. Mum’s fortnightly Saturday afternoon workshops will continue to tick over with some of the same people attending each time, but this is a good way to expand. And she loves hosting these sessions. I’ve attended every one and it’s a joy to see how much pleasure she gets from building people’s confidence and watching their skills develop.
On Friday night, when we arrive home after her book group session, Mum and I open a bottle of Prosecco and settle on the sofa to celebrate her ongoing success.
George is still at work.
‘Honestly, you look like you were born to do it,’ I say, chinking my glass proudly against hers.
‘No. I enjoy it, but I wouldn’t say I was born to it.’ She smiles at me. ‘I was born to parent, that’s the truth. I was born to foster.’
‘George wants to foster one day,’ I find myself telling her.
She nods. ‘I know. He talked to me about it.’
I’m no longer surprised that they have heart-to-hearts. I like that he’s comfortable enough to open up to her. It occurred to her, a couple of weeks ago, that she still had his old Life Story book somewhere. She managed to hunt it out from a filing cabinet in the study and they went through it together, just the two of them.
‘What did you say to him?’
‘I told him that anyone who feels that they might be even remotely interested in fostering should pursue the possibility. But if it’s not the right thing for him, there’s plenty more he could do in a wider sense.’