The consultant had lowered his voice when Lucy had enquired about operating first, and popped up an image of her mother’s chest and side. He didn’t need to explain. Operating now was out of the question. They would have to take too much. Their only hope was shrinking what was there and then they would see what would follow.
The wind was whipping up an eerie melody as Lucy made her way out of town, along the scenic Atlantic walk that would bring her up to Dan’s little cottage. Lucy loved this walk. It meandered from the village overlooking the thrashing sea. It was even nicer in the evenings, with the sun sinking into the distance at the far end of the ocean. The horizon, this evening, was burnt orange: the sort of colour that Lucy always associated with Kenya – deep skies and rustling land, teeming with vigorous scurrying, if camouflaged life. Except of course, there was nothing scorched about the earth beneath her feet this evening. The land here was lush and green – a velvety carpet that rolled back towards the scraggy cliffs in the distance. In places, as she moved nearer the cottage, the soil squelched – a giveaway whisper that the land beneath her had shifted to a soft bog.
In a matter of months this place would brown and erupt in a mist of white cotton to replace the purple heathers punctuating the land like determined smiles in the wintry landscape. The little cottage sat nestled in a cute garden, cordoned off with a square-capped wall and a narrow gate at the end of a short path. Dan had parked his car outside the gate and to Lucy’s eyes, at least, it looked as if it had hardly been moved since he arrived. He was sitting on one of two wooden chairs close to the front door, a beer in his hand and a smile on his lips that reached all the way up to his eyes.
For a moment, the sight of him pulled her up. There was a familiarity about him, but it was mixed up with a complete otherness, as if something about him had completely changed since the last time she’d run into him. When was that? She wondered, and she realised, she couldn’t remember because she’d become so consumed with worrying about Jo that everything else, apart from work, had become quite meaningless. When she opened the gate, Dora rushed from her side and hopped into the chair next to him. Lucy found herself laughing, the first time she’d actually laughed in days.
‘What brings you out this way?’ he asked, shading his eyes from the sun.
‘I come bearing gifts.’ She held up the craft beers she’d bought for him a few days earlier in Ballybrack. ‘Just a small thank you for taking Niall hiking. I really appreciated it.’
‘You didn’t need to do that. I enjoyed it – he’s a great kid.’ Dora placed her head on his knees and gazed up adoringly at him.
‘Well, you look the picture of contentment,’ she said as she stood before him.
‘Ah, yes, it seems I’ve finally found the girl of my dreams.’ He laughed and patted Dora on her head. ‘She’s quite happy to do all the things I like to do and never drinks my beers from the fridge or steals my toothbrush.’
‘Probably just as well.’ Lucy turned to take in the expansive vista ranging out beneath the cottage, ending only on the horizon where the sun was edging towards its final ebb. ‘Gosh, it’s so beautiful here.’
‘I love sitting here and watching the sun go down when the weather is being reasonable.’
‘Living the dream, eh?’ She looked at him closely. ‘You do actually look like the cat that got the cream,’ she said, because there was something almost self-satisfied about his expression.
‘I suppose I am.’ He reached down, took up a can of beer and handed it to her. She opened it gratefully and sipped a long cool mouthful. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a can of beer. ‘I’ve just started writing my novel… well; actually, I started it a few days ago.’
‘And it’s going well?’ she asked.
‘It is when you’re inspired, apparently,’ he said. The smile stitching up the corners of his lips had pinpricked two small dimples that she hadn’t noticed before.
‘Well, I can see why you’d be inspired here.’ It really was the most breath-taking view.
‘It’s not just the place,’ he said softly. ‘It’s the people too. Everyone is so…’ He shook his head as if the right word would never come. ‘Well, decent, as some of the old boys down in the pub might say. Everyone is so decent and they have time to talk and welcome you…’ His words drifted off and she began to wonder how many cans he’d drunk already. ‘And they have stories, even though… I’m not sure that they realise their stories are actually worth anything.’ He shook his head at that.