The Marriage by K.L. Slater (any book recommendations TXT) 📕

‘After everything that’s happened, I guess I never thought I’d feel happy again. I’ve never felt this happy.’

I snuggled into him, laying my cheek on his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat. Jesse’s face fluttered in front of my mind’s eye yet again, and I took a moment to remember my strong, beautiful boy, whose heart would never beat again.

‘I like to think Jesse is here now, looking down on us,’ I said softly. ‘Watching us, you know?’

Tom coughed. ‘I suppose I’ve never thought of it like that.’

‘Oh, I’ve always felt his presence,’ I said easily, walking to the window and scanning the vista. ‘I feel him with me all the time. Even here, in this bedroom.’

Tom looked away, shuffled his feet. ‘Well, he would’ve loved it here, I’m sure. All that open countryside for his motocross.’

‘Look at the bed.’ I sat on the edge, smoothed the black and silver throw. ‘I got us a super-king. I thought you’d appreciate the extra room.’

‘You bet I do.’ He walked over and kissed me lightly on the top of my head. ‘I think you’ve done amazingly, Brid, going from your life as it was before to this. You’ve worked so hard, and now it’s time for you to enjoy the fruits of …’ His voice trailed off as he became distracted by something on the other side of the room. ‘Is that …’

He peered at the far wall, where I’d hung the framed order of service from Jesse’s funeral.

‘Yes, it’s such a wonderful memento of his life. Too beautiful to pack away in the attic.’ I stood up and pressed my fingers to his cheek, gently guiding his gaze back to me. ‘We’ll be so happy here, Tom. Here with each other and, as you’ve always said, our shared precious memories of Jesse.’

I slid my hands under his fitted T-shirt and pressed them into the smooth warmth of his muscular torso.

Our lips met, barely touching at first, and I felt an electric jolt shoot through me. He pulled me towards him, over to the bed, peeling off his T-shirt. He smelled clean and fresh and I buried my fingers in his thick dark hair. The bulk of him hovered over me, his weight anchoring me in bliss as he lowered himself gently on top of me.

‘We belong together, Tom,’ I whispered in his ear. ‘Nobody can come between us now.’

Fourteen Jill

When Tom and Bridget had left, I sat down on the comfy sofa by the French doors in the kitchen.

Comfy was a polite word we used to avoid facing the fact that the furniture had seen better days. When we were younger, with Tom growing up and me changing to part-time hours, it had seemed a constant struggle to keep renewing things, tweaking the house and the accommodation within to make it fit for our growing family. We’d splashed out on this kitchen extension, and the stylish French doors that made the most of the view of the garden. ‘To bring the outside in,’ I remembered the kitchen planner saying to good effect as Robert willingly handed over the deposit.

We’d taken to enjoying a cup of tea there – and the odd gin – while we kept an eye on Tom and, more often than not, Jesse as they played out in the garden. We’d relish letting off steam about the day we’d had, Robert grumbling about his colleagues at the architect’s office where he’d worked then, while I’d tell him about some rude or noisy customer I’d had to tolerate in the library.

Now, it only ever seemed to be me on my own, sitting there staring out at the patchy lawn and the tired, colourless borders.

When I first sat down, I’d felt light-headed and slightly confused, Tom’s words whirling around in my mind and still not making any sense.

‘Now do you see why we can’t trust him?’ Robert kept saying until I yelled at him to stop.

I watched as he moved back and forth making the tea. Nearly thirty years ago, we’d met at our high school dance. He’d been in the sixth-form, a couple of years older than me which I’d found very attractive. At fifty-two he had a bit more padding around the middle than he did then. His jeans bagged slightly around his bottom and his hair had grown a little thinner. But he was still a good-looking man and when he wore his blue and white striped scarf from his Birmingham university days, it gave him that college student air again.

He opened the cutlery drawer and selected a teaspoon, humming something tuneless and unidentifiable as he took two tea bags out of the canister. He didn’t seem gutted about what had happened with Tom. In fact, he didn’t seem concerned at all but then Robert always thought he knew best.

Life had held little excitement for the two of us for many years now. Over the years he’d become increasingly selfish, only interested in serving his own needs. For instance, when Robert began his counsellor training back in 2007, he took over the small office down the hall which I’d used as a little reading room. Nothing fancy, a squashy armchair, a lamp and a blanket. A quiet space to sit in, surrounded by my books.

When my mother died and we cleared the house, I found a set of my gran’s Charles Dickens books in an unmarked box amongst piles of old greetings cards and mildewed clothes in Mum’s cluttered attic.

Robert, whom I’d never seen read a book, looked on disparagingly when I asked him to put the books in the car. ‘Surely you don’t want these fusty old volumes? I’ll buy you a new set,’ he’d said airily.

‘I don’t want a new set!’ I’d removed one volume and carefully leafed through. ‘Look, published in 1930 and they’re illustrated.’

They weren’t quite first editions but were still pretty old – their fading red leather covers still replete with gold leaf lettering. The memories had come flooding back