When I Lost You: A Gripping, Heart Breaking Novel of Lost Love. by Kelly Rimmer Page A
Authors: Kelly Rimmer
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to me and we clinked glasses.
‘And to healing,’ she added, gesturing towards my shoulder.
‘And to healing.’ We each took a sip, and I realised how close she was sitting to me – close enough that if I just moved my knee to the left, it would brush hers. How would she react? It was far too soon to find out, but just the idea was captivating. I leant back a little so that I could glance down beneath the table. She was sitting with her legs crossed, her knees angled towards me. I dragged my gaze back up to hers.
‘Sometimes, I think about leaving TM,’ she murmured as she stared out to the harbour. ‘Not yet, but maybe someday.’
‘That would be a brave move.’
‘Please. Brave? A trust-fund kid thinking about leaving her cushy job at the family firm to loaf around and binge-watch the back catalogue of The Bachelor is not brave.’
‘Taking a step into the unknown is.’
‘It’s only brave when you don’t have a safety net. And I have three safety nets – I have my shares in TM, I have Declan’s shares in TM, and I have a trust fund. I don’t need to be there at all, really.’
‘Actually,’ I said wryly. ‘When you put it like that, you’re right. That’s not brave at all and I can’t believe you waited this long to do it.’ Molly laughed and elbowed me gently on my forearm. ‘Have you really no clue what you would do next?’
‘I’d like to do something for Declan,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what, yet. But that’s my first goal. I’ll do something to honour his memory and to…’ She turned to glance at my tattoos as she continued, ‘to memorialise him for the person he really was. I’m trying to think of a gesture I can make for him. Maybe then I’ll be ready to start my own life.’
She flashed yet another smile at me and took a long, slow sip of her wine as she turned back towards the water. I watched her lips connect with the glass and noted the way that she licked them after she’d swallowed the wine. As she lowered the glass back to the table, I realised what I was doing and felt a flush creep up my neck. My close observation of her movements was instinctive and I was struck by that odd way an attraction can make every innocent physical gesture seem somehow sensual. Even so, I was surprised by how quickly my thoughts had shifted from the very serious matter of her grief. I stopped myself, drew in a deep breath and tried to keep my whole focus on the conversation.
‘So, once you’re back at work, will you go back to Libya?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Yes,’ I said. My voice was unexpectedly rough, and I cleared my throat before I continued, ‘We need to go back to finish what we started.’
‘We?’
‘I work closely with a photo-journalist; his name is Brad Norse. We’ve done most of our work together over the last few years – we co-won that Pulitzer together, actually.’
‘Which article won the prize? I remember seeing you on television but don’t remember the details.’
‘It was a series of articles about the impact of war on the life of four Iraqi families.’
‘I’ll have to look it up. It sounds amazing,’ she murmured.
‘Apparently we did an okay job of it.’ I tried to make a joke, but I was startled when Molly burst out laughing as if I’d actually succeeded in being funny. I saw several people around us turn to look at her. The laugh was back – the riotous, inappropriately loud laugh that had defined her as a child. She twisted a little in the seat, turning to face me more as she asked, ‘So what inspired this series?’
‘The whole thing started with some photos Brad took of children playing in rubble in Fallujah while the war raged around them. But what inspired Brad was his son waiting back home. Sometimes it’s like that – you have to run two lives almost, there’s the adrenaline-fuelled life in the field and the ordinary “pick up the groceries and do the laundry” life back home. And every now and again, like with Brad
‘And to healing,’ she added, gesturing towards my shoulder.
‘And to healing.’ We each took a sip, and I realised how close she was sitting to me – close enough that if I just moved my knee to the left, it would brush hers. How would she react? It was far too soon to find out, but just the idea was captivating. I leant back a little so that I could glance down beneath the table. She was sitting with her legs crossed, her knees angled towards me. I dragged my gaze back up to hers.
‘Sometimes, I think about leaving TM,’ she murmured as she stared out to the harbour. ‘Not yet, but maybe someday.’
‘That would be a brave move.’
‘Please. Brave? A trust-fund kid thinking about leaving her cushy job at the family firm to loaf around and binge-watch the back catalogue of The Bachelor is not brave.’
‘Taking a step into the unknown is.’
‘It’s only brave when you don’t have a safety net. And I have three safety nets – I have my shares in TM, I have Declan’s shares in TM, and I have a trust fund. I don’t need to be there at all, really.’
‘Actually,’ I said wryly. ‘When you put it like that, you’re right. That’s not brave at all and I can’t believe you waited this long to do it.’ Molly laughed and elbowed me gently on my forearm. ‘Have you really no clue what you would do next?’
‘I’d like to do something for Declan,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what, yet. But that’s my first goal. I’ll do something to honour his memory and to…’ She turned to glance at my tattoos as she continued, ‘to memorialise him for the person he really was. I’m trying to think of a gesture I can make for him. Maybe then I’ll be ready to start my own life.’
She flashed yet another smile at me and took a long, slow sip of her wine as she turned back towards the water. I watched her lips connect with the glass and noted the way that she licked them after she’d swallowed the wine. As she lowered the glass back to the table, I realised what I was doing and felt a flush creep up my neck. My close observation of her movements was instinctive and I was struck by that odd way an attraction can make every innocent physical gesture seem somehow sensual. Even so, I was surprised by how quickly my thoughts had shifted from the very serious matter of her grief. I stopped myself, drew in a deep breath and tried to keep my whole focus on the conversation.
‘So, once you’re back at work, will you go back to Libya?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Yes,’ I said. My voice was unexpectedly rough, and I cleared my throat before I continued, ‘We need to go back to finish what we started.’
‘We?’
‘I work closely with a photo-journalist; his name is Brad Norse. We’ve done most of our work together over the last few years – we co-won that Pulitzer together, actually.’
‘Which article won the prize? I remember seeing you on television but don’t remember the details.’
‘It was a series of articles about the impact of war on the life of four Iraqi families.’
‘I’ll have to look it up. It sounds amazing,’ she murmured.
‘Apparently we did an okay job of it.’ I tried to make a joke, but I was startled when Molly burst out laughing as if I’d actually succeeded in being funny. I saw several people around us turn to look at her. The laugh was back – the riotous, inappropriately loud laugh that had defined her as a child. She twisted a little in the seat, turning to face me more as she asked, ‘So what inspired this series?’
‘The whole thing started with some photos Brad took of children playing in rubble in Fallujah while the war raged around them. But what inspired Brad was his son waiting back home. Sometimes it’s like that – you have to run two lives almost, there’s the adrenaline-fuelled life in the field and the ordinary “pick up the groceries and do the laundry” life back home. And every now and again, like with Brad
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