Our bargain meant I had no intention of letting her down.
Her late husband’s tools, stored in the workshop behind the four-car garage, were a candy box of ancient cranks and rusty hammers—a history lesson in gadget evolution, but they did the job.
Six weeks flew by, and I tackled the roof first.
Before the weather turned entirely disgusting, I ripped off the broken tiles, removed the rotten joists and bearers, and began rebuilding the ancient girl to survive another century.
Those were some of my favourite days—working in the attic with Della perched on old trunks, reading me stories from ancient diaries and dusting off porcelain-faced dolls and patching up bug-chewed teddy bears.
It did something to me watching her cradle the toys so lovingly, almost as if imagining the kids who had once played with them before time turned them to adult, then to dust.
I didn’t have the guts to ask her how she felt about pregnancy after the pain she’d endured. Then again, I knew Della was a fighter and determined, and despite what had happened, she’d still want a kid…eventually.
And although I was still well acquainted with the terror of losing her, I couldn’t deny I already loved her for the mother she would become. The way she’d hold our son or daughter. The way she’d kiss them and read to them and introduce them to the world that we viewed as harsh but would be so fantastical to them as we’d ensure they’d forever be protected and cherished.
That winter was just as good as the previous one in our cottage.
As we grew familiar with the manor house, we’d run the halls, have paint fights that turned into tickle wars, chase up the rambling stairs and indulge in still-dressed sex, rutting against a wall or over the arm of a hundred-year-old chaise.
Della was my other half, and the magic that existed between us meant the sad old house slowly shed off her cobwebs and stood from her ruins, prouder, prettier, braver than she ever had before.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
DELLA
2020
CHRISTMAS.
New Years.
Another year.
I wasn’t exactly sad to say goodbye to 2019, thanks to the still sharp memories of an ectopic pregnancy, but there was so much good about the year, too.
Ren skirted the topic of what happened in a way that made me suspect he took it a lot harder than I had. Respecting his fears of losing me, I never truly described the pain to him. Never told him that as he carried me from the forest, I felt as if my ovary was trying to claw its way free, determined to drag my entire uterus with it.
Thanks to him, I was still alive.
Thanks to him, we had a chance at a family in the future.
And that was another reason I never told him what I went through when Doctor Strand said the words ‘You’re pregnant.’
How could something so good be so excruciating?
How could something I wanted be so utterly terrifying?
And how could I admit to Ren, that even though I knew the termination had to happen, I felt as if I’d killed our child in cold blood? What sort of life did we end? Was it a girl like me or a boy like Ren?
Sometimes, in those first few weeks, I’d stroke my phone with the urge to message Cassie. She was the one who’d helped me during my first period, and the only girl who I’d confided in. I wanted to share my feelings. I wanted someone to understand that, even though I knew it had to be terminated, it still didn’t stop the occasional nightmares of some ghost-child condemning me for choosing my life over theirs.
But I couldn’t message Cassie because I hadn’t told her about me and Ren.
Sure, I’d spoken to her since we’d gotten together but I always directed the conversation away from her questions of my love life and if David was still in the picture.
What I really wanted to talk about was the shadow slowly building inside me about Ren.
A shadow full of worry.
He’d put on weight since we’d been back together. He laughed and joked and ran and played and worked.
But he still coughed.
Not often.
Not all the time.
Just occasionally.
But my ears hated the sound and my heart twitched like a frightened rabbit every time he did.
Just like I never told him what I went through with the ectopic pain, I didn’t confide my growing concerns over his own health.
To look at him, he glowed with vitality and hardiness…but when that cough appeared?
The shadow inside me grew bigger.
I was used to not having a sounding board to share my concerns, so our separation from society was nothing new, but sometimes I did wish I had someone to assure me that from here on out, life would be kind to us and grant long healthy days and never ending happy nights.
Despite the fact I kept a few things from Ren, and my worries chewed like tiny mice inside me, winter was great fun in that rambling, ramshackle mansion.
Ren had always been a hard worker, and that part of him came out loud and proud as he took it upon himself to renovate the entire property and not just the long list Mrs Collins had provided.
One month turned to two, then three; snow fell, ice formed, and we stayed warm thanks to physical labour. Some days, we’d focus on the bedrooms, lugging timber up the stairs to rebuild rotten walls, both of us learning how to plaster so it didn’t look like Play-Doh slopped on the wall, and figuring out that paint didn’t dry in the cold and caused ugly streaks that meant we had to sand and try again.
Other days, we cleared the overly cluttered living rooms of old magazine boxes and discarded dresses from a century ago, ready to rip up threadbare carpets and buff ancient floorboards beneath.
I loved every second because it meant Ren and I were together, like always.
Life couldn’t get any more perfect.
Until spring arrived, of course.
And then it just got better.
We stayed far longer than usual, but whenever I brought up the subject of returning to the forest, Ren refused.
What he’d said at the Bed and Breakfast still governed him, and he was determined to provide more than just a tent even though that was all I really wanted.
Just him and long, hot days of freedom.
Summer came knocking with a vengeance, giving us an easier job of tackling areas of the house we’d left until last. And as ramshackle slowly became regal once again, the urge to move on returned, despite not knowing where we would move on to.
That traveller’s itch and wanderlust was vicious once it arrived, and it hung a countdown clock over our heads, tick-tocking for a departure.
Almost as if she heard our growing restlessness, Mrs Collins left us a neatly penned note in the repaired letter box asking for a tour in one weeks’ time.
We’d stayed longer than any place in two years, but even though Ren didn’t want to make me homeless again, another reason we hadn’t traded walls for trees was that he felt as if he hadn’t done enough.
The house was immaculate compared to the state it was in when we first arrived. The roof was solid and watertight. The bedrooms rodent and pigeon free with fresh paint, beautifully sanded floors, and furniture that I’d painstakingly washed, waxed, and restored.
The downstairs was just as impressive with its polished chandeliers, spotless—if not still ancient—kitchen, and the lounge had a full makeover with new walls, re-tiled fireplace, replaced chimney flu, and an emerald rug the size of a small country we’d found in the attic and spent weeks airing out.
We were officially down to almost nothing in our wallets, but I didn’t think I’d ever been so happy. Ren had even stopped coughing as often, thanks to having a proper house to protect us and regular vegetables in our diets.
Things were good.
Better than good.
But by the time Mrs Collins arrived for her tour, Ren and I grew nervous about showing her around.
It was her home, after all.