Pitch Imperfect (25 page)

“Because it doesn’t matter,” Rob said, striding away. “I wanted to see if she was all right, and she is. She’s perfectly fine without me.”

Chapter Twenty

Anjuli had never seen the Heaverlock Arms as tightly packed before, all because of the latest local issue to heat heads and loosen tongues: whether or not Heaverlock’s Common Riding Festival should be permanently joined to Halton’s, ending five hundred years of rivalry between the two villages. A hot issue, which required pints and drams, glasses of wine and sherries.

Anjuli kept her hands on the pint of lager she was pulling and her eyes on the door. According to Mrs. P., Rob was back from America and she needed to see him, touch him, kiss him so badly she was aching. She wanted to breathe in his musky scent and see his smile. Busy at the bar most nights, she listened for his voice, and yet for days she had put off phoning him.

The fire had given her a wakeup call that reverberated louder than any smack against dream castles or echoing doors. But how could she bare her soul to an automated messaging service? Thinking of her voicemail message asking him to come round and discuss Castle Manor, tongue-tied and repetitive, she emitted a small shriek. Viking didn’t even bat an eyelid, testament to the fact he’d grown used to her spontaneous squawks. Damien, on the other hand, looked concerned.

“Don’t mind me. Ash has conversations with her finger and I give voice to my inner nutcase.”

Viking came up and grinned. “Crazy woman. She teaches Saffron this finger talk.”

Damien looked amused, and then his gaze landed on the hand Anjuli was rubbing against her midriff. “I hope it’s not the curry I nuked for us.”

No, but she felt as if
she
were being nuked, body cold but insides sizzling, unstoppable heat radiating through her at the prospect of seeing Rob. She had hoped it was him on her doorstep last night instead of Damien and been crushed that it wasn’t. Ashamed of herself, she squeezed Damien’s hand. “I really appreciate your coming over to check on Reiver. Thank goodness his smoke inhalation wasn’t as bad as mine. Sorry it was such an early night.”

“No need to apologise. I had a date, remember? Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I will be if Rob ever shows up for this damn debate. I’m going to grab him as soon as he gets here.”

Damien grinned. “Rough, but I like it. May the course of true love flow like the Guinness down my throat.”

“Black and bitter?”

“Slow and smooth, with a heady froth.”

“Oh, God.”

Rob walked in a few minutes later. In black trousers and a light grey shirt he looked casual and sexy at the same time. He must have been outdoors recently because his skin was more tanned, making his eyes look lighter. He caught her gaze, held it for a split second, and looked away. Anjuli’s stomach twisted. How could he convey so much in a single look? Repudiation in a glance. She blinked at the jarring noise in her ears, wanting to swat it away like a pesky fly. It was Sarah Brunel, come up from a table of reporters the second she’d seen Rob. Anjuli was glad to see him merely return her greeting with a polite nod and move to Viking’s end of the bar.

Pint of lager
,
mate
, she lip read, staring at his mouth. Two dimples either side deepened as he greeted the pretty young woman who’d recently set up a glassblowing studio across the square and chatted with her while he waited for his drink. Was Rob attracted to petite, porcelain-skinned blondes these days? What was her name again...? Didn’t matter, she could keep her thoughts of blowing anything other than glass out of her head or else. Frothy bitter overflowed the pint glass and spilled onto her hand, and she grabbed a bar towel to clean it off.

Talk to me.
Tell me why you haven’t phoned me back or come to see me.
Tell me you still love me and it isn’t too late.
She served a customer, berating herself for not grabbing Rob as she’d intended. So what if he was surrounded by other people in a crowded pub? Any moment now she would forget her inhibitions and throw her arms around his neck—if he looked at her with the tiniest bit of warmth. Then she would take him into the back office and tell him how she felt.

Ignoring the customer in front of her, Anjuli went to the other end of the bar and stood next to Viking. Wordlessly, he swapped bar ends with her. Why did people think he was stupid just because he was big and clunky and struggled with English?

“Hi Rob,” she said.

He went as wooden as the bar he tapped his fingers on. “Anjuli.”

The blonde looked between them. “Nice seeing you again,” she said to Rob and melted into the crowd.

Anjuli stopped filling his pint glass. “Are you dating the glassblower?”

Oh God
,
what possessed her?

Rob fixed her with a flat stare. “I’m no’ in the habit of running from one woman to the next.”

“Right. Of course not. Listen...” God, this was worse than treading barefoot over fire and she should know. “I can take a break for a few minutes if you’ll come to the office with me. I’d like to talk to you.”

“There’s no need until you accept my offer on Castle Manor.”

How could he be so exasperating? “The manor isn’t what I want to talk to you about. I know I owe you a lot of money and, well, that’s not important. I mean, of course it’s important and I am going to pay you back soon. Not sure exactly how yet but I will, and—”

Rob took out a twenty pound note from his wallet. “Make an appointment with Mrs. P. if you want to talk over payment plans or selling the house.” He looked at the platform. “It’s my turn to go up soon.”

Anjuli wanted to shake him. “It’s not money or the house or the storm brewing in Heaverlock I want to talk to you about,” she said, frustration making her voice sharp.

Rob’s look was steady, unfathomable. “I’m listening.”

She lowered her voice. “I’d like to explain what happened that day, with Damien, and tell you how I was feeling.”

“I understood the first time around.”

“Well, do you have anything
you’d
like to say? I’ll listen to whatever it is. Give you whatever you want...”

Her voice trailed off as she looked around the packed pub. She could hardly tell Rob how she felt with Mr. Combe on the barstool next to him—even if he had been deaf since he was seventy. Viking kept bumping into her as he moved around and strangers from Halton crowded the counter, waiting to be served.

“What I want,” Rob said, “is a pint of lager and change from twenty pounds.”

* * *

Thirty-five pints of lager, fifteen glasses of wine and twelve drams later, the Heaverlock-Halton debate was in full swing. Finally able to take a break, Anjuli leaned against the back of the bar and ran a hand through her sweaty hair. The pub felt like a sauna even with the door and windows open the air was stuffy with the smell of hops and whisky. Long August nights meant it would be light outside for hours yet and only sunset would bring a slight chill to the air.

Business at the bar had slowed as protestors, questioners, debaters and those merely wishing to state their opinions walked up to the platform, said their piece and went back to their tables.

She should be listening to the debate. After all, she was staying in Heaverlock for good and the outcome would have an impact on her B&B. Yet instead of pondering the pros and cons of keeping Heaverlock’s festival independent she was staring at Rob like a besotted fan.

She didn’t want to look at him but Rob demanded her attention. Bloody painful, but it seemed her heart was irrevocably linked to his every movement, and the only way to keep it beating was to fix her eyes on his face. Or do something else.

Anjuli took off her apron and smoothed down her clingy aubergine dress. She’d worn it because it was practical enough for the bar and flattered her figure. And she was desperate enough to hope the low neckline would catch Rob’s eye.

Ash came out of the back office, saw her, and grinned. “I recommend taking off your bra.”

“Tart.”

Anjuli willed Rob to see her, to notice her fixed stare. Was he really the same man who had given her respite in his arms and then, oh God, given her so much pleasure? Her dreams about him were so vivid they seemed real. The Victorian hospital nightmare was gone and so was the castle, but sometimes she wished them back. Every morning she woke up in a sweat, the taste of Rob’s skin on her lips and the feel of his hands on her body. Moist and ready. A throbbing nose would have been less painful.

“I have to go over there.”

Ash and Viking exchanged horrified looks, then Ash grinned. “Try announcing to the village that Rob wants an independent Heaverlock festival so he can profit financially. That’ll get his attention. Or better yet, you could accuse him of stealing your materials and setting fire to Castle Manor. Then there’s—”

Viking shut Ash’s mouth with a short, hard kiss.

“Stop tasting her,” he chided and went to serve a customer.

Anjuli smiled at Ash’s dazed expression. “I think he means testing. Or maybe teasing?”

“Tasting is fine by me.”

Anjuli focused on the makeshift platform. There was no danger of her making a public spectacle of herself again. She would catch Rob as soon as he finished saying whatever he was going so say and went back to the glassblower’s table.

But what if he avoided her?

She was supposed to be the expert at avoidance but Rob had perfected the art. The only way to guarantee that he talked to her would be to waylay him at the bottom of the platform so there she would be.

The debate drew to an end and both sides gave their final arguments, the last of these from Rob. He didn’t want Heaverlock to join Halton, and maintained they were better off celebrating the Common Riding independently, that merging their traditions risked diluting the historical significance of Heaverlock. He stayed on the platform along with a few others, debating the point until Councillor Hamish thanked everybody involved and read out a few community notices.

It was over? How had Rob ended up at the opposite end of the platform? Had he seen her hovering, waiting to waylay him? He jumped off and walked into the crowd and she called out, but he didn’t seem to hear her. Or didn’t want to.

Anjuli ran up the platform steps and grabbed the microphone from the table. “I would like to say something, if I may.”

“Is it pro or against the union of our festivals?” Councillor Hamish enquired politely.

Along with the rest of the pub, Rob stopped to listen, and Anjuli balked. In her sweaty palms the microphone felt as slippery as a snake. “I think Heaverlock and Halton work better together and keeping our festivals independent would perpetuate our ancient misunderstandings and be a grievous mistake.” She looked at Rob. “I know a lot about mistakes. I also know a lot about isolation. I think we belong together, that stupid, hurtful decisions were made in the past, but that we can embrace the future, erm, festivals side by side. No matter the risk.”

“Would anybody like to respond to that?” Councillor Hamish prompted.

“Rob?” Anjuli cut in, before anybody else could answer.

A small circle opened up around Rob. “I think it’s time for a dram.”

Councillor Hamish grinned. “So it is, lad, so it is.”

The crowd began to disperse and Rob didn’t head to the glassblower’s table as Anjuli had thought he would, or to the bar. He stalked towards the exit as if the devil was after him. No! He was not going to leave her like this, not without hearing her out. Anjuli tapped at the microphone, and a few heads turned her way.

“I have something to say, Mr. Douglas,” she called out. “And I would appreciate it if you would turn around and listen.”

The first words she had uttered to him upon her return to Heaverlock. Would they also be the last?

Was Sarah Brunel taking a picture and furiously making notes? Were people gaping and whispering? If they were, Anjuli didn’t notice or care. Her attention centred exclusively on one stiff-backed man slowly pivoting to face her.

He was waiting, and yet she said nothing.

In the depths of her grief she’d travelled to the Isle of Skye and stood atop a steep cliff during a storm. Desperate with sorrow, she’d perched at the edge and gazed at the stormy sea, the urge to immerse herself in its tempestuous waters building inside her. A more powerful surge gathered momentum now, wanting to sweep Rob into every hollow and crevice of her body, absorb him when they crashed and merged.

She wanted to sing again. For him.

A single, melancholic C emerged from Anjuli’s throat, long and steady. The beginning of an ancient Gaelic love song that slowly built in intensity and longing. She sang the haunting, “Sad Am I Without Thee” to Rob, anchoring her voice to his body.

Bheir mi oro bhan o

Bheir mi oro bhan i

Bheir mi oru bhan o h

When I’m lonely, dear white heart

Black the night or wild the sea

By love’s light, my foot finds

The old pathway to thee

Sad am I...sad am I...sad am I, without thee

Thou’rt the music of my heart

Harp of joy,
o
cruit mo chruidh

Moon of guidance by night

Strength and light thou’rt to me

Sad am I...sad am I...sad am I, without thee...

Anjuli’s voice resonated with the pain of losing Rob, her regret at hurting him and her hope that he would love her again, and by the time the last note shimmered and faded she felt naked and exposed. Nobody clapped, talked or whispered as people waited for her to speak.

“I love you, Robert Jared Douglas. I’ve loved you since I was sixteen years old and I always will. You’re brave and stubborn and honest. One of the kindest, most compassionate men I know. And if you’ll let me, I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you, no matter the risk. In sickness and in health, in Heaverlock or in Hell.”

Rob stared at her, but nothing altered in his expression. If anything it twisted inwards and became more unfathomable. Distant. Had her declaration not been enough to convince him of her feelings? Anjuli willed him to believe her, to trust her with his heart. Hers had stopped pounding. Her guilt and sorrow, remarkably absent. Her mind had no more questions to ask and no advice to offer.