This is my #One Quote One Shot by @balfeheughlywed and @notevenjokingfic contribution as part of my story Downhill, since the quote worked so well for the chapter I had planned.
Chapter 24 - The Story of Us
The hours had flown by, despite Claire’s worries how the meeting might go. The three of them spending the afternoon in their pleasant bubble, getting to know each other while playing games. Willie had even insisted that Jamie stay for dinner –a hastily prepared pasta dish that the two redheads had polished off at an impressive speed. While she was cautious not to be too enthusiastic, she still felt the whole affair had been a success so far.
As Claire waited for Jamie to make his next move on the board –moving his piece dangerously close to one of her own– she noticed from the corner of her eye that Willie was yawning hugely, curly head drooping on his small shoulders. Fortunately, the boy still had enough presence of mind to wipe the drool off his mouth before it pooled onto the coffee table.
“Alright, that’s it, young man, off to bed,” Claire announced with practised authority as she got to her feet, rubbing some feeling back into the leg she’d been sitting on.
Before Willie could even begin to protest, he yawned again, effectively cutting off any argument he might have come up with to extend his bedtime.
Jamie watched, entranced, the small plastic figure still between his index and thumb, as Claire, her hands firmly placed on their son’s back, steered William towards his bedroom, directing him to put on his PJs and to brush his teeth. He felt a bit like an intruder, sitting there unmoving on the rug in front of the couch, his eyes following Claire and Willie’s every move as they went about their business. If someone told him that he would ever find himself wanting to watch anyone brush their teeth, he would have thought them mental. But here he was, desperate to not miss even a single thing about his son. His son. There would have been no way to prevent the smile curving his lips upwards at the thought, even if he wanted to. What a cute little bugger he was.
Not quite knowing what else to do, Jamie got up, stretching his long limbs with a luxurious yawn, thinking that just sitting and waiting there –staring like an oversized red owl– would be the weirder of alternatives. So, he walked towards the room from which Claire’s voice rang –reminding William to leave his socks in the laundry basket and not on the bathroom floor– quietly observing her.
There was an indescribable grace to her as she moved around the room –brown curls bouncing lightly with every step as curtains were drawn shut, things tidied away in passing, and the little plush puffin put on the pillow– so sure of her own place in it. This, Jamie could tell from the confident tilt of her head, the set of her shoulders, was her purpose, her calling. And he felt himself longing for the same, for a place in this. Whatever this was.
When Claire turned around and noticed Jamie standing there, leaning with his shoulder against the doorframe, she seemed startled –for a split second, honey eyes were blown wide in surprise that there was someone else in the room.
“I’m sorry, I just forgot for a minute that we weren’t alone,” she admitted, a slight pinkness tingeing her cheeks.
“I… I didnae mean tae intrude, only –,” he coughed to cover the embarrassment at having been caught staring. “Only I was wondering, ken, if there was anything I could help ye wi’?” Jamie hastily explained, his deep Scottish burr apologetic.
An understanding smile played around her lips as she approached him.
“Thank you, but no. Willie has to get ready for bed by himself. He’s old enough for that. I only make sure that the window is closed before he does. Normally, we read a couple of pages, too, but I think he’s too knackered for that tonight.”
“Ah, sure, whate’er ye say, Claire,” Jamie willingly conceded any authority on such matters to her.
Before either could say anything else, a fiery red mop of hair brushed past them around hip-level into the small bedroom. Willie, having been thoroughly fed and entertained the whole day, had his night-time routine finished in absolute record time.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Claire raised an interrogatory eyebrow at her son.
“Tae bed?” the boy responded with a puzzled expression that reminded Jamie eerily of his sister Jenny. Was this one of his own expressions, then?
“Have you flushed your manners down the toilet, William Beauchamp, or are you not saying goodbye to –,” Claire stopped abruptly, realising that she had wanted to say ‘guest’, but caught herself in time before she continued, “your father?” He wasn’t just a guest, after all. At least she put her hopes in that.
If he noticed her awkward pause, Jamie didn’t comment on it.
“I thought he was goin’ tae read tae me wi’ you?” standing next to his bed in his brontosaurus PJs and with minty breath, Willie looked expectantly from his mother to Jamie.
Claire’s eyes locked on flustered dark blue, simultaneously conveying ‘guess I was wrong about the being too knackered part’ and inviting him with a jerk of her head to take William up on the offer to join them.
“I’d be happy tae, if ye think I’ll do,” Jamie eagerly accepted, stepping into the room with his hands in the front pockets of his jeans.
Willie made himself comfortable on the propped-up pillow, a sleepy smile fixed firmly into the soft features of his face as Claire picked a book from the shelf. Book in hand, Claire made herself comfortable next to him on the duvet and turned on the bedside lamp, gesturing to Jamie to turn off the big light and sit in the chair next to them.
A rustling of paper was followed by an intake of air. She was preparing herself, Jamie noted curiously and found himself strangely expectant. Claire’s voice was strong, but soft –like the sound of water rushing gently over a rock– as she began to narrate the story of Goodnight, Moon. Jamie could tell she was an experienced storyteller from the way the syllables dripped of her tongue like honey, capturing his attention and wrapping his mind in peaceful serenity.
He had not noticed his eyes closing, only when the silence became too loud to ignore and jerked him out of his peace of mind, did he find that they were shut. He opened them to a blinding sun –only not quite. The light of the bedside lamp had hit her right orb just so that it glowed golden, bright as the sun. A light in the dimness of the room. Sorcha, his pupils dilated widely at the vivid memory of waking up screaming from a sterile darkness some seven years ago.
Just at that moment, Willie emitted a soft snore –a sure sign that the bedtime story had fulfilled its purpose– causing Claire to turn her gaze away from him, the curtain of her hair shielding Jamie’s dumbfounded expression from her.
“Goodnight, Willie,” Claire said, stroking the boy’s hair out of his cherubic face, her voice soft as a whisper.
Claire’s tenderness and the sight of his flesh and blood –softly snoring as he pressed his little puffin tightly to his tiny chest– did something indescribable to Jamie. The closest approximation to the feeling he could come up with was that it was a sensation akin to a large chunk of his heart being carved out, bit by bit, to make enough room to be filled up with moments like this –moments of grace that he knew would stay with him forever.
“Goodnight, Willie,” he breathed.
Still mesmerised by the beauty of the moment, Jamie only realised that Claire had gotten up and turned off the lamp when he felt the warm weight of her hand on his shoulder. ‘Come,’ the gentle squeeze seemed to say. Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away from the sleeping form of his son –away from the little chest moving rhythmically up and down, from the red curls sprawled out over the linen of the pillow.
Moving out of the dark room back into the brightly lit hallway, Jamie threw another glance over his shoulder, catching a last glimpse of his son –smiling innocently in his sleep– before Claire closed the door behind them.
Back in the living room, Jamie stood, a little forlorn but with a dreamy smile on his face, when Claire’s voice broke through his reverie.
His head jerked towards her, dark blue eyes still lost in thought.
“Aye, quite the day,” he agreed, running his hand through his hair.
With William safely tucked into bed and out of sight for the moment, the centre of their focus was gone and they both became hyper-aware of each other’s presence. Now, there was nothing but the two of them –and a slightly awkward tension in the air. There were still so many things left unsaid, so many things to be told, but Jamie was at a loss how to address any of it.
“Fancy a dram?” Claire blurted out unexpectedly, saving them from a continued embarrassed silence, her hands rubbing nervously against each other.
Despite the fact that Claire never really drank, there was a bottle of a fine whisky sitting untouched in her cupboard –courtesy of befriending a whisky-lover named Brian Fraser. ‘If ye want tae live in the Hielands, a nighean, ye better have a stiff one tae offer a guest. Even if it’s jus’ tae shut ‘em up.’
“Am I a Scot?” Jamie said with a husk of a laugh, releasing a bit of the tension from his shoulders.
“Have a seat, then,” she waved her arm in a loose gesture towards the couch, moving to prepare their drinks.
Jamie did as asked and sank down on the comfortable cushions, head tilted so that he could observe her unobtrusively.
Dark blue eyes watched intently as pale, graceful fingers closed firmly around the round body of the crystal glasses as she put them on the counter. Took in the way her eyebrows furrowed in frustration and the line of her mouth tightened with effort as she was wrestling with the lid of the bottle –emitting a soft grunt of victory when it finally popped free. Watched how her shoulder rolled smoothly under the fabric of her jumper as she poured a generous amount into the glasses. The way her curls swung freely when she turned towards him again, a shy smile playing on her full lips.
Passing him a glass, Claire’s fingertips touched the back of his hand for the blink of an eye, leaving a tingling sensation in their wake. Jamie stared at the spot where he could still feel the imprint of her unintentional touch. If she had felt anything, she didn’t let it show, though –her face was quite blank, if friendly.
“Since when do ye drink?” Jamie asked, taking an appreciative sip from his glass.
“I don’t, usually,” she began, then, realising what he had said, lifted her eyebrows in genuine surprise, “You still remember that?”
“Aye, I do,” he said, matter-of-factly, and before he could stop himself, added, “there are plenty o’ things I still remember about ye.”
As soon as the words were out, he could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. In an attempt to not let her process what he had implied, he pressed on.
“Weel, what else has changed since I last saw ye?”
“A lot,” she replied, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“Except fer the obvious, I meant,” Jamie amended, the heat of embarrassment amplifying –so much so that he opened the first two buttons of his shirt.
For a second he thought that amber eyes had dropped to the bit of skin that showed there, but then her phone pinged, and the moment was broken when she checked who had sent the message.
“Geillis,” she said, showing him the screen. “Can’t wait to know how it went.”
A slow smile spread across his wide mouth.
“Ye’ll have tae thank her fer me someday, aye?”
“For what?” the astonishment rang clear in her question.
“Fer having chosen me tae safeguard yer phone back then.”
It was a simple enough statement, and yet it brought back so many vivid memories. The nagging worry of whether or not she would be accepted into medical school, a meddling friend who had stolen her gateway to getting that answer, fruit cocktails. A walk on the beach, fingers grazing, circling, gripping. A kiss that lead to so much more.
Jamie was right, both of them had a lot to thank Geillis for. Which reminded her…
“Wait here,” Claire instructed as she put her almost untouched whisky on the table and leapt up from the couch, brown curls flying behind her as she was heading towards what Jamie gathered must be her bedroom.
Straightening his back, he watched with interest as she returned with something clutched to her chest. Her weight sank down into the cushion next to him again, one leg tucked beneath her, the warmth of her closer than before. Now he was able to see that it was a white book she was cradling against her breast, and he leaned slightly towards her, trying to get a better glimpse of it. A book?
Claire closed her eyes and took a deep breath, steeling herself for a moment she had been imagining for years. Then, she lay the book in his lap. Only it wasn’t –a book, that is.
Jamie took a moment to appreciate the artistic calligraphy and the title, an excited energy coursing through his veins as he run his thumb over the linen cover.
He cleared his throat, “Is this what I think it is?”
“Depends on what you think,” Claire replied with a small smile, rubbing her palms on her thighs. “If you think this is a compilation of my pathetic attempts at poetry, then, no. If you think that is a photo album of William, then, you get full marks.”
Carefully, almost gingerly, Jamie opened it.
Claire was chewing her lower lip with apprehension.
First, there was a sheet of empty space. Turning another page, the title of the album was stark in black ink against the thick, creamy paper. The Story of William Beauchamp, it read. Underneath, in less bolder lines stood the boy’s date of birth, his weight, and size. The date of his baptism, place of his birth, as well as the name of his godmother. On the bottom of the page sat two more lines, on the left it said mother –Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp written in a neat hand– but the right line that indicated the father’s name sat vacant. An emptiness that inhabited the loss of 7 years and all that went with it.
Not wanting to waste any more time on dwelling on things he couldn’t change, Jamie turned the page and gasped –a sound of awed incredulity– as he came face to face with a black and white image, the lines not quite clear, but unmistakeable.
“That was the first ultrasound,” Claire’s own breath hitched a little, the memory of hearing the sound of that first heartbeat engrained into every cell of her body.
Jamie didn’t speak, though, as dark blue eyes were darting to and fro, soaking up the images in front of him –one by one.
The ultrasounds from each appointment that Claire had dutifully scheduled and attended told the narrative of how his son’s unborn life had developed steadily in the womb, sheltered beneath his mother’s heart. These were followed by a string of photos showing the external storyline to this progression –the weekly belly profile pictures Geillis had bullied her into.
Lips parted slightly in silent admiration as he took in the changes to the curves of Claire’s body. They were subtle, going from one picture to the next, but the whole extent of it became drastic when he compared the first to the last picture. Where at first there was only the slightest concavity to her otherwise flat stomach noticeable, a roundness the size of an overgrown watermelon had taken residence in the last one. Her breasts had grown even fuller early on, swollen with nourishment for their child.
“Ye look like ye were about tae pop at any time,” he pointed at the last in the series of the pictures, where the skin over her belly seemed stretched beyond its limits.
She swatted his biceps, but chortled, “And I was, that was only 2 days before he finally decided to come out. Took his bloody time about it, too.”
“Was it a difficult birth, then?” his tone was infused with sympathy.
“Not much more difficult than you can imagine pressing something the size of that,” Claire circled the bloated midsection in the shot with a gentle finger, “out of your private parts. It was a normal birth, but it took forever, and I wanted to be quite done with the whole business weeks before.”
A light chuckle sounded from his throat as he turned to the next page and froze.
There, a whole page dedicated to this one shot alone, sat the picture of her baby shower. Round and puffy at almost 8 months pregnant, Jamie could see the glow in honey eyes despite the apparent bodily discomfort. Her hair was loose and wild, curling madly and framing cheeks tinged with a rosy colour. Geillis’ had thrown an arm around her, drawing her friend close while proudly wearing her Godmother shirt, her brilliant smile only outshone by Claire’s. One pearl-skinned hand gripped Geillis’ waist while the other rested on her extended belly, holding the Godchild headlined onesie in place as she laughed. True happiness.
Neither of them voiced their unease, both horribly aware how that one snapshot had caused them both so much pain. It was a beautiful photograph, candid and real –that’s what Claire had loved about it and made it one of her fondest memories. Now, the memory of it was tainted, and she couldn’t quite bear to look at it –so she flipped to the next page.
Stealing a glance at Jamie’s face, Claire had expected to see his mask back in place, shielding any emotions from the outside world. His eyes were wide, though, staring with wonder at the coloured images of their son’s round, new-born face, swaddled in a pale-yellow blanket, slanted eyes closed in the new exhaustion of existence.
Jamie made an inarticulate sound somewhere in the back of his throat, and Claire felt the centre of gravity shifting around them. Instinctively, she scooted closer, their thighs touching at the seams of their trousers.
“Tell me about him,” he requested, his deep voice gentle as one finger was hovering over the apple of Willie’s cheek. “What was he like? What was it he first said when he began tae speak?”
“His first word was ‘Mama’,” Claire recounted, eyes alight with pride, “followed closely by ‘no’.”
“Aye, they learn that one fast,” Jamie chuckled knowingly. Registering her perplexed expression, he hastened to add, “Sae my sister tells me.”
“Ah,” she sounded relieved.
Continuing to look at each page, at each captured moment, Jamie listened attentively to all the stories that went with them.
William’s first birthday, his chubby little face covered in icing and cream after a night of colic and endless screaming that had made mother and son irritable but was forgotten the moment the wean’s eyes had lit up at the sight of the sugary treat. Snaps of a toddler with Geillis at the zoo, fat little fingers sticky with ice cream pointing excitedly at the tiger in the enclosure. A red, curly head bent towards the plush puffin seated to his right –the place of honour– deeply absorbed in a private tea party conversation. Another shot, William in neon green wellies and an oversized raincoat, prepared for torrential rain that had swept over Edinburgh some years ago on the first day of kindergarten. Dimples and a bright, gap-toothed grin dominated another image, auburn curls sticking out in all directions, as Willie was wrapped in a towel after his swimming class. The day the said goodbye to their friends in Edinburgh. An image of a small, shawled boy opening the door of a small cottage surrounded by a blue fence.
Reaching the end, Jamie got choked up, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.
“It’s the story of William. And me, in a way,” she said, her tone higher than usual, “but I’m hoping it will be the story of you, too.”
It seemed to take everything he had to tear his gaze from the album, to raise his eyes to look at her, but he managed.
“Aye,” Jamie breathed, his voice thick with emotion. “The story of us.”
The corners of her lips twitched with a burgeoning smile, as Claire attempted to keep the tears at bay.
“So,” she blinked back one traitorous salty drop, flicking through the pages back to the beginning of the album, “I thought we should add your name here.”
A dark blue gaze followed the long line of her index finger to where it was pointing at. Name of the father. The line that still sat empty, begging to be filled.
Jamie splayed a large hand out over the page, trembling fingers not quite touching the surface, and then he turned and leaned toward her, slowly, with the improbable grace of a tall tree falling. He buried his face in her shoulder and went very quietly and thoroughly to pieces.
For a while, they stayed like that –his chest heaving under the ugly sobs that were wrecking his body while Claire drew soothing patterns on his broad back.
“I dinna ken how tae thank ye properly, Claire –,“ the words were muffled, choked.
“There’s no need to, Jamie. Your name belongs in here as much as mine.”
“That’s no’ what I meant,” he sniffed, straightening up and wiping snot into his shirtsleeve.
“Fer having kept looking fer me. Fer inviting me intae yer home.” Fer giving me a child, was what he wanted to say, but found that he couldn’t, just now. “I canna even begin tae describe what today meant tae me. Meeting him. I… I dinna ken how tae do this. What I’m trying tae say is,” he broke off and inhaled deeply to brace himself for a new attempt, “I’m grateful tae ye. And I’ll no’ make ye regret letting me intae yer lives. I swear.”
His eyes were blue and serene –like a loch after a rainstorm– and Claire didn’t doubt a single word. Touched by his outburst of emotion, she bridged the distance between them again, cradling his head between her hands. She kissed his cheek, damp and salty. She could feel his heart beating against her ribs, and wanted nothing more than to stay there forever, not moving, not making love, just breathing the same air.
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as always my gratitude @happytoobservenolongerdistant for the wonderful moodboard!
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