When You're Gone: A totally gripping and heartbreaking page-turner set in Ireland by Brooke Harris

Author:Brooke Harris [Harris, Brooke]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Storm Publishing
Published: 2024-01-08T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-THREE

ANNIE

1959

Fridays have gradually become my favourite day of the week. Sketch picks me up at eleven on the dot, and unlike most mornings when we rush back to the farm, Fridays are unique. We drive into town, and check that the square is ready for the farmers’ market the following morning. We exit the car and walk the perimeter of the square. Never hand in hand in case the eyes of busybody neighbours are watching, but regardless, it’s a morning stroll side by side and we both enjoy it, almost as much as if we were physically touching. I’m never sure what we’re doing or what we’re checking, or if Sketch is simply seizing a sneaky opportunity for us to be together in public.

Often, we lap the square twice, especially if the weather is dry. We discuss all sorts. Sometimes, we laugh and giggle and reminisce about the past, and other times, we discuss what the future holds. Sketch always fills my head with silly notions about running away together to somewhere warm and sunny.

Today is no different from any other Friday, except we indulge in an iced bun from the corner bakery, and I watch Sketch’s lips sweep around the creamy vanilla treat and imagine how good they will feel pressed against mine later.

‘So what do you say, Annie?’ Sketch asks, finishing his bun just as we get into the car.

‘What do I think about what?’ I ask coyly, knowing exactly what he means. He asks the same question at the same time every Friday.

‘What do you think about running away?’ He smiles.

I think it sounds like the plot from a romance novel. And I can’t hide my overzealous grin as I imagine Sketch, the hero, sweeping me off my feet as we dash into the sunset.

‘We’d just catch a boat and be gone,’ Sketch says with a snap of his fingers as we roll up the long, winding driveway leading to the large farmhouse. ‘We’d sail to Wales first and then France. I could make a living selling paintings. The French have good taste in art,’ he says as if he knows, and he has such passion in his eyes I believe him.

‘Where would we live?’ I giggle as we come to a jerky stop next to a lonely apple tree that grows in an odd spot where the dusty driveway meets the grass.

‘The south of France is dripping in sunshine,’ Sketch adds. ‘It’s an artist’s paradise. We’d travel by day, and when our feet are too tired to walk another step, we’d fall on the beach and sleep the night away as the waves creep in to kiss our toes.’

‘It sounds delightful, doesn’t it?’ I swoon. ‘Say we’ll go someday. Say we’ll wear berets and eat baguettes. Even if we only ever discuss it.’

‘No.’ Sketch’s eyes widen. ‘We’ll do it. We’ll do it for real. I’m serious, Annie. There’s a big, bad world out there, and I, for one, want to see it. I want to see it with you by my side.

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