He nods, his expression grave as usual, and spreads his comforter on his pillow so that the familiar smell of home will keep his night terrors at bay.
‘Good night, Finn. Sleep tight.’
I tiptoe back downstairs to the kitchen, where Dan is running water into the sink to start the washing-up. ‘Leave that,’ I say, handing him a towel to dry his hands. ‘Let’s go and sit on the terrace and finish our wine.’
He pulls me to him and I bury my face in the comforting breadth of his chest. We haven’t shared a moment like this for ages. It feels good to stand here like this, together.
With his arm around my waist, he guides me back to the garden and we sit at the table picking at the cheeses and the bowl of glossy cherries that Caroline had left for our arrival, sipping the dark red wine in our glasses. Dan raises his glass to mine with a soft clink. ‘Here’s to Ella, who brought us here. What a paradise it is.’
‘To Ella,’ I echo. And I smile as I reach for my husband’s hand, our fingers interlocking. We sit there in silence for a while, watching the stars come out as a crescent moon, delicate as an eyelash, drifts in the dark sky above our heads. I breathe in the honeysuckle-scented air and I remember Marianne.
I don’t know whether it’s the wine, or the novelty of sitting out so late in the warm night air, or perhaps it’s the fact that the two of us are light-headed with relief – and not a little disbelief – that Finn seems so relaxed here and that we are finally having a family holiday. But suddenly I feel closer to Dan than I’ve done in ages. Years, in fact. The ten long years since Finn was born.
Sitting here beside my husband, holding his hand in the soft glow that escapes through the slats of the shutters from the lamp that lights the night in Finn’s bedroom, to keep the terrors that torment him at bay, I know what a toll all of this has taken on Dan and me. But the Île de Ré seems to be weaving its subtle magic around us, just as it did around Ella and Christophe all those years ago, binding us to one another again, reminding me how much I love this man who has shared the struggle to understand our son and to try to get him the care he needs. I’m reminded of Ella’s single-minded determination when it came to caring for Robbie through his battle with polio, cajoling the authorities into providing the right treatment for him. I must have inherited that gene from her, I think, and it renews my sense of purpose to think that, in some way, she will be with me to keep on fighting for Finn, whatever the future may hold. It’s a frightening prospect, to put it mildly. How can we create an environment where he’ll feel safe? What will happen when he outgrows the specialist school where, even now, the resources and support available for him are limited? Will he ever be able to work? To support himself? And the unthinkable thought is always there, the dread that consumes me in the sleepless hours on my worst nights: what will happen to him when we’re gone?
As if he’s read my mind, Dan laces his fingers over mine, and I turn to smile at him.
‘It’s been tough, hasn’t it? You’ve been a star, Kendra. Keeping it all going while I’m lazing about at home.’
‘It’s hardly your fault you lost your job. And you never laze at home. I know what hard work Finn is. You’re doing a fantastic job. He loves having you there to look after him. Look how he enjoyed the gardening project while it lasted. How he loves working with you in the allotment.’
Dan nods. ‘He does, doesn’t he? You know, I’m really rather proud of our vegetable patch. And the other day, after we’d visited the City Farm, he told me he wants to make it bigger and maybe get some chickens too.’
I laugh. ‘Can you imagine what the neighbours would have to say about that?’ Our pocket handkerchief of a suburban plot is no smallholding.
‘It would be great, wouldn’t it, to move to the country some day? Finn definitely seems more relaxed in a rural environment. Just look at how well he’s adapted to being here. We could have a proper vegetable garden, maybe an orchard too like that one’ – he waves his wine-glass towards the trees just visible beyond the gate at the far end of the garden – ‘Finn could learn some proper gardening skills, maybe get a job at a plant nursery eventually, or on a farm . . .’
‘Would you enjoy that, do you think? Giving up city life and moving to the country?’
He’s silent for a few moments, contemplating. ‘Do you know? I really think I would. I’d like to be my own boss, start some kind of project of my own, something creative that Finn could be part of. Be master of my own fate, for once, instead of reliant on other people’s business for my salary. Or lack thereof!’
In the dim light, I glimpse the way his mouth turns down, a flicker of despair contorting his features briefly. But he pulls himself together, as he always does, protecting me from his sadness and his frustration, his sense of failure.
‘What about you?’ He squeezes my hand again gently. ‘What would you do if we won the lottery?’
I laugh again. ‘We’d better start buying tickets!’ Then, more seriously, I say, ‘I’d love it, I think, living in the country. I could write, and help with Finn, and collect the eggs from the chickens and cook you both delicious, nourishing meals with our homegrown produce.’ I sip my wine. ‘Isn’t it a pity that the city is where the jobs are? The minor flaw in our cunning plan.’
Dan stretches, leaning against the back of his chair, raising his face to the starlight far above us. He sighs, a despondent breath of frustration. Then turns to face me again, leans in to kiss me. ‘At least we are dreaming. And that, in itself, is progress. I’ve just realised that I stopped dreaming a long time ago. It’s time we started again. Life is definitely the better for it.’
I smile, remembering my grandmother’s words. ‘Ella once said something very much along those lines too.’
He releases my hand and draws a finger along my jaw-line, caressing it softly. ‘You have the same-shaped face as her. I only realised it when I saw the photos of her when she was young. How lucky I am. I love you, Kendra.’
And I realise in this moment that he is my first love and my lasting love. Together, we are Finn’s parents. Together, we will make it work, whatever life sends our way. And that – I see suddenly – is all that matters.
My eyes meet his and I notice that they are the clear blue of a summer’s sky: the sadness, the fear, the guilt and the pain that have clouded them so often of late, have all been washed away. His gaze is unequivocal.
The sighing breath of the ocean enfolds us both as we stand up and, with arms twined around each other’s waists, make our way back inside. Dan leads me up the quietly creaking staircase to our bedroom where the pale muslin curtains billow towards us in the night breeze, beckoning us in silently. In the light of the moon, lulled by the hushing sound of the waves, we drift together, holding fast as we lie beneath the painting of a wind-blown boat, sailing free across an ocean lit with the light of a summer’s love. And we know that we are saved.
‘It must be the sea air,’ comments Dan the next morning.
Finn has slept through the night and is now tucking into a second croissant, slathered with French butter and cherry jam (the latter clearly homemade, presumably by Sandrine). He pauses for a moment, licking crumbs from his fingers, to observe, ‘I like eating breakfast in the garden,’ then focuses his full attention on manoeuvring another spoonful of jam on to his plate.
‘Me too,’ grins Dan and I notice his hand lift slightly, as if to reach out and ruffle his son’s hair; but he catches himself in time and lets his hand rest on the table between them instead. It’s going to be a day of unknown challenges for Finn as it is. We can’t risk any extra upsets.
Some days – rare, precious days – he’ll let us touch him, hold his hand, help him get dressed. But we have to wait for those moments, read the signals carefully, let him come to us, or else we risk invoking the tempest of his rage and panic which will splinter our fragile little family group into distraught fragments until we are all fraught with exhaustion once again.
But today is a good day and, so far, the risk that we’ve taken coming on holiday has paid off. So we proceed with caution, taking tiny, tentative steps into this new territory, holding our breath and hoping – as we spend our whole lives doing – for signs of progress.