Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tom walked half a mile down a hedged-in Devon lane, striding fast, propelled by rage, dashing tears from his eyes, furious with himself for crying, furious with Lucas for making love on the floor and then flinching, for giving him that bank draft and then hesitating. Thirty thousand pounds.
And then the rage drained away, leaving a bitter ache in his chest, and he just felt tired and sad.
He halted, and looked around, and saw a spinney with tangled brambles and a dark-leaved holly and the trunk of a fallen oak.
He crossed to the oak and sat, his elbows on his knees, and stared at the ground, at rotting leaves and winter-dead grass and withered twigs.
The more he stared at the leaves and grass and twigs, the more certain he became that he’d overreacted.
Yes, Lucas
