When We Say Goodbye

by Michelle Vernal

Genres: Holiday books; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

'heart-warming...When We Say Goodbye is an ideal novel to curl up with as the autumn evenings draw in.' NetGalley Review

Can you love when all seems lost?

Ellie Perkins life was right on track until her boyfriend Sam suffers a near-fatal car accident, leaving him in a coma and all their future plans in limbo.

Desperately in need of something to fix, Ellie has to find a project and when her grandparents old house is put up for sale, she jumps at the chance. Because, like Ellie, the house is broken. And if she can fix the house, then surely, it's just a matter of time before she and Sam are back on their path to happily-ever-after...

In life, when the worst happens how do you pick up the pieces?

A heart-breaking story of love, loss and the path to forgiveness, perfect for fans of Faith Hogan and Amanda Prowse. To be read with tissues.

Release date: October 7, 2019

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 352

Sample

It wasn’t any one particular thing that had upset my normally easy-going disposition that leaden-skied afternoon in August. It was a culmination of small, annoying things mingled with a lack of sleep. All of which put together meant I’d not had the best day at Teeny Tykes Early Learning Centre.

There was the irate mother who said greedy George had stolen her little Sadie’s lunch. I’d feigned sympathy as she prattled on, tutting and nodding et cetera, all the while reciting Georgie Porgie Pudding and Pie stole the other kids’ lunches and made them cry in my head. Then there was the staff meeting that had dragged on and on. Boring! Not to mention the paperwork I’d had to fill in on the lunch theft incident before I could leave for the day. All of this meant my nerves were pinched and on edge by the time I dragged on my coat and ran out the door of Teeny Tykes Early Learning Centre.

I didn’t notice the patches of blue sky breaking through all that grey as I stomped across the car park. Perhaps if I had my mood would have lifted.

I’d only had five hours’ sleep, and I was very much an eight-hours-a-night girl or the world as I know it goes pear-shaped and I can’t cope. I believe the saying goes I’d been burning the candle at both ends. This wasn’t because I’d spent the night before making the most of the all-night seven-dollar drinks special at the Empire Bar with my friends. It was down to my other job. I waitressed three nights a week at Nummy-Num-Num in my Tum BYO Restaurant because I was determined to pay off my student loan as fast as I could.

Nummy-Num-Num in my Tum was an Asian Fusion restaurant in the city, and just quietly the food was rubbish. I could never figure out what was fusion about Pork Wontons, Combination Fried Rice and Black Bean Beef, standard Chinese fare if you ask me. Mrs Zheng, my boss, thought it gave the restaurant a broader appeal, and you didn’t argue with Mrs Zheng. She was third-generation Chinese, but for the sake of authenticity, she liked to dress in traditional silk dresses. She had a different-coloured one for each night of the week, and when she wore the black one on Thursdays, she looked like an oriental version of Morticia Addams.

I worked at her restaurant for minimum wage plus tips, which were virtually non-existent. New Zealanders are not tippers; it isn’t in our DNA. I had a secret fantasy that one night I’d take an order for Lemon Chicken from a Texan oil baron over on business who’d just really fancied a Chinese for dinner. Sadly this didn’t happen, and the majority of my customers were either couples on their way home from the movies, students looking for a cheap night out, or patrons from the pub next door trying to soak up their ale.

My hours were six p.m. until closing, Thursday through Saturday, and what I earned put petrol in my car, and, on occasion, let me join my friends at the Empire Bar. My wages at Teeny Tykes covered my board at Uncle Colin’s and Aunty Paula’s and helped pay a chunk off my student debt each week.

I didn’t mind the weekend night stints at Nummy-Num-Num because I could lie in the next morning, but given I started work at Teeny Tykes at eight a.m., I didn’t much look forward to Thursday nights – especially when you had two tight-(five-letter word beginning with ‘A’ ending in ‘S’) who’d shared an entrée. Okay, I got that, but sharing a main too? No, I’m sorry, that’s plain mean, and I’d never seen anybody chew their food as slowly as those two did that night either. Mindful eating gone mad. I’ll grant you the strips of beef could be a tad fatty, but the masticating cows act they had going on was way over the top.

When I suggested dropping some subtle hints that it was closing time, like taking their plate and turning the lights off, Mrs Zheng, ever hopeful that a dessert might be ordered, hissed that we would not be closing until the fat lady sang. She did actually say that, and when the couple left some time in the small hours, having swiped up any evidence of there ever having been black bean sauce on the plate with their respective index fingers, they didn’t leave me a tip.

Hence, my temperament was tired and grumpy as I reached my car that Friday afternoon. Back then I was driving an old Nissan, which I’d bought with the money Nan and Pops put in trust for me until my eighteenth birthday; the remainder had gone toward my university fees. I slid behind the driver’s seat, relieved that I wouldn’t need to speak to anyone between now and my next shift at Nummy’s. I planned to go straight home, knowing the house would be empty. Uncle Colin and Aunty Paula were both at work, and my cousin Gemma was in Auckland for a long weekend at a sales conference. It would leave me free to curl up on the couch and have myself a nice little half-hour nana nap before work.

It was as I tootled down Ilam Road that a car pulled out of a side street ahead of me. It was one of those low to the ground Japanese things with a modified exhaust. I could hear the dunk, dunk, dunk beat of the music blaring out of it from inside my car and I shook my head as though I were a middle-aged woman and not a twenty-one-year-old barely out of university. My blood boiled a second later as I pulled up alongside the ridiculous-looking import at the lights and, glancing over, witnessed the driver toss a half-eaten pie, still in its wrapper, out the window.

The cheek! The arrogance! I reached over and wound down my passenger window; there were no electronic windows in my Nissan, my trust money didn’t stretch to that.

‘Oi! What do you think you’re doing?’ Confrontation isn’t big on my agenda, I’ll avoid it if I can, but this needed confronting. Kiwis do not litter.

‘What?’ A face that whispered of potential inbreeding peered out from inside a hooded sweatshirt.

‘You know what – chucking your pie out like that. Get out of your car, pick it up and take your mess home with you!’ My voice rose to a borderline hysterical pitch on that last sentence.

‘Fuck off.’ His words, not mine.

He flicked me his finger, and his window slid up. I wished I didn’t have to lean over to wind mine up because it ruined my street cred. I heard his engine rev as I sat back in my seat and my lips set in a grim line. Not only was this loser making a mess of our environment, he was polluting it too. Something came over me then. I think I’d bypassed tiredness, and moved right on into road rage. As the lights turned orange, my foot took on a life of its own, tapping down on the accelerator, and I gripped the steering wheel so hard the muscles in my arms cramped. I stole one more glance over at him, noticing the Billy Goats Gruff sprouting of hairs on his chin. Oh, how I’d have liked to have pulled them out, one by one with a pair of tweezers. Our eyes locked briefly, and I knew he’d read the challenge in mine.

The lights turned green. GO! Adrenalin slammed through me as I pushed down hard on the accelerator. Eat my dust. I was jubilant and hopeful that no police cars were lurking nearby because a speeding ticket would mean an extra shift at Nummy’s. It took a moment for it to dawn on me that I hadn’t gone anywhere. Ahead of me, boy racer had burned off down the road in a cloud of exhaust fumes, while I was still sitting at the lights. My Nissan had died. I muttered a bad word or two before going through the motions of trying to get my car to turn over. This was not happening.

A burst of honking behind me made me jump. I was in no state to deal with another arrogant ‘A’ word and not thinking about what I was doing I got out of my car. I slammed my door shut and marched over to the offending van idling behind me. Anderson’s Electrical was sign-written along the side. I tapped on the window indicating Mr Electrical should wind it down.

‘Honking like that is not helping my situation,’ was all I said as I registered his eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. He had a cap on too, his longish dark blonde hair curling out from under it. He must have picked up on my being slightly unhinged because he didn’t say a word as he gestured toward my car with a questioning expression.

I didn’t trust myself to say anything else so I left Mr Electrical to head back to my car and face the music. I had a plan; I’d ring Uncle Colin, he’d come and fix everything. My face was flaming as I walked away because of the slow build of backed-up vehicles also beginning to honk. It was beginning to sound like rush hour in Manhattan. It was at that moment something squished beneath my foot before I began a slow skid. I was aware of looking like I was attempting a body twerking booty dance as I flapped my arms and tried to stay upright. Maybe I should have just gone with it because if I’d hit the tarmac, I might have got some sympathy, but my survival instinct had kicked in. It was one of those moments I’d have sold my soul to click my fingers and magic myself away from the mess I was in.

I heard Mr Electrical call out. ‘What’s the problem?’

I looked back and saw him get out of his van, and I was fairly certain he was trying not to laugh.

‘My car won’t start; the engine’s died,’ I answered, this time doing an impersonation of a horse pawing the ground as I tried to get the pie off my sneaker.

‘Well, we’d better get it off the road. You hop behind the wheel, and I’ll get someone to give me a hand pushing it out the way.’

I did as I was told, grateful to have received a clear set of instructions. A moment later Mr Electrical and a Good Samaritan in a suit told me to release the handbrake before pushing me over to the side of the road. ‘Thanks very much,’ I said, getting out of my car, relieved to be out of the way of the traffic. I got a nod from the man in the suit as he hurried back to his latest-model Porsche, keen to be on his way, and I offered up an apologetic smile to the po-faced drivers giving me the hairy eyeball as they snaked around Mr Electrical’s vehicle.

My Knight in Shining Armour was behind his wheel once more, and to my surprise, I was disappointed. I’d have liked to have seen what he looked like with his glasses and cap off because, despite the drama that had just unfolded, I’d noticed he was hot. Not in an overstated bulging muscles gym way but a nicely toned hard-working way. I’d have also liked to have said sorry for being snarky with him.

Instead of driving off, though, he veered in behind my Nissan before getting out once more. It crossed my mind that he might want to be paid or something. I think maybe I was still in shock over my pie skid.

‘Are you okay? Is there someone you can call to come pick you up?’

‘Um, I can ring my uncle; he’ll sort this out.’ I gestured toward my car, resisting the urge to give it a good kick for all the upset it had caused me. Instead, I let the side down, and on behalf of strong women everywhere I apologise, but I started to cry.

That’s when Mr Electrical lifted his glasses and pushed them up to sit on the peak of his cap. His eyes, I saw through my blurred retinas, were the most gorgeous shade of blue. I’ve never been to the Med but I thought to myself they were Mediterranean blue. Every cloud had a silver lining, I decided, blinking those traitorous tears away and hoping my mascara hadn’t run.

‘Listen, your car will be okay there for a bit, but you look like you could do with a drink. It’s a little early in the day for that, so how about grabbing a coffee? I can run you to wherever you need to be afterward?’

‘Could we get some chocolate too?’ I sniffed hopefully.

He smiled. ‘We can do that. I’m Sam by the way.’

‘Hey, Sam.’ I leaned down and kissed him on his forehead, smoothing the dark sweep of his hair away before straightening up. I wished he’d reply, but he didn’t. He stayed silent while I gazed at him, knowing that if someone were to take a photo of me at that moment, I’d look very much like a poster girl for ice-creams. It would be down to the sappy look of yearning I knew I was wearing because I loved this man. I had from the moment I met him. Well, maybe not that first moment, because as you know I had my knickers in a right knot the first time we laid eyes on one another.

Sam and I had been together for four years and three months, and the sight of him still gave me that same exquisite sensation as cracking the chocolate on my all-time favourite ice-cream, a Magnum Double Caramel, each time I saw him.

My life wasn’t perfect, though, even if Sam was pretty close to it. In fact, for the last ten months, it has been – and this was putting it mildly because I’m not one for swearing – like someone peed in my bowl of soup. It’s a phrase I stole from William-Peter who’s one-half of the four-year-old, redheaded Richards twins I look after during the day. Their mother, Nervy Caro as I call her, has a low stress threshold, hence her need for a nanny.

William-Peter’s the most precocious pre-schooler I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a few. He’s also the older twin by three very important minutes, and he coined that particular gem the day I served up a homemade vegetable soup for lunch.

The soup was a mix of lentils, pumpkin, peppers, carrots, and turnip and yes, okay, I could have given the stick blender a more hands-on workout, but it had already taken me the best part of the morning to peel, chop, simmer and blend. I was over it. I hold my hand up to the turnip being a wild card too but they were in season, and I could never resist a deal. Anyway, I’d adopted this phrase as my own because I thought it was a nicer way of saying that things had gone to shite.

A ‘somebody-peed-in-my-soup’ afternoon was also the kind I’d just had, thanks to the aforementioned twin.

‘Sorry I’m late, hon.’ I shrugged out of my coat and chucked it down on the end of the bed. I didn’t know why I was bothering to apologise either, because Sam didn’t give a toss what time it was, but I suppose it’s down to manners born out of habit. ‘William-Peter called Saffy-Rose a little pig and then bit her on the hand, and all hell let loose. Honestly, you’d have thought she’d lost a limb, the racket she was making. I’m shattered.’

To prove my point, I sank down into the faded old armchair. Its rose and yellow flowered fabric lost its bloom a long time ago, but it was comfy enough. My gaze flicked to the window. The last of the day’s watery sun was streaming through, and I could see the glass needed a polish. I hate cleaning windows; it is the most unsatisfying of household chores as I can never quite get the glass streak-free. It’s right up there with ironing in my opinion, and I did both at the Richards house. My nanny job had a very varied job description.

I tugged my boots off and curled my legs up beside me on the chair, and even though it wasn’t cold – it was never cold in here – I pulled the multi-coloured, crocheted Afghan blanket draped across the arm of the chair over my lap. It always made me think of my nan, that blanket; she had one just like it.

Sam’s mum, Gina, must have popped by today, I realised noticing the Twix bar wrappers in the bin. She always brought two Twixes when she called in, eating his for him. The chocolate, caramel biscuit bar was Sam’s favourite treat. We were both chocolate/caramel fiends and I used to say that’s why we were a match made in heaven. I can’t help but think as I eye those wrappers that it might be nice if Gina left me the extra bar instead of snaffling it herself.

On the side table next to me steam was rising from my mug. It was sitting on the coaster with its stained rings from all the other cups of tea and coffee that had gone before it. Sam bought me the mug for our six-month anniversary. ‘You make me a Happy Camper’ was emblazoned in black swirly text against a plain white background. It was tongue in cheek, given he loved nothing more than loading up his four-wheel drive and getting off road, pitching his tent wherever the mood took him. I think in another life he fancied himself a bit of a Bear Grylls.

Back then I took some convincing that there was pleasure to be found in eating baked beans from a tin, tending to nature’s call behind a tree and not showering for an entire weekend. What I refused to go without, though, no matter how off the grid we got, was my morning cup of coffee. Hence the mug. Do you know what? I’d have given anything to go camping with Sam again. Why do we learn so many lessons through hindsight?

I drifted back to the present and raised my fingers to my mouth, kissing them. I touched them to his face, feeling the prickles beneath my fingertips as I stroked his cheek. The sensation made me smile at the recollection of him catching hold of me to rub his stubbly chin against my cheek. I used to squeal at him to get off! Only he wouldn’t, and we’d wind up kissing, stumbling backward in a well-practised dance toward the bedroom.

The memory was so sharp it hurt. It really did. Surely Sam must have felt it too? I studied his face looking for a flicker, anything. There was nothing though – just the familiar, gurgling, sucking sound of his airways being cleared.

We’d never know for certain how his accident happened. The police said black ice and speed were involved. What I did know, though, was the terms for the equipment he was surrounded by and the names of all the procedures that had been done to him since that horrible day he’d gone off grid. It was a trip that saw him somehow drive off a bridge and wind up being helicoptered to the hospital. Terms like endotracheal, ventilator, tracheostomy, catheter, port-a-cath and heart monitor were part of my vocabulary these days. Who would have thought I, a nanny, would need to know what anti-embolic stockings were for? I wished I didn’t, I really did, and incidentally, they stop clots forming in Sam’s legs due to his immobility.

‘All right, Ellie love?’

The voice startled me. It was Fran. She’s my favourite night nurse. I always found the sight of her mumsy figure doing her rounds reassuring. She was kind and gentle, and I was okay leaving Sam for the night knowing she’d be watching over him.

‘I’m okay,’ I said as I wiped away the rogue tears I hadn’t even known were there. I hoped she hadn’t noticed them.

‘Ah it’s not easy, I know, love, but I’ll keep an eye on him for you.’

I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I stood up and busied myself folding the blanket before draping it back over the arm of the chair.

Fran took the clipboard from the bottom of the bed and scanned the notes, then gave me a sympathetic nod as she carried on with her rounds.

I bent down and kissed Sam goodnight. His lips were paper-dry beneath mine and I pulled the balm I keep in my bag for him out. I smeared my finger with it and rubbed it gently across his lips. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I said satisfied that at least he wouldn’t get cracked lips, not on my watch anyway, and I swung my bag over my shoulder. I didn’t look back as I strode out of the silent home. If I stayed a second longer, I was frightened I’d crawl into bed next to him. I can’t do that, though, and believe me there have been times I have wanted to lie next to him, close my eyes and not wake up; but I can’t do that either. This neverland had been our normal for ten months now. I leave, and Sam stays, and my heart breaks all over again every single time I go.

It was getting on for half past six when I left Briarwood House; I could smell that fusty smell of hospital food as I walked through the dully lit corridors toward the exit. It signalled dinner time. I always felt withered when I left the care facility, as though something had been sucked from me. I thought, perhaps, it was hope. A little hope seeped away each time it hit me afresh that Sam wasn’t going to be coming home with me. My hand slipped inside my bag, and I fossicked for my keys. I needed to think about something else, so I began to do the mental maths as I retrieved them.

In eighteen hours I’d officially become a home owner. My eyes burned once more, and my vision became soft around the edges; this time there was no need to hide the tears. There was no one around to see them anyway, so I let them form an orderly queue down my cheeks from which to plop down onto my chest.

The automatic doors slid open, and I stepped outside. The sharpness of the air outside was biting, and as it enveloped me, I thought it must be what a butterfly experienced when it emerged from the dry warmth of its chrysalis. What a shock to realise there was a different reality to the safety of that cocoon.

I got in my car and sat in the darkness. I needed to pull myself together before I turned the key. The thought that this wasn’t how it was supposed to work out ran through my head. There was anger in it, and I smacked the steering wheel. Sam and I should have been toasting the purchase of our first home together; Gina should have been getting up my nose with all her helpful advice on the subject. We’d be planning our wedding too – not that Sam had asked me to marry him, but I liked to think he would have by now. I knew he would have by now. We’d talked about what the day would be like.

Sam wanted family and close friends only. A backyard barbeque wedding followed by a honeymoon in a tent in the middle of nowhere. I used to joke that wasn’t happening. Oh no, I wanted the white, blingy works. I wanted to be a princess for a day. I might even go so far as pumping for a horse-drawn carriage. Sam was adamant he wasn’t the suit type and I’d tell him he could pull off the Metro Man look for my sake, for one day. I missed those silly discussions. Yes, I thought, frustration welling; by now I should be anticipating where I would fit in the Anderson tribe of six’s pecking order.

Sam, at twenty-seven, was the second youngest of the four Anderson boys and, in my opinion the most normal of his brothers. Justin – he’s the oldest – owns a sports shop and is into bodybuilding in a big way. He’s always on a strict protein diet and brings a can of tuna with him to family get-togethers. I’ve learned not to stand by any windows if I wanted him to listen to what I was saying, because the distraction of his reflection was just too much for him. He’s single because he’s in a deep and meaningful relationship with himself. The tuna breath doesn’t help much either.

Zac, who’s only a year older than Sam, thanks to Mr Anderson not being able to keep it in his pants – Gina thinks it’s hilarious to drop this clanger whenever his birthday rolls around – contracts as a courier. He’s married to Moany Mandy, a hypochondriac. You know the type. If I said, ‘Hi, Mandy, how are you? I’ve got a cold.’ Her reply would be, ‘Oh I’ve got the worst case of the flu the doctor has seen in years.’ My headache was her migraine. They were the most money-hungry couple I’d ever met too, and even though it was their choice to pay their mortgage off in the next ten years, they cried poor a lot.

I’ll give you an example. Say I were to ask them if they’d seen a film Sam and I had enjoyed or maybe been to a restaurant we liked – you know, normal chit-chat stuff – they’d look at me like I was on drugs and say, ‘We can’t afford to do that, we’ve got a mortgage.’ I tell you, it was a real conversation killer.

The baby of the family’s Lucas; he’s the only one of the four boys to go to university. He qualified as a lawyer and has been trying to bonk his way into partnership at the firm he’s worked at ever since he started his internship there. It was a source of consternation to Zac and Mandy that he got to live board-free at home while he studied. They asked Gina and Phil if they could move back into Zac’s old bedroom so they could rent their house out as a way of paying their loan off faster. Gina managed to wiggle out of that one by telling them she was looking into using Zac and Sam’s old rooms for Airbnb. It was a total lie, but Zac and Mandy thought it was a fantastic idea, and they ran with it. They regularly have foreign tourists staying in their spare room now.

I loved Sam’s dad, Phil, best; next to Sam of course. I’d have liked to have been his daughter-in-law. He’s into camping, surfing, all those outdoorsy things Sam was into, and I could see a lot of his son in him. He wasn’t much of a talker, my Sam, and Phil’s the strong silent type too, which is just as well because Gina’s not. She’s the one who wears the underpants in their family, and they’re one big pair of bloomers.

I remember a conversation I had with my cousin Gemma, and I can’t help but smile.

‘Ooh, he took you home to meet the family. Things are getting serious, girl. What were they like?’

‘Well, his dad was a lot like Sam, and his brothers are – ’ I cast about for an apt word ‘ – characters but his mum – ’ I took my time in finding the right description, and it came to me in the form of Marlon Brando. ‘If she were Italian she’d be a Mafia boss. Think the Godmother.’

Gemma sniggered. ‘Mothers of sons are always scary. It’s a territorial thing. They’re like hippopotamuses.’

That made me snigger.

‘What does she look like? Is she frump or glam?’ The physical appearance of a person is important to Gemma; it’s the world she moves in. Me, I couldn’t care less, although the hippopotamus analogy did strike a chord and I had noticed Gina’s trousers.

‘She does this thing with her trousers.’ I demonstrated, pulling my jeans up as high as I could. ‘I mean the waistband’s nearly under her arms. And she tucks her tops in.’ I did the same, and Gemma snorted. I was in the swing of it now. ‘She told me having four boys who all entered the world weighing in at over ten pounds doesn’t do a girl’s waistline any favour.’

‘Or her nether regions.’ Gemma’s expression was one of distaste as she unwittingly crossed her legs, tightly.

‘She’s doing that thing too – you know where women go grey.’

‘Transitioning.’

‘Yeah, but she has a matching whisker, which has already successfully transitioned on her chin. It was so hard not to stare at it when I was talking to her.’ Gemma and I looked at each other, and I knew my tummy was going to hurt by the time I’d finished laughing.

The smile that conversation evoked slipped as I recalled another more recent one we’d shared.

‘I thought you and Sam were for keeps – you had such an easy way with each other.’ Gemma sniffed, needing my shoulder as much as I needed hers. ‘You were one of those couples that always seemed to work better as a pair than on your own.’ Her use of the past tense had irked me, but I stayed quiet on that occasion because I could tell she needed to talk, too. I had to remind myself here and there that Sam’s accident wasn’t just about me, he’d touched lots of people’s lives. I knew Gina loved him too, differently obviously, but the bond between a mother and a son was a powerful thing. I remembered her saying, on one of a myriad of nights I’d needed her shoulder to cry on, what had happened to Sam was hideously unfair, and in some ways, it was worse for those around him.

Too bloody right it was (I’m sorry).

Take Gina and me; there used to be this underlying competitiveness for his atten. . .