‘What had you planned? Beforehand?’ I ask. My other hand finds his.

‘Well, I didn’t know how long I’d have to wait before you binned that ex of yours. But I thought you’d see sense eventually, and when you did, I’d wait an appropriate amount of time …’

His lips touch mine, very gently, not even quite a kiss. My whole body responds; I can feel the hair on my arms stand on end.

‘Like six weeks?’ I say.

‘I’d imagined six months. But it turns out I’m impatient,’ Jackson whispers.

‘So you’d wait six months, and then …’

Our lips are touching again, another almost-kiss, a little deeper now, but his lips are gone before I can kiss him back. I shift my fingers between his, holding him tighter, feeling the calluses on his palms.

‘No shame – I’d make full use of all the tools at my disposal,’ he says, his voice husky. ‘Get the schoolkids to sing you that Ed Sheeran song, “Thinking Out Loud”, send Hank around with a bunch of flowers in his mouth, bake you heart-shaped brownies. Burn them, in case you make them that way because that’s how you like them.’

I laugh. He kisses me then, a real kiss, lips parted, his tongue tasting mine. I melt into him, our hands still linked at our sides, and I stand on tiptoes to kiss him better, and then, when I can’t resist it any longer, I let go of his hands to thread my arms across those broad shoulders and press my body against his.

Jackson breathes out. ‘You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined how it would feel, holding you like this,’ he says, pressing his lips against my neck.

I sigh as he kisses the sensitive skin behind my ear. ‘I might’ve thought about it too,’ I confess.

‘Oh?’ I feel him smile. ‘You did fancy me, then. Could’ve given me a clue. I’ve been shit-scared all evening.’

I laugh. ‘You’ve been distractingly fanciable for months. I’m surprised you didn’t figure out I had a crush on you.’

‘Ah, was that what losing my dog and crashing the school van meant?’

I press a kiss to his jaw, feeling that sandy stubble beneath my lips. ‘No,’ I say. ‘That meant I was a mess.’

He pulls back then, rests his forehead against mine. ‘You weren’t a mess, Leena Cotton. I’ve never met a human being who is less of a mess than you are.’

I move away a little to look up at him properly.

‘What do you think people do when they lose someone? Just … plough on?’ He smooths my hair back from my face. ‘You were healing. You’re still healing. You’ll maybe always be healing. And that’s OK. It’ll just be part of what makes you you.’

I rest my face against his chest. He kisses the top of my head.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Say the distractingly fanciable thing again.’

I smile. I don’t know how to explain the way Jackson makes me feel, how freeing it is to be around somebody so completely themselves, so utterly without guile.

‘When you’re here, I’m here, too,’ I say, turning my face up to his. ‘Which is amazing, because most of the time, I’m always somewhere else. Looking back or looking ahead, worrying or planning or …’

He kisses me on the lips until my whole body is humming. I want to take that shirt off him and feel the hair on his chest and the broad, firm muscles of his shoulders and count the pale freckles on his arms. Instead I kiss him again, hungrily, breathlessly, and he walks me backwards half a step so my back is pressed against the cupboard door, his body flush to mine. We kiss like teenagers, his hands tangling in my hair, mine clenching fists of fabric at the back of his shirt.

Then – oof – the door opens, and we’re thrown backwards. All that stops us falling is Jackson’s arm thrown out to catch the doorframe – I cling to him, my hair in my face, as the music of the party blares around us. I can hear laughter and whoops, and even once I’m steady on my feet, I keep my face buried in Jackson’s neck.

‘Leena Cotton!’ I hear Fitz call. ‘You’re just as much of a minx as your grandmother!’

I laugh, pulling away a little and turning to look at the crowd around us. I see my grandma’s face – she’s beaming at me, a large gin and tonic in her hand.

‘Are you going to tell me off for meddling?’ she calls.

I lean into Jackson, my hands linked around his waist. ‘You know what? I can’t fault you on this one, Grandma. Switch places, and I would have done the exact same thing.’

Epilogue

Eileen

It’s been almost six months since Leena moved to Hamleigh; eight months since Marian left. And two years to the day since Carla died.

We’re at Leeds Airport, awaiting the arrival of the last member of our party. Leena’s organised it all: the village hall is decked out in moon daisies and lilies, Carla’s favourite flowers, and we’re having shepherd’s pie then brownies for pudding. We even invited Wade, though thankfully he took the invite as it was meant – purely a gesture – and declined.

Here in Leeds Airport, Samantha comes tearing around the corner, eyes scanning the gaggle of people waiting around us. She spots Jackson first, and that’s it, she’s flying towards him, her blonde mop of hair bouncing as she darts her way through the crowd and throws herself into his waiting arms.

‘Daddy! Daddy!’ Samantha cries.

Marigold follows her daughter more slowly. In her defence, nobody could move at speed in those ridiculous heels.

‘Leena, hi,’ she says, leaning to kiss my granddaughter on the cheek. Marigold looks relaxed, and the smile she shoots Leena seems genuine.

This is all Leena’s doing. Samantha will be spending the next four weeks here, then going back to America with Marigold after Christmas. Leena worked on Marigold for weeks: softly softly, placating, easing her into the idea, removing each obstacle one by one. I was there for the moment, one month ago, when she told Jackson that Marigold had agreed to a longer visit at Christmas. If it is possible for a man to look both broken and healed at the very same moment, then that’s how Jackson looked. He hugged Leena so tightly I thought she’d suffocate, but instead she came up red-cheeked and beaming, turning her face up to his for a kiss. I have never been prouder.

We make our way back to Hamleigh-in-Harksdale in convoy, Jackson’s truck in the lead, and me in Agatha the Ford Ka, who now – thanks to Arnold – has functioning air conditioning. There’s snow on the hilltops and dusting the old stone walls crisscrossing the fields. I feel a fierce, intense love for this place that has always been my home, and I watch Leena smile out at the Dales as we pass the sign saying Welcome to Hamleigh-in-Harksdale. It’s home for her, now, too.

The Neighbourhood Watch are setting up the village hall when we get there. They greet Marigold and Samantha like returning war heroes, which just goes to show that absence really does make the heart grow fonder, because Basil and Betsy used to harp on about Marigold like she was Mary Magdalene before she moved to America.

‘You guys! You’ve done an amazing job,’ Leena says, bouncing on the spot.

Betsy, Nicola, Penelope, Roland, Piotr, Basil, and Kathleen are all beaming back at her, and, behind them, Martha, Yaz, Bee, little Jaime, Mike, and Fitz are doing just the same. Everyone’s here – Betsy’s daughter, Dr Piotr’s ex-wife, even Mr Rogers, the vicar’s father.