***

The next morning she woke up at five as usual, but decided against going for a run, mostly because she knew she'd overdo it if she did, punishing herself for the pizza from the night before. She went through her usual negotiations in her mind: whether to have breakfast, to further ensure she wasn't going to starve herself to compensate - or whether it would be the beginning of a binge. At the end, she decided to play it by ear. She made coffee and went back to her room. She had the books from the fair, and she decided to start on the romance novel. Fiona Holyoake had been right, it was endlessly entertaining, and Viola caught herself laughing out loud in a few places. She decided Olivia Dane was worth exploring, googled the author, and ended up ordering five more books on Amazon. She then went back to the fake raja and his unfortunate tour guide and their sexy escapades. It felt odd to realise she was a romance fiction reader - but then she reminded herself that even the manly man Will Holyoake approved of the novels. And to think of it, she thought, going to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea, why was it even considered a 'guilty pleasure' and 'daft chicklit?' Men read those fantasy novels with macho protagonists with large swords and three brain cells each. At least, Dane had a sense of humour and was indeed 'educational.' Viola didn't find anything new in it - she'd had two husbands, after all, one of which was fond of experiments in bed - but she could see how what was shown in Dane's novels could serve as an example of excellent - healthy and consensual - intimacy between two somewhat realistic people.

At some point she lowered the book, distracted by the memories of the previous night. Rhys had asked her to stay the night in the guest bedroom, and she'd refused, pointing out that she lived seven minute drive away. He then had asked her again, adding 'We can have breakfast together' as an argument. When she'd said she didn't have breakfast, he'd said he'd love to have her 'ace coffee' then. None of his joking remarks had felt pushy, and they both had known he'd been flirting. She'd laughed and left. Perhaps, reading romance was putting her in the mood, but thinking about his raised eyebrow and that little smirk of his the night before made her rather giddy now.

Around lunchtime Fenton knocked at her door. She stepped out and found him in the kitchen.

"Would you like some lunch?" he grumbled.

"Good day to you too, Alan," she said with a smile.

He threw her a side glare.

"The Holyoakes weren't in the church this morning," he said, pouring water in a kettle. "Not a single one. Mable Holyoake never misses a Sunday service."

Viola hummed noncommittally. Informing Fenton of what had happened the night before would be a breach of confidentiality.

"I know about Semra Holyoake," he said in an acidic tone. "And you know what? You just watch. They will all disappear for a week. Next weekend is the Dance, so they will resurface, as if nothing happened, but for now, you won't see a single one of them."

Viola gave him her most neutral 'That's an interesting prediction, Alan' and went back to her room. She had no appetite for lunch.

***

Fenton was right. Mid-day Sunday, Mable texted Viola that she wasn't feeling well and was cancelling her tea party later that day. On Monday John messaged Viola saying he couldn't attend their dance practice on Tuesday and Wednesday. Even Fiona Holyoake didn't reach out as she'd promised to arrange their 'tea and chat' she'd asked for. For the next three days Viola heard nothing from Sam - or, of course, Rhys. Everyone in Fleckney Woulds and in the village was talking about Semra being rushed to the hospital Saturday night. The Holyoakes, just as Fenton had predicted, 'had closed their ranks.'

At the end of day Wednesday, her mobile vibrated in her handbag, but she was in the middle of an appointment, so she ignored it. She only remembered about it when locking her office, and she pulled it out. She'd missed two calls from Rhys. Fenton was still inside finishing his paperwork for the day. Viola gave Snezha, who was getting dressed in the waiting room, a wave, and walked out of the entrance door, dialling Rhys.

He picked up immediately. "Hiya."

"Evening," she answered. She got into her car and closed the door behind her. "How is it going?"

"Do you want to grab dinner?" he asked at the same time.

He sounded low - tired, perhaps.

"I assume you don't mean a proper date in a good restaurant. I would need a bit more warning than that," she said.

"No, I just– No, just dinner," he said. "At my place maybe?"

Viola gave it a consideration and sighed.

"I'm not sure it's such a good idea," she said in a level tone. "We decided that we would–"

"Vi, please," he said quietly. "I know we're doing the whole dating thing, and I'll take you out and I'll buy you flowers and go through all the moves, but right now– please, spend an evening with me."

Viola lowered her forehead on the driving wheel and squeezed her eyes.

"Vi?"

"I'm thinking," she answered. "I can't decide such things right away. It's just–" She bit into her bottom lip. He was quiet, and she took a shuddered breath. "How's Semra?"

He didn't answer, and she felt a tinge of irritation. So, spending an evening with her, whatever that implied, was OK, but letting her into the family affairs just wouldn't do, apparently.

"She's still in the hospital, under observation," he answered grudgingly. "Vi, can I pick you up?"

She could say 'no.' To think of it, the sympathy and the desire to comfort him she'd felt a few seconds ago were as much as gone now. Now, she felt almost quarrelsome.

"I'll drive to your cottage," she answered. "I just need to change, and I'll be there in about half an hour."

"Thank you," he said softly.

Viola said a curt goodbye and hung up.

***

She rang the doorbell, and he immediately opened. He was wearing dark jeans, another of his usual military fleece jackets, and soft fluffy socks. His eyes roamed her face, and he smiled, stepping aside to let her in.

"I haven't ordered anything, since I didn't know what you'd like," he said softly.

Viola walked through and put her handbag on one of his coffee tables - and then she realised it was empty. She threw a quick look around his drawing room and snorted.

"Did you just scoop everything into one drawer, and closed it so I couldn't see the mess?" she asked sarcastically.

"Pretty much," he said. "Would you like some tea? And I can get us the laptop, to order dinner."

She looked at him over her shoulder. There was a warm tender expression on his face, and his eyes followed her around the room.

"I'm not hungry," she said.

"Sure," he answered lightly. "Tea then?"

She once again glanced at him. He might be an unobservant man, but even he couldn't possibly fail to notice how waspish she sounded. She would've expected him to start banging doors and pressing lips in an angry line by now.

"Let's have tea," she said with a sigh and walked to his kitchen.

There was a tall chair near his counter island, and she climbed on it. He started pouring water in his kettle.

"So, how is it going?" she asked. You need to take your tone under control. It's like you're trying to start a row with him.

"It's been busy," he said. "I have a project running late, and we all have been taking turns in the hospital and with the little'uns. Well, I was more of a driver than anything. Sam asked me to stay away as much as possible."

"Did you?" Viola asked and regretted her sharp tone immediately.

He slowly turned to her and leaned his back against the counter.

"Vi, I– You know what I'm like, right? And it's on me, what happened to Semra. I mean, I should've listened to Sam, and offering her the job was a mistake." He looked under his feet. "He's angry with me. And the rest of them, they all blame me, and they're right, but–" He rubbed the back of his neck. "But you don't."

"I– don't?" she repeated. "Rhys, I don't know all the circumstances of what happened, so I can't judge. And I'm not part of the family, so–"

"You are," he interrupted, his eyes widened in surprise.

Viola gave him a sardonic look. "No, I am not. I'm your ex-wife. I just have the surname."

"No matter what, even if it doesn't work out between us again, you are part of the family," he said.

Not for the last three days, Viola thought bitterly.

"What I mean to say, you know me," he said pointedly. "You know what I'm like, and you– forgive me. Always have," he added in a low voice. "So, I thought I'd ask you, as a medical professional and as my–" He paused, and then continued, "What should I do? Sam wants Semra to go to rehab, and I wanted to offer to pay for it. But he's not talking to me– and I don't think he'll take my money."

Viola sat frozen, staring at him. Is he actually– asking for her advice?! The kettle boiled, and he turned to the counter again. He made two mugs of tea.

"Milk?" he asked, going to the fridge.

"Cream, if you have any," Viola answered.

He took cream out of the fridge, put the two mugs on the island, and sat down on the chair near her - all of it, without a single word. As if he actually understood that she needed a moment to process his words. The mind boggles.

Several scenarios flashed through her mind - and she lifted her mug and took a small sip. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his face to his open palms.

"I just don't want to arse it up any more than I already have," he said. "Bugger, I'm so bloody tired..."

His voice broke - and Viola slowly put down her brew. She stretched her hand and lowered it on his shoulder. He jolted - but then she realised that he hadn't been startled, he'd tried to rise to press into her palm more. A grimace ran his features, of some sort of starved deprivation.

When they'd been married, she hadn't understood it, but years later, in counselling, she'd been introduced to the idea of different love languages for different people. For Rhys Holyoake, it had always been about a touch.

Viola slid off her chair, stepped to him, and pulled him into herself. He shuddered, dropped his head onto her shoulder, and the sigh he gave out was so sharp that it almost sounded like a sob. She hugged him tightly, wrapping the fingers of her right hand on the back of his neck, pushing them under the heavy curls.

"So tired, Vi," he muttered, and she stroked the back of his head.

"I know, Rhys," she said. "I know... I'm sorry." Another shudder ran through him, and she made a comforting 'sh-h-h' noise. "I know you're in pain, and you can't tell them that. You can tell me," she whispered. "I'm here..."

He clenched his hands, gathering fistfuls of her jumper on her back, and pulled her even closer, mashing her into him.

"I'm so, so sorry," she repeated, and he groaned into her.

"God, Vi..."

She rubbed his nape, in the collar of his jumper, her body suddenly remembering the gestures that had brought him most relief before. The painful echo of the memories - him crying in her arms - made her eyes sting.

"She's alright, Rhys," she whispered. "It all could've ended much worse, but she's alright. And you need to talk to Sam, apologise... You can offer him help. It has to be on his terms, but you can offer help."

"I don't know how," he said and exhaled sharply. She felt his breath brush at her collarbone. "I don't know how to do things on someone else's terms." He moved slightly away and met her eyes. "I'm a narcissistic self-absorbed prick."

Viola gave out a shaky laugh. "Why do I suspect it's a quote?"

"He said more, obviously." He straightened in his chair, and now he was taller than her again. "But the gist is I'm supposed to stay away from his life, from his family, and especially away from Semra's habit."

"Then that's all you can do. Unless he changes his mind," she said, and added in a pointed tone, "And if he never does, you need to see it through - and stay away."

"But–"

Viola put her finger across his lips. "No, love, there's no 'but' here. It's that simple. You admit you made a mistake, ask forgiveness, and help if asked to."

And then she realised his warm soft lips were under the pulp of her index finger, and he'd noticed too and was watching her intently now - and she could feel his proximity like some sort of an electric current running through her muscles. And she'd just told him what to do in rather categorical terms - and called him 'love.' It'd been more than ten years since she had acted like that. In the last couple of years of their marriage she simply hadn't felt close enough to him for any sort of pet names - or telling him what to do.

She pulled her hand away.

"Vi..."