Chapter Text
Carys
Carys Vale watched the baggage carousel go round and round. Only one of her suitcases had appeared in the past hour, and there was no way to contact her step-grandparents about the wait.
After they'd made a trip to Forks the month before to make sure she was "furnished enough to be getting on with", they were now picking her up for a long weekend stay: time enough to get her sea legs, go used car shopping and buy the basics — groceries, kitchen, bathroom, bedding.
And she was late. So late.
She was losing the battle against tears before someone took pity and checked for the rest of her things. Somehow, they had almost ended up on a connecting flight, and it was another half hour before they got to her.
So, nearly two hours after landing, she hurried out as best she could while dragging two suitcases, further laden down by a large rucksack on her back and a small backpack on her front. It didn't take long to locate them. The pair were waiting for her on a row of seats not far from the exit. Carys breathed a sigh of relief — they didn't appear too put out.
Sean caught sight of her first. He pushed to his feet, waiting while she navigated her way past a family. "Here now, are you? Took you long enough."
"I'm so sorry I'm late!"
"Never mind all that, you're here now and that's what matters."
"Leanbh!" Rachel rushed forward to pull Carys down into a hug that pitched the heavy rucksack and almost toppled them both. "Sean, take her bags, would you? Poor girl's about to drop."
"It was the carousel of doom." Carys grimaced. Righting herself she accepted a hug from Sean, who, thankfully for her centre of gravity, was a little under foot taller than his wife. "You'll not believe it, but my luggage was almost lost to—"
Sean waved her off. "Tell your story when you're home and settled. Why those two didn't come with you, I don't know. Leaving you will all this to carry."
Carys allowed him to take the suitcases but held onto the rucksack when he tried to relieve her of it. Amy and Findlay became "those two" whenever he was disgruntled, but she was the one who'd packed so heavily, having sought to save on costs stateside. It would be too much for him. She said as much and he scoffed.
"First thing she does is keep us waiting, next is insult me." His wink diffused his offended tone. "I may be getting on, but I've not got one foot in the grave quite yet, thank you very much."
"She's saving you your back, you silly man. You take that and put it out again, I'll not be helping you. Now. Let me look at you." Rachel held Carys at arm's length. Lowering her chin shifted her glasses down her nose; she peered over the top to assess. "Oh, you got some sun! Good. Lord knows how while you were stuck in an office being worked to the bone." She clicked her tongue. "Isn't she brown, Sean?"
This was a turn of phrase which made Carys preen upon hearing from Rachel. Her naturally light brown skin took to deeply tanning and freckling quickly in the hotter months, yet by the time winter took hold and she was them for Christmas, Carys was often bemoaning her loss of colour. She felt healthier and more herself when the sun was shining; more beautiful, even — though that wasn't something she'd quite worked out how to explain.
Sean caught Carys' eye. Mischief glinted. "Here, I thought you were always brown, Carys."
"Enough of you." Rachel flicked a hand at Sean, huffing at Carys' responding chuckle. Her lips pursed. "You're skinny as a rake, leanbh. Hasn't that son of ours been feeding you?"
Carys didn't think she was at any risk of wasting away, but neither Rachel nor Sean were inclined to agree.
There was always something about Carys that needed fixing, and the blame almost always fell on Findlay's shoulders. Last year, it was imaginary bags under Carys' eyes — had he booked her a middle seat on the flight?
"Because you really need to think about how tall she is, Findlay. Those seats get smaller and smaller every year," Sean had said from the driver's seat. "It can't be good on her knees — or her back, for that matter. Ten hours in a tin can's enough as it is."
Rachel had sniffed. "Sure, but yourself and Amy look rested enough. Don't you worry, leanbh, not long before you're fed and tucked up in a proper bed."
The year before, it was whether or not she'd catch a chill, owing to her "light coat." Said coat was thick enough to survive a February night out in Durham. And Carys had been wearing layers under it, something she hadn't been on said night out.
The year before that, it was why had "those two" sent her so far away for university. Granted, the journey was expensive, rarely made above Christmas and summer holidays, and it was always Carys making them, but she'd chosen her own university — one that was some three hours from London by train. The way they were talking, you'd think Findlay had convinced Amy to send her halfway across the world and promptly left her to it.
There was no arguing. Not really. So no matter what they said, Findlay rolled his eyes and claimed they liked to fuss. Carys once asked if he was enjoying the fact that he wasn't the one being fussed over. He'd declined to comment.
Now, Carys was whisked towards the car park. From that moment until their front door closed some fifty minutes later, they kept up a near constant stream of conversation, based, for the most part, on what they planned to say to Findlay in their next email.
Sean started ferrying Carys' luggage upstairs, having batted away her attempts to usurp the task, so she followed Rachel to the kitchen.
Rachel was still muttering as she tied her apron. "That boy. I've a mind to— Sit, sit. He'll be on one of those fad diets, I take it? There'll be none of that at Christmas or there'll be hell to pay and no mistake."
"There's no diet, Nan."
Rachel ignored this and called, "Your son's got them all on some fad diet!"
"Don't worry," Sean called back. "You can enjoy some proper food now you're here!"
"There's no diet!" Carys called.
"Uh-huh!"
Rachel returned to a normal pitch. "He'll have picked this up from one of those magazines, I assume? Is he starving too?"
"I'm not starving," Carys laughed, raising her voice to be heard by both. "And there's no diet!"
Rachel pointed the coffee pot at her. "Tell that to the ribs poking out your sides."
"There aren't any—"
Rachel fixed her with a look and set down the tin of biscuits. "Start with these while—" She planted a hand on her hip. "That best not be the television I hear! Not when your granddaughter's sitting in this kitchen!"
"I'm looking at the business end of peeling enough veg to feed a small army," Sean retorted from the living room. "And I was up at dawn—"
"And who's fault was that?" Rachel cocked her head. Nothing happened. "That man. Honestly, I don't know what goes on in that head of his." She squeezed Carys' shoulder en route to the living room. "Eat, leanbh."
Carys opened the tin and selected a biscuit, nibbling it while they argued in loud whispers. It sounded like Sean was winning until Rachel said:
"I don't know what to say, I really don't."
Carys bit her lips together. It was no use. Her chest was quaking and she was wiping away at the corners of her eyes by the time Sean sat opposite. He brought with him a large bowl of root vegetables with another for the peels. Carys grabbed the second peeler from the drawer while Rachel had her back turned.
A few minutes later, she was regretting the fact she'd miss Findlay's attempts to decipher what he'd done wrong, how she'd lost a few stone in less than twenty-four hours, and what he was or wasn't supposedly eating. She was thinking she'd have to insist on being cc'd when Sean narrowed his eyes.
Carys lowered her carrot. Whatever he was thinking, it wasn't good.
"You haven't been starving yourself for some boy, have you? Because I'll tell you right now, he isn't worth it."
"What's this about a boy?" Rachel demanded, turning from the stove to brandish her wooden spoon. "What's he said to you? Out with it."
"There's no boy," Carys said, but they'd not be dissuaded. Eventually, she sighed, sliding down in her chair. The was a distinct possibility she wasn't leaving any time soon.
Sure enough, as the days came and went the initial whirlwind gave way to the uncomfortable realisation that her premonition was proven correct. For just over a week, the conversation about cars and heading to Forks was pushed back, deflected, or ignored. All the while, the need to get there built until she felt in turns stir crazy and guilty over wanting to leave.
It wasn't that she didn't want to spend time with them. Nor that she wanted to get away for the sake of it. More that her life, her "safe adventure" as Amy had named it was right there. So close... yet so far.
Finally, when there was nothing left to source, Sean took her car shopping. Between inspections, she carefully broached the subject again.
He clasped his hands behind his back. "We've fussed you too much?"
"I'm sorry... I thought it was your job to fuss over me. I distinctly remember Findlay assuring me he could supply two proud, fussy grandparents who would give me hugs and all the biscuits I could eat. Didn't he tell you?" Carys butted him with her shoulder.
He chuckled and clapped her on the back, but she'd only been half joking.
"We do want you to go and have your fun," he said after a while. "It won't be long before you're living your life and too busy for—" He waved off her interjection. "Don't think I mean anything by it. It's the way it should be. It's just been nice having you in the house again."
"You make it sound like I'm dying. I'm only up the road, so I'll be back to visit before long. You'll probably be sick of me by this time next year."
"Wouldn't that be something." He pointed towards a decent looking grey number. "This looks like a good one."
It was. It was also more expensive than she'd hoped, pushing well past the higher end of her budget. Regardless, Sean waved over the salesman, who popped the bonnet and reeled off a bunch of facts and figures that sounded suspiciously implausible.
While Sean checked over the engine, breaks, suspension, other things he deemed important or crucial, Carys hopped in and inspected the things she did. The heat worked. The a/c didn't, but that didn't matter so much. Unlike the others, this one had a decent stereo, which was top of her must-haves. The interior was good enough... Plus, it had cup holders. She was sold.
Eventually, the salesman gave up on trying to hard sell Sean and attempted to charm Carys. Though she smiled along, none of it worked. As far as she let on, the car was the latest in a long line of possibilities from this and other lots.
No matter how good it looked or sounded, or how much she liked it, she would defer to the expertise of Sean, who'd spent half his life working on his own cars and had taught Findlay. In turn, Findlay had tried to teach Carys. His success went as far as her ability to check and change things like oil, break fluid, water, and the odd tyre. Beyond that, "car guts" as she called them remained a mystery she couldn't unravel. Which was fine. She wasn't a mechanic.
Sean haggled a little, umm-ed and ahh-ed a bit longer, then decided they'd head over to another lot to compare.
They went to lunch instead.
"I don't think he'll come down as far as you need," Sean said over fries and a burger. "We'll go back and speak with the owner — his mother played bridge with Rachel back when the church had a club. Remind me your leanings these days?"
"Atheist," she said.
"But your mom was raised Catholic, I recall?"
Carys fiddled with a fry. Where was he going with this? She thought they weren't supposed to bring it up. "Mum became a Protestant though, so that's what I grew up with."
"Well, she was born and baptised Catholic, you're an atheist... That makes you a lapsed Catholic."
Carys' brow crinkled. "No it doesn't."
"It does if you want that car." He sipped his iced tea. "Just don't tell Rachel. Or your mom. Or Findlay, for that matter."
It sounded iffy, but she could do with a discount so she agreed. They were soon in the little building on the lot, and after a word with the receptionist, the owner was greeting them.
"Mr Vale! Couldn't believe it when I heard you'd been looking the place over. Have I tempted you at long last?" He turned his high watt smile on Carys. "And who's this?"
"Guy, let me introduce our Findlay's little girl, Carys. Some days, it feels like she only came into our lives a few years ago. Now look, she's all grown up and back from college."
Carys watched with interest as Guy struggled to decide whether he was going to pretend he knew about her or not. With a faintly puzzled frown, he committed to, "God, time really flies, doesn't it? How is Findlay these days?"
"Dad's good," she drawled, emphasising her accent. "So's mum. They're still in London though."
His expression shifted. "Of— I'd forgo—" He broke off to smile again, waggling a finger. "Yes, I think Mother showed me pictures not long after you were born. She was right. She said you had his nose."
Carys nodded, ducking her head so as not to laugh. As far as she knew, it was impossible to inherit the nose of a step-parent. Something told her "mother" hadn't played bridge with Rachel for at least 20 years.
Sean shook his head. "No, no, it's her forehead."
In a further attempt not to crack up, Carys said, "I hear your mum used to give my gran the run-around at bridge."
"Ha! Isn't that something..." Guy widened his stance. "Are you over for long? My girl's around your age. I'm sure she'd be happy to show you around if you want."
"Sadly, she's moving upstate," Sean said. "Carys, why don't you take a seat while we catch up?"
Carys did as she was told, pulling out her phone to text Rachel, who was missing the trip due to a weekly tai chi class, followed by a "natter with the girls" which sounded suspiciously like a group of women in their sixties, seventies, and eighties getting drunk in the pub.
For the next hour, she played Snake! while texting back and forth.
By the time it came to signing on the dotted line, the price had lowered by a considerable amount — firmly in her upper range, yet nowhere close to breaking the budget — and Rachel's texts were getting harder and harder to understand.