Chapter 16

                                    

                                          
After lunch that day Catherine ran to Peter's house. The atmosphere at home was getting heavier by the minute and she needed to talk to someone who wouldn't start crying at the mention of his name. Needed to feel his strong, welcoming arms reassuringly embracing her, whispering everything would be okay.
                          
She arrived at the modest, one-floored house, out of breath from running almost halfway across town, and knocked on the door as she tried to steady her breathing. The faded red paint of the wooden walls flaked everywhere, and there was a window fixed with a piece of fabric from the time when, according to Peter, he and his brother had thrown a ball a little too strongly.
                          
The muffled sound of footsteps inside came to her, and soon the wooden door swung open. Peter stood in front of her, and she threw herself in his arms, pouring out everything she had been holding inside for the last 24 hours. They stood there, frozen in time, her body shaking uncontrollably as he rubbed her back and smoothed her hair in a vain attempt to calm her. "Catherine?" He spoke softly, breaking the trance, bringing his hand to her trembling chin and bringing it slowly upward so they could talk. "What is it?"
                          
She wiped her red eyes and sniffed before answering. "It... it's my dad." She took a deep breath, choking out a sob.
                          
Peter closed his eyes as he realized what she meant and hugged her tighter. "Oh Catherine...I'm so sorry. Here, come inside. How does hot chocolate sound?"
                          
She nodded in appreciation, and he led her inside his cottage. The mismatched furniture lept out at Catherine's eyes whenever she was here, but somehow it still came together to make it a comforting home in a shocking contrast with the exterior. Pictures of the four children decorated the mantel, and a warm fire lit up the far side of the room. Despite the worn-out furniture and occasionally leaky roof, this cozy cottage felt more like a home to Catherine than her own house ever had.
                          
Catherine took place on the sagging couch in front of the fire, wrapping herself in the large shawl Peter's mother used as a blanket as Peter went to the kitchen to fetch his mother. In an instant, the loud clanging of pots came from the kitchen in addition to the sounds of the younger children fighting in the next room, and Peter came back into the living room to take a seat next to Catherine, putting his arms around her. She nestled herself in the fortress of his arms, feeling like nothing could affect her again as long as she remained there. They stayed embraced this way while Peter's mom made hot chocolate, Peter's hands gently holding hers in reassurance. Little by little her shaking stopped, and when the sweet aroma of hot chocolate finally entered the living room, she managed to hold the steaming mug in steady hands and thank Peter's mother without stuttering. 
                          
"So...are you ready to tell me exactly what happened?" Peter asked softly once a few sips had been taken out of the mug.
                          
Catherine remained motionless for a few moments, then slowly nodded her head. She started talking, explaining it all. The newspaper, everybody's reaction to the news, the painful dinner, and the tiny shred of hope that had been crushed by the arrival of the telegram. She had thought that talking would've been too painful, but with every word the squeezing in her heart lessened a little bit, and she couldn't bring herself to stop. The whirlwind of emotions from the last day that she had been keeping inside, trying to be strong for her mother and younger siblings, ached for a way to get out as soon as possible. Peter sat with his arms around her through the whole story, holding her hand in support as she poured her heart out. 
                          
She stayed nestled in his arms for another 15 minutes, slowly calming down and feeling that eventually, just maybe, she would be okay. But it was nearly time to get a head start on dinner, so she shed the blanket off her shoulders and shrugged on her jacket before kissing Peter goodbye and heading back home, feeling much lighter than she had on her way there.
                          
Two weeks after the fatal telegram, the family finally felt strong enough to host a memorial service for Tom. He would be buried alongside the other soldiers in Normandy, but they all agreed it would help everyone move on if they got that little bit of closure. The planning process was hard on all of them, even harder still than the actual loss of their father, for a funeral made it irreversible, official. But at last, the big day came, and Catherine stood in front of the crowd gathered to honour her father. She fiddled with the charm bracelet attached to her wrist, the only relic of her father she had left. She scanned the audience, and her eyes fell upon Peter's ocean blue ones, smiling encouragingly. She smiled back, and spoke up.
                          
"Good afternoon. As most of you will know, my name is Catherine, and I am Tom's daughter. Now some of you might expect some adorable stories about the sacred bond between a father and his daughter. But truthfully, I never really had that connection with my father. He always had a preference for my brothers, because he was brought up to think men are better than women. And I used to blame him for that. He never understood how I felt or why I wanted to do things, because he had never seen anything like that. I held it against him for far too long, and only realized my mistake after it was too late. Now, I understand he did his best, but the world has changed dramatically since the time he was my age and he didn't understand why I wasn't acting the way he did at the time. In his own way, he was the best father possible. Sure, he was harsh with us. But that taught us to accept the consequences of our actions, to think before acting and to work hard."
                          
"I used to see my father as a cold-hearted man who only cared about his boys. Until one day, when he gave me this charm bracelet." Catherine raises her hand, the bracelet shimmering in the church's light. "He told me that his mother had gotten it from her mother and that she had gotten it from her mother, and so on. And even though it was a simple act of passing down a family heirloom, it got me thinking that maybe he did care, at least a little. But that very same day we got into a terrible fight, and I threw the bracelet across my room in anger. I forgot about it and it only thought of it again when I learned he had to go overseas. I looked for it everywhere in my room and finally found it on my sister's side. And since then, it's always around my wrist. At first it was a good luck charm, but now it's the only thing I have from him. Because he wasn't the kind of father who showered us with gifts. He preferred to teach us lessons and show us things the hard way, and while I used to resent him for it, now I thank him. Only now it's too late. That's a funny thing about life, isn't it? We're only thankful for what we had, we only realize something's worth when it gets taken away. I love you, dad." Catherine stepped down from the altar, drying off her eyes and wiping her wet cheeks as the church applauded her speech. Peter gave her a huge grin, and her mother welcomed her with open arms and a tear-streaked face.
                          
"How long did it take you to get over your father's death?" Catherine asked Peter as they exited the church, hand in hand. Her question took Peter by surprise, and he hesitated a moment before answering.
                          
"To tell you the truth, I haven't really gotten over it yet. I mean, I've gotten used to it and I know he won't ever be coming back. But sometimes I'll still set an extra place at the table because I think he'll walk in the door in the next minutes, cheerfully greeting us all and taking the time to hear about our day. If I'm cutting wood, I half expect him to walk out of the house any moment to help and say my rows aren't straight enough, or that I'm not holding the axe properly. Then it hits me all over again that he's gone, and I'll never see him again, and my heart melts as it did when I first heard the news. So no, it's not easy and you'll never really come to terms with it. But you will learn to store it in the back of your mind and only think of it in certain times. And I will be right beside you to help you through everything. Always." He hugged her tight and pecked her forehead, and her heart swelled with warmth. In that moment, she knew.
                          
" I love you Peter Smith." She smiled as she looked deep into those dreamy ocean-blue eyes, and her declaration was greeted by an even bigger smile.
                          
"I love you too Catherine Porter." He leaned in and kissed her, sending an electric shock through both their bodies as the first snow of the season danced around them.