Chapter Five
Rhys did have work to do, an overwhelming amount to do, but he couldn’t focus on the writing and editing until he spoke with his daughters.
In the cottage, he paused outside the girls’ bedroom door, the faint light from the hallway spilled across the worn floorboards.
Inside the room he heard a murmur of low voices.
He knocked once and pushed the door open.
Jillian and Olivia sat together on the bed, a book open between them that neither was reading. Olivia’s eyes were red. Jillian’s cheeks were blotchy, but the moment she saw her father, her chin lifted in defiance.
“Would one of you like to explain what happened this afternoon?” he asked quietly.
Jillian’s tone was steady, almost too calm. “We went for a walk.”
“Without telling anyone.”
“We weren’t far.”
He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “That’s not the point, Jilly.”
Her shoulders tensed, matching the set of her small jaw. “We can take care of ourselves.”
“You’re twelve.”
“Thirteen in February.”
He almost smiled but didn’t. “Even twelve-year-olds need to let someone know where they are. You worried Cat half to death.”
“We weren’t trying to,” Olivia said in a small voice.
Rhys’s gaze softened. “I know, sweetheart.” Then, looking at Jillian again. “But it wasn’t fair to her. Or to me. This isn’t just about you; it’s about all of us. We’re a family and when you disrespect someone—”
“But she’s not our mum,” Jillian muttered. “And she’s not Charlotte.”
“No,” Rhys agreed. “Cat is not. But she’s here to help.”
“She’s only here because Mum isn’t,” Jillian snapped. “If everyone stopped pretending everything’s fine, maybe Mum would come home.”
The words hit hard, and he sat on the twin bed facing his daughters. “You think this is about pretending?”
“It’s about you,” she said. “You and your work and—” She broke off and looked away, pale except for those bright pink spots high in her cheeks.
He waited. “Go on.”
She wouldn’t look at him, her gaze pinned to the wall. “You’re always working, even now. You don’t see us. You just hire someone else to do it for you.”
The quiet that followed was sharp, cutting, and for long moments no one moved or spoke.
When Rhys finally found his voice, it was hard to speak, the words felt strange in his mouth. “That’s not true, Jilly. But if it feels that way, then I haven’t done my job as your father.”
Olivia’s fingers twisted in her jumper. “We’re sorry,” she whispered, though it wasn’t clear who she was speaking for.
Rhys drew in a breath, held it, trying to focus.
“I’m not looking for quick apologies. I’m looking for understanding.
You frightened Catriona today. She was genuinely worried, and to her credit, she took all the blame for what happened today.
Said it was her fault that she hadn’t watched you better. ”
Jillian glanced at him, a flicker of guilt crossing her face before she masked it.
“So, here’s what’s going to happen,” Rhys continued calmly but firmly. “You’ll stay in your room for the next two hours—”
“We’ve already been in here an hour,” Jillian protested.
“I can make it three, Jilly. Would that be better?” He rose, tired of conflict, tired of the unending back and forth.
Jillian had always been spirited and independent, but this was unacceptable.
Olivia reached out and pushed her sister’s arm.
Jillian sighed. “No. Two hours is good.”
“For the first hour, no reading, no whispering about how unfair I am. Just think about what happened, and how you might make it right. During the second hour you can play quietly in here, but first I want your phones and tablets. We’re not on electronics for the rest of the day.
” He saw Jillian’s eyebrows rise. “Not even tonight.”
Olivia nodded immediately. Jillian stared back, unblinking.
“And then,” he said, “when we have dinner, I expect you both to apologize properly. Miss Hayes deserves that.”
“She’ll tell you it’s fine,” Jillian muttered.
“Maybe she will,” he said evenly. “But I won’t.”
That silenced her.
Rhys rose but paused at the door. “You’re good girls. I know this year hasn’t been easy. But being hurt doesn’t give us permission to hurt other people.”
Olivia’s lip trembled. Jillian looked away, her shoulders slouching, her jaw no longer set so tight.
“I’ll call you when it’s time to come down. Now give me your electronics, and I hope tonight we will be better than this afternoon.”
In his room, Rhys put the girls’ phones and iPads in the bottom drawer of his dresser and then straightened and let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He could dissect a tumor without blinking, but a ten-minute conversation with his daughters left him gutted.
Rhys scrubbed a hand through his hair and started downstairs.
The scent of tea and something faintly sweet drifted from the kitchen.
Cat was there, sleeves rolled up, a streak of flour on her cheek, the kettle just beginning to whistle.
For the first time that day, Rhys felt something inside him ease, not because the problem was solved, but because, for once, he wasn’t the only adult in the room trying to hold everything together.
“What smells so good?”
“You must be smelling the cinnamon and ginger,” Cat said, nodding at the mixing bowl and the baking sheet on the kitchen table.
“Just about to put my first tray of gingersnaps in the oven. It was one of my favorite cookies my grandmother made, and Sarah, my roommate, loved it when I made them. I thought perhaps the girls would enjoy something sweet at teatime.”
“They don’t deserve it,” he said gruffly.
“We’ll get past this.” She flashed him a sympathetic smile. “Everything will be fine.”
“They’ve done this before. With that last minder, too. Every time they act out, it’s some variation of the same thing—testing boundaries.”
She picked up the tray with the round dough balls. “Testing who’ll stay?”
“Or how long it takes for someone to break.”
“I have no idea how old Miss Pettigrew was, but I’m fairly young and healthy. I have a strong constitution. I don’t see myself breaking in three weeks in Derbyshire.”
“Thank God for that.”
*
With the cookie tray in the oven, Cat turned and faced him and, as she did, she saw for the first time just how tired he was, fatigue in his eyes, fatigue in his features, fatigue in the set of his shoulders.
“This is hard on you, as well,” she said softly. “It’s a lot. Your career, your book, your girls.”
“The girls come first.”
“Of course they do.”
“But they don’t think they do,” he confessed. “Not according to Jillian.”
“Yes, well, as you warned me, Jillian is in a phase, and everyone is going to feel her wrath until she can work through what’s troubling her.”
“Which is me according to what she said upstairs.”
“You must know it’s not you. You are the parent here.
You are present. You have work to do but every day you return and spend time with them and try to make new memories, but it’s not easy, or even comfortable, being the trailblazer.
My grandmother had the unenviable task of taking care of me after my parents died, and I made it impossible for her for years.
I didn’t want to live with her. I wanted my parents back.
It didn’t matter that they had died, I wasn’t reasonable.
I didn’t care about facts. I just wanted what I’d lost. That’s the nature of grief, and your girls’ mother might not be dead, but she’s not here, and you are not together and that is what they miss. ”
“You’re not wrong,” he said after a moment. “It’s just that every time I think we’re making progress, every time it feels as if we’re moving forward, something gives way.”
“That’s how grief works,” she said. “It doesn’t care about timing.”
He turned slightly, brow creased, shadows in his eyes. “It doesn’t ever really leave, does it?”
“Grief?” She struggled to smile but couldn’t. “No. It just changes shape.”
Rhys looked at her for a long moment, then nodded.
From the sitting room, the fire popped, the sound loud in the stillness. “If you think you can manage—”
“I can manage,” she interrupted firmly.
“You haven’t heard what I’m going to say.”
“Provided you are not gifting me with your children, or your medical practice, I can manage. I might not be good at maths, but I can manage just about everything else.”
“What a relief,” he said, his smile crooked. “I’m going to work; I’ll be back for dinner. The girls can have tea, but they are to stay put in their room until then.”
“Sounds good.”
He stepped into the hall, and she followed him to the door. “For what it’s worth,” he said, reaching for his coat, “you’re handling them—us—better than I hoped. Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
Rhys arched a dark brow, amusement in his light eyes. “I’m sure it is. I’ll see you later.”
Cat waited until he was gone before sinking into a kitchen chair and covering her face with her hands.
She’d never tell him because the last thing she wanted to do was add to his worries, but this wasn’t easy, handling his girls, keeping everything calm so he could focus on his work.
She’d never had to deal with an attitude like Jillian’s, or the intense preteen theatrics.
It was a lot, but she’d never tell the girls, and she’d never tell Rhys.
And she’d never admit that she hadn’t been prepared for family, or family dynamics.
All of this—the girls, him, the emotions—were dragging up memories she’d fought to bury.
*
By the time the brownies cooled and the scent of sizzling beef filled the kitchen, the house felt calm and settled. Cat had turned on lamps and the front porch light.
Rhys had returned for tea and then disappeared into his room, but she could hear him speaking to the girls upstairs. Cat moved around the downstairs, fluffing the pillows, straightening the wool blankets before adding another log to the sitting room fire.