Chapter 6
SIX
The roar of an engine made Rita glance up from chopping onions for tonight’s salsa.
She hurriedly washed and dried her hands and opened the door to see the lights of a silver Porsche screeching into the courtyard.
Her Thom grinned back at her through the window, with that familiar troublemaking smile of his.
‘Mum!’ All six foot two of handsome first-born twin leaped from the car with his usual effortless confidence.
‘Oh, you’re on your own?’ Rita hid her happiness well at having her son all to herself.
‘Yeah, Poppy couldn’t make it; she sent her apologies.’
Rita smirked. ‘What on earth could be more important than meeting your boyfriend’s mother?’
Thom laughed. ‘Some study she had to finish. And I also only just found out she’s allergic to chickens.’
Rita pushed. ‘She doesn’t have to get near them, does she?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Leave it, now, please.’ He grabbed four beers and a bunch of forecourt flowers from the passenger seat. ‘For you, Mumsie.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘It’s good to see you.’
Sennen came charging down the stairs, looking beautiful without a scrap of make-up, hair piled into a messy bun on top of her head, and kitted head to toe in Lululemon.
‘It’s almost like you’re pleased I’m here, sister.’ Thom smirked.
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ Sennen remained straight faced. ‘You haven’t dumped the new one already, have you? Or maybe she’s dumped you?’ She leaned down to play with Henry’s ears.
‘Very bloody funny; nobody dumps Thomas Jory.’
Rita tutted. ‘Thomas! Stop it… I didn’t raise a man who thinks he’s God’s gift to the world.’
Sennen quipped, laughing, ‘Yeah, Thomas! Seriously, your ego needs its own postcode.’
‘That’s enough, you two.’ As Rita put the huge pot of chilli she’d made earlier onto the hob to heat up, she felt a warm flutter in her chest. She loved having the twins here together, in their chaotic, exasperating glory.
It made the house feel full in a way it hadn’t for a while.
Even Henry managed to ease himself up from his Aga-fronted bed, wagging his tail furiously.
She poured a glass of wine for herself and Sennen. And as Thom grabbed a beer, Rita’s mind drifted to the awful time when Archie’s will had gone missing and her only son had seemed to turn against her. What a long way they had come since then.
They clinked glasses. ‘Cheers to the three of us,’ Thom said.
‘Aw… that’s sad,’ Sennen murmured, her eyes glistening. ‘Dad used to say, cheers to the four musketeers.’
‘Come on,’ Rita said softly, resting a hand on her daughter’s. ‘He would have wanted us to be happy.’ Tears pricked at her eyes.
‘I miss him,’ Sennen said quietly.
‘We all do,’ Thom said, then, ever the pragmatic one, ‘but we can’t bring him back.’ His eyes then sparkled. ‘Do you remember the time he set light to the Christmas pudding and ended up setting the oven mitts on fire?’ A smirk tugged at his lips.
Rita laughed. ‘How could I forget? He ran around the kitchen like a headless chicken while you and Sennen were doubled over laughing as I threw a bowl of water over him.’
Rita felt a lump in her throat. ‘I do miss the silly bugger.’
Sennen sighed, her eyes glistening. ‘Just think of it as he lives on in us, Mum. In the way we laugh, the way we argue, the way he always made complete chaos of a Christmas pudding and we called it tradition.’
Thom nodded. ‘Exactly. He’s stuck with us forever.’
‘Or us him, more like.’ Sennen smiled.
Rita felt tears prick her eyes, but they weren’t all sad; they were warm, soft tears of memory and love. They clinked glasses.
‘So, cheers to the three of us,’ Thom said, lifting his drink.
‘And to Dad.’ Sennen’s voice wobbled.
‘Cheers to the Jorys,’ Rita echoed.
They drank, the warmth and alcohol spreading through them.
Rita looked at her children, full of energy, humour, and that spark of Archie she could still see in their laughter, and felt an odd, tender comfort.
Life had moved on, but the love remained, strong and stubborn, like the echo of a favourite song that never quite faded.
They sat in silence for a moment, sipping their drinks and letting the memories wash over them. Rita took a slow, steadying breath. Jago would never be Archie, and no one could ever take Archie’s place. And that… was perfectly OK.