Chapter 25 #3
“Me too,” Lucy said, and heard the ache in her voice. “But we can still be friends, can’t we?” she asked. “I just spoke to Bella and she was worried she messed things up between us.”
“Bella was?” Alex looked incredulous. “I thought . . .”
“She didn’t like me? I did too, although truthfully I don’t know if Bella knows how she feels. Teenagers are weird that way, especially teenaged girls.”
“And Bella’s only twelve.”
“You have your work cut out for you, then.”
“Lucy . . .” She had the sense that Alex was going to say something important, but it was cut off by the sudden crackle and bang of the fireworks starting. A collective gasp of admiration rose as everyone looked up to see a starburst of greens and red flare high in the sky.
It was impossible to talk during the fireworks show, and when it ended ten minutes later, Poppy and Bella rejoined Alex and everyone started trudging back to the village. The moment, Lucy knew, was gone.
Another week passed in a blur of cold, wintry days; Lucy went into Whitehaven and bought herself thermal underwear and several more scarves.
She was busy at school, and while the awkwardness had eased a little between her and Alex, she didn’t know whether they were actually friends.
Besides a bit of chitchat by the photocopier, they hadn’t talked much at all.
And she hadn’t yet made a decision about whether to stay in Hartley-by-the-Sea.
“You can’t have all your ducks in a row before you decide,” Juliet said one evening as she chopped carrots for their shepherd’s pie and Lucy laid the table. They’d become quite cozily domestic together. “Life doesn’t often work that way.”
“You must have had a few of them lined up when you decided to stay,” Lucy returned. “To buy this house and turn it into a bed-and-breakfast . . . how did you afford that, anyway?”
Juliet hesitated and then bit out a single word. “Fiona.”
“Mum bought it for you?”
“She sent me a check, after that visit when I was twenty. Blood money, it felt like, and I put it in the bank and didn’t touch it as a matter of principle.
And I was tempted, let me tell you. I worked my way up the ladder at the hotel in Manchester the hard way.
But then I came here and knew I wanted to stay, and Tarn House was for sale.
. . .” Juliet shrugged. “Fiona never gave me a thing my whole life. Why shouldn’t she give me this? ”
“Do you resent it, though?” Lucy asked curiously. “That you had to use that money?”
Juliet made a half-laughing, half-snorting sound. “Yes, of course I do.”
“Well, unfortunately for me, I don’t have a big nest egg waiting for me in the bank, so I definitely need a job.”
“No, you’ve had your way paid for since you were a baby,” Juliet pointed out. “Not that I’m bitter about it.”
“Mum must have paid for you, Juliet, for some things. School—”
Juliet shook her head. “Nothing. Oh, she fed and clothed me, at least until she moved to America.”
“But it was your choice not to come with us—”
“Is that what she told you?” Juliet asked, looking almost amused, although there was an edge to her voice.
“I suppose I assumed . . .”
“Fiona didn’t want me to come. Oh, she made a song and dance about how I needed to finish my A levels, said I only had one year left, I’d want to go to university in England, and so on.
But it was clear she was going off with you and you alone.
And she didn’t send a single penny to cover my costs.
I was eighteen, so I suppose she felt she’d done her duty by me.
I worked nights in a pub to cover my school uniform and to give something to my friend’s family, for room and board.
They didn’t want to accept, but they weren’t rolling in it. Not like Fiona was.”
Lucy stared at her, appalled. “I had no idea. . . .”
“You just thought I didn’t get that wretched pony party?” Juliet surmised with a hard laugh. “Well, that too, I suppose.”
“No wonder you’re bitter.”
Juliet sighed, one hand braced on the counter as she stared out the window at the darkening night sky. “The truth is,” she said, “I’m tired of being bitter. Of being angry and hurt and all the rest of it. I just want to let it all go, forget about Fiona, but I can’t. I’ve tried, and I can’t.”
“Maybe you need to talk to her,” Lucy suggested.
Juliet shook her head. “I can’t do that, either. I don’t have the strength anymore and anyway, the last time I tried, five years ago, she hung up on me.”
“Why? I mean, why does she . . .”
“Hate me? I have no idea. Maybe she hated my father. Maybe she feels guilty for the way she’s treated me.”
“I’m sorry, Juliet.”
“Not your fault,” she answered briskly, and started chopping carrots again.
“I know, but . . .” Lucy shook her head. “I feel like I should have known. I should have reached out more to you, when I was younger.”
“Wouldn’t have worked.” Juliet dumped the chopped carrots into the pot on top of the Aga. “I resented you even when you were a baby. You used to toddle after me and I’d just ignore you. Close my bedroom door in your face. I couldn’t stand you, actually, and it had nothing to do with you.”
“Oh.” Not exactly words to warm the heart.
Juliet cracked a small smile. “But I am glad you’re here now, Lucy, and I hope we can make up for lost time.”
“I think we are. . . .”
“Then come here and give me a hug,” Juliet said, and held out her arms. Lucy stared at her, amazed that her prickly sister could actually be requesting physical affection.
“I’d love to,” she said, “but, Juliet? You’re still holding a knife.”
Juliet glanced at the large butcher’s knife she held in one hand and with a laugh she tossed it into the sink. Then she walked towards Lucy with her arms outstretched and gave her a hug.
It was an awkward, clumsy hug, and it was over in about two seconds, but still. They were both grinning as they stepped back.
A week slipped by, a week of Lucy wondering what she was going to do even as she felt herself creeping towards a decision. She stopped by the post office, and to her shock Dan Trenton—who had started chatting to her a little each time she went in—slipped her a bag of chocolate buttons.
“For that lad,” he said gruffly, not meeting her eye. Lucy grinned.
“Thank you, Dan,” she said, and then because she couldn’t resist, “You really are a big old softy.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” Dan answered without cracking a smile. “Can’t ruin my reputation.”
One Saturday Lucy took Milly and Molly down to the beach and after they’d had a decent run, she tied them up outside the café and went to talk to Abby.
The café was nearly empty and Abby made them both coffees as they sat at a table in the corner and Noah played with a couple of battered toys at their feet.
“Juliet gave me the idea,” Lucy said, “of maybe exhibiting some of my paintings here, to sell. You could take a percentage of the profits, and it might brighten up the place a bit, to have artwork on the walls. . . .”
Abby’s expression, normally so pinched and serious, lightened as she smiled. “I love that idea.” She glanced round at the rickety chairs and the peeling Formica. “I’ve been wanting to spruce this place up, to tell you the truth. It looks like I’m going to be here for a while.”
“Is Mary . . . ?”
“She’s okay,” Abby said, her glance on Noah, who was now scooting around on all fours and making tractor noises. “But she can’t be on her feet all day the way she used to. She needs me here.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re staying,” Lucy said, and Abby gave her a shy smile.
“What about you? Are you staying, then?”
Lucy took a deep breath. “I think so,” she said. Admitting that much still made her stomach flip, the way it did when you drove over a hill too fast. “I think so,” she said again.
The last week in November Lucy decided to be ambitious and cook everyone Thanksgiving dinner. “Proper American Thanksgiving,” she told Juliet. “I’m talking about green bean casserole and stuffing and cranberry sauce and sweet potatoes with marshmallow fluff.”
Juliet made a face. “That last one sounds revolting.”
“It’s delicious,” Lucy assured her. “I’ll have to find canned pumpkin somewhere for the pie. . . .”
“You could,” Juliet suggested, “use a real pumpkin.”
Lucy shook her head firmly. “That is so not what Thanksgiving is about.”
“Have you had many Thanksgiving dinners?” Juliet asked. “With the turkey and the marshmallow and the rest of it?”
“No,” she admitted. “You know Mum. She saw Thanksgiving as another sign of patriarchal oppression.” Juliet rolled her eyes and Lucy smiled. “But I’ve seen enough holiday movies and Norman Rockwell paintings to know what it’s supposed to be like.”
She spent the next several days searching the Internet for recipes, and waiting for the delivery of canned pumpkin and marshmallow fluff from an online store that sold American products at astronomical prices.
She practiced folding napkins into the shape of turkeys—more or less—and bought all the real pumpkins at the supermarket in Whitehaven for a festive centerpiece.
And then there was the matter of the guest list. “I thought I’d invite Rachel and her family,” Lucy told Juliet, “and Peter and his father. . . .” Juliet tensed a bit at this, but didn’t object. “And the Kincaids.”
“You mean Alex?” Juliet said.
“We’re meant to be friends,” Lucy replied. “And if that’s what we’re meant to be, then that’s how I’m going to act.”
“Are you sure this isn’t just a way to win him back?” Juliet asked bluntly. “The way to a man’s heart and all that?”
“No, it isn’t,” Lucy replied after a moment, and knew she meant it. “I’ve learned my lesson there, at least. I’m done trying to insinuate myself into other people’s lives, or to convince them they really need me. This is just about being friends and celebrating a holiday. It’s as simple as that.”