Chapter 31
Chapter thirty-one
Lucy
Lucy had been sitting on her bed, her hands clasped tightly together, listening to Juliet’s and Fiona’s voices rise and fall below her in the kitchen. She’d closed her eyes and willed a silent, formless prayer heavenwards. She wanted their relationship to work. She wanted their reconciliation.
At least they were talking for a while. She unclasped her hands because the bones in her fingers had started to ache.
She could still hear their voices: low murmurs, and then a sudden rise and fall.
And then, after a few more minutes, the sound of her mother coming up the stairs and the distant slamming of the front door.
Not good sounds. Not healing, life-affirming, everyone’s-okay-now sounds.
Cautiously she tiptoed from her bedroom and down the upstairs hallway. The house was eerily quiet; Lucy could hear the ticking of the hall clock. She stood at the top of the stairs, not sure what she should do, and her mother opened one of the bedroom doors.
“Mum . . . ?”
Fiona stiffened, her chin rising a notch. “I’m afraid that didn’t go very well.”
“Where’s Juliet?”
“She left.” Fiona gestured towards the downstairs. “She stormed off. I don’t know where.”
Lucy sagged against the wall. “What happened?”
“Oh, Lucy.” Fiona’s mouth tightened in that old, familiar way. “Did you think we were going to make up just like that? Because I can assure you, too much has happened for that.”
“Did you . . . did you tell Juliet why . . . ?” Lucy ventured.
“Yes.”
And it obviously wasn’t any of her business. “But she’s still angry.”
Fiona lifted one thin shoulder in a shrug. “Like I said, too much has happened. I think she’ll always be angry.”
Her mother’s tone sounded almost . . . indifferent. “I hope,” Lucy said, “for Juliet’s sake, she’s not.”
Fiona considered this for a moment before nodding slowly. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose I hope that too.”
“You suppose?” Lucy stared at her mother, at the weary yet determined lines of her face, and she knew that nothing had actually changed.
She was still living in her absurd little bubble of optimism; her mother was still her mother, self-obsessed, determined, arrogant, impossible.
She loved her, Lucy knew; she couldn’t help it.
But she wasn’t actually sure if her mother loved her back.
“Why did you come here, Mum?” she asked quietly, and Fiona looked startled.
“Because . . . because I wanted to make amends. Explain things. Facing death does that to a person.”
“But what about Juliet?”
Fiona stared. “What about her?”
“I mean . . . don’t you care about her?”
“Oh, Lucy.” Her mother gave one of her familiar sighs, the sound of weary disappointment with poor, stupid Lucy. “It’s not that simple.”
Lucy could feel an ache in her throat, and an even deeper ache in her heart.
How many times had her mother dismissed what she’d said, believed, or hoped for?
But she didn’t have to buy into her mother’s philosophy anymore.
She didn’t have to give it a moment’s worth of credence.
“Actually,” she said, “sometimes it is that simple.”
She walked past her mother into her bedroom, filled with a sudden, restless anger for Juliet’s sake as well as her own. She’d hoped her mother’s coming here would change . . . well, everything. Juliet and Fiona would reconcile. They’d finally be a happy family. The End.
She sank onto the bed, annoyed with herself for being so bloody naive, even as she still half wished it could happen.
Eventually she heard her mother’s footsteps along the hallway, and then the sound of a door down the hall closing.
She changed into her pajamas and brushed her teeth, listening for Juliet’s now-familiar tread, but she fell asleep before she heard anything other than the lonely rustling of the wind through the trees.
She woke up to rain spattering against the windows, and even though it was nearly nine o’clock in the morning, it was still completely dark out. Welcome to a Cumbrian winter, she thought, and almost snuggled back under the duvet before she remembered. Juliet. Fiona.
She threw on jeans and a sweater and hurried downstairs. Milly and Molly were in the kitchen by their food bowls, whining and circling them. With a jolt Lucy realized Juliet must not have come home last night.
She took the dogs out into the nasty morning—ice, rain, and wind—and let them do their business while she huddled on the doorstep. Then she fed them their kibble and made herself a cup of tea, wondering where Juliet was and when Fiona would come downstairs.
Then she saw the note.
She eyed it warily, thick cream paper with her mother’s elegant script, propped between the salt and pepper shakers, addressed to both of them. Lucy wrestled with indecision for several seconds about whether to wait for Juliet before she plucked the note from the table and opened the folded paper.
I think it’s better if I go.
—Fiona
That was it. Seven words and her name. Lucy sank into a chair.
The back door opened and she glanced up to see Juliet coming in, looking decidedly rumpled but also surprisingly composed.
“Where were you?”
“At Peter’s.” Juliet closed the door and shrugged out of her jacket. “It’s horrendous out there.”
“All night?” Lucy practically squeaked.
“Yes, but not like that. Well, sort of like that.” Juliet reached for the kettle. “Don’t ask for details.”
She nodded to the kettle. “It’s already hot—I just boiled it. And of course I’m going to ask for details—”
“I needed someone to talk to after my conversation with Fiona. Someone who’s a little removed from it.”
“I can understand that.” Lucy waited until Juliet had made herself a cup of tea and sat down. “She’s gone,” she said, and handed her the note.
Juliet scanned it briefly and then tossed it onto the table. “I’m not actually surprised.”
“She came all this way to leave after one night?” Lucy could hear the hurt in her voice. “I’m surprised.”
“She’s probably gone to a spa somewhere in Manchester or London, to recover from her ordeal.” Juliet shrugged and took a sip of tea. “Her heart wasn’t in it, Lucy.”
Even now Lucy couldn’t help but say, “She seemed sincere when I talked to her in Boston. . . .”
Juliet grimaced. “I don’t know if our mother actually knows how to be sincere. But she gave me some answers, and I’m thankful for that. Mostly.”
“Answers . . . ?” Lucy ventured cautiously, and Juliet shook her head.
“I’ll tell you sometime, just not right now. It’s still . . . raw.”
Lucy swallowed and nodded. “Okay.”
To her surprise—and gratification—Juliet reached over and covered her hand with her own. “The three of us were never going to be the perfect family Lucy,” she said. “No matter how much you wanted it.”
“I know.” Lucy gave a sniff and then a halfhearted chuckle. “But I still hoped. I always hope.”
“Hope is a good thing. I think. You’ve got me doing it now too, so it had better be.”
“That’s a lovely thing to say,” Lucy said with another sniff and laugh. “Of anything I could have done for you, Juliet, I think I’d want it to be that.”
Juliet smiled and removed her hand. Sentimental moment over, clearly. She nodded towards the dogs, who had crept from their baskets and now lay under the table, their heads on their paws, gazes pleading. “How about we take these two for a walk?”
Lucy gave an incredulous glance towards the window. “It’s the worst weather out since I arrived here.”
“So? You’re a Cumbrian now, aren’t you? The weather shouldn’t stop you.”
“I thought I was going to be an offcomer for another thirty years or so.”
Juliet shrugged and drained her mug of tea. “It’s all in the attitude.” She raised her eyebrows. “So?”
Lucy felt herself starting to grin. “So? That sounds like a challenge.”
“You do have sensible gear now, at least.”
“That I do.”
“So what are you waiting for?”
Lucy glanced once more at the window. It was bucketing down icy rain, and the wind was howling. “Absolutely nothing,” she said, and with Juliet grinning back at her, they reached for their coats, called for the dogs, and headed out into the rain.