Chapter Thirty-Four
The kitchen of Cliffside House was bright with early-morning sunshine by the time William walked downstairs on Wednesday morning.
He had barely slept, his ears tuned to the quiet hallway for any sound from Ollie’s room, but the house had remained peaceful.
Lydia had walked home late the previous night once Ollie was safely tucked in, leaving behind a spotless kitchen and a family that felt safe.
The quiet didn’t last long. The heavy, uneven scuffle of footsteps on the stairs announced the arrival of the patient.
Ollie stepped into the kitchen, his hair sticking up like a startled hedgehog, but his face was bright with a massive, triumphant grin.
He was wearing his shirt open over a T-shirt, his left arm completely encased in a thick, vibrant blue plaster cast that he held out ahead of him like a trophy.
“Look, Dad! It hardly hurts this morning. And it feels like a rock.”
“Morning, superhero,” William smiled, some of the exhaustion easing at the sight of his son’s energy. He clapped a gentle hand on Ollie’s shoulder, careful to avoid the rigid blue shell. “Let’s get you some breakfast. Sit down before you trip over your own slippers again.”
Ollie scrambled onto the bench seat, adjusting the heavy cast so it rested squarely on the pine tabletop.
Mia and Sophie came down right behind him, already dressed, their eyes fixing onto the blue plaster with immediate, intense curiosity.
“Can I sign it first, Ollie?” Sophie asked, leaning over the table with her spelling pen already in her hand. “Lydia said when Mark broke his wrist, he let everyone draw on it.”
“You can sign it after breakfast,” Mia said with quiet practicality. She reached into the cupboard, pulling down a bowl and a box of cereal. “Ollie, you can’t hold the milk jug with that hand. Sit still, and I’ll pour it.”
Breakfast became a cooperative squad operation. Mia poured the flakes, while Sophie carefully buttered a piece of toast, cutting it into neat, narrow soldiers so Ollie could manage them with his right hand.
Jake padded in last, his red toy car executing a slow, cautious route around the edge of the blue cast before he climbed onto the chair beside his brother.
“It’s like a blue tunnel,” Jake decided, rolling the car along the hard plaster ridge.
Ollie laughed, trying to pick up his spoon with his right hand.
He managed a mouthful of cereal, but as his fingers slipped, the spoon clattered against the ceramic rim of the bowl, splashing a few drops of milk onto the wood.
He stared at the milk, his bright expression suddenly clouding over as a heavy, disappointing thought hit him.
“Dad?” Ollie asked, his voice losing its excited bounce.
“Yeah?” William said, setting a fresh mug of tea on the table.
“The sandcastle competition,” Ollie whispered, his lower lip beginning to tremble as he looked down at the heavy blue cast. “At the Carnival on Saturday. Lydia said our team was going to build the biggest fortress on the lower beach plot. I can’t dig with a stone arm. The sand will get inside the cracks.”
Sophie’s face fell, her hand pausing over the butter dish. Mia looked at William, her observant eyes filled with immediate, protective sympathy. They had spent weeks planning the design, Ollie having declared himself chief engineer of the outer wall excavation.
William slid onto the bench beside his son, his broad shoulders framing the boy’s slump. He reached out, his large hand lightly squeezing the back of Ollie’s neck.
“You can’t dig the main trench, Ollie. That’s true,” William said gently. “The doctors said we have to keep the plaster completely dry until the bone mends. If the North Sea gets inside it, we’ll be right back in that waiting room.”
Ollie’s shoulders dropped another inch. “So I can’t enter at all?”
“Who said you can’t enter?” a warm voice called from the back door.
They all looked up.
Lydia stood on the threshold, having tapped lightly on the glass. She wore her familiar green cardigan, the silver star still fixed to one sleeve, and carried a rolled sandcastle plan beneath her arm.
“Lydia!” Sophie beamed.
Lydia walked inside, offering William a brief, quiet smile before sitting on the edge of the stool beside Ollie.
“I came to see how Ollie was,” she told him. “And I checked the sandcastle rules before I came over. Every team needs a chief architect — someone who stands on the dry sand with the master plan, directs the digging crew, and tells the bucket squad exactly where to bring the water.”
Ollie blinked, his brown eyes widening. “A chief architect?”
“Exactly,” Lydia nodded gravely. “You can stand on the dry sand with the plot map in your right hand and direct the digging crew. You’ll tell your dad and the others exactly where to dig and where the bucket squad should bring the water.”
The cloud vanished from Ollie’s face as quickly as it had arrived. A massive, brilliant grin split his features.
“I’m going to be the boss of the whole fortress,” he announced to Jake, pointing his blue cast towards the garden. “Dad has to dig exactly where I tell him.”
William laughed and met Lydia’s gaze across the table. She hadn’t dismissed Ollie’s disappointment or pretended it didn’t matter. She had simply found another place for him in the team.
“Sounds as though we’ve got our orders,” he said.