Chapter Eighteen
During that sleepless night, Grace let the new understanding that she had been dismissive of Jude’s diagnosis soak in.
It was time to accept that here was more going on with her family than she had allowed herself to consider.
First thing in the morning, Grace called to check Jude was okay and was reassured by the lightness in Rosie’s voice.
She told her he was a bit uncomfortable but doing fine.
She put the phone on the counter and rubbed her tired eyes. The sound of Jude’s scream down the phone line had replayed in her head every time she drifted close to sleep. The emptiness on Frank’s side felt like a ravine she might fall into and never climb back out of.
Her thoughts kept jumping from Jude to Frank.
He hadn’t told her about his family’s history of alcohol addiction, and now she was wondering what else he’d held back.
If there was anything to be discovered, it would be in his study, she was sure of it.
She made an extra strong coffee and went to explore.
Even if there was nothing to find, she would feel closer to him there, and she needed that comfort more than anything.
When she put her mug on a coaster on the coffee table, a memory of teenage Rosie popped into her mind.
She was even messier back then than she was now, and Grace had told her off for putting a glass with condensation running down the sides directly onto her Regency mahogany sideboard for about the fiftieth time.
Rosie had flipped her lid, shouting about how she wanted to live in a normal house filled with Ikea furniture like all her friends, not a stupid antique shop with ugly old relics.
That unpleasant word ‘normal’ again. What did it even mean?
Frank, ever the peacemaker, smoothed things over. He arranged for glass to be cut and placed on the tops of all the pieces in the rooms they used most often. That way, he argued, Grace could still see the beauty of the wood, but Rosie could put a drink down without having her head bitten off.
Over time the glass became scratched, and as soon as Rosie left home, Grace got rid of it.
Now, she’d give anything to have the clink of a cup being placed onto glass.
Would she go so far as to exchange her beautiful antique furniture for self-build chipboard?
She would never have to make that choice, so she dismissed the thought, but not before the words ‘in a heartbeat if it meant my family were all still with me’ had flashed across her consciousness.
She scoured the bookshelves, looking for more of Frank’s reading journals.
Her eyes stopped on the spine of Lord of the Flies.
She’d never read it, but she and Frank had once seen a stage production by the Royal Shakespeare Company.
It must’ve been thirty years ago, but she could still recall the tension building to unbearable levels in the auditorium, the chanting and stamping as the boys circled that poor child.
What was his name? She plucked out the book and read the blurb. Piggy. That was right.
Frank said it was an excellent adaptation.
It was certainly thought-provoking and really quite moving.
Perhaps she should read the novel. She put it on the coffee table and went back to the shelves.
She ran her fingers over the broken spines.
The last journal had been tucked beside a book, so she’d have to look carefully.
Her finger stopped on Rebecca. She’d always thought Daphne du Maurier was such a perfect name for a novelist. She sounded exactly like a writer should, mysterious and grand.
She took the book out, marvelling at the ornate script with the illustration of the house in the bottom right corner, in darkness except for one bright window.
How clever cover designers were. Just glancing at the one lit window made her wonder what was going on in that room.
She turned the book over and read the blurb, instantly filled with pity for the heroine, facing the phantom of her new husband’s dead wife and the scrutiny of the housekeeper, Mrs Danvers.
What had Frank loved about this book, Grace wondered.
All of the novels in this room were ones he chose to keep close.
This one was chilling and full of suspense, according to the cover, so maybe that was what drew him to it.
But Grace knew that wouldn’t be all. Frank was a deep thinker.
If a book was in his sanctuary, it would be because it touched him in some way.
The rest of thin journal with his thoughts on Rachel’s Holiday had been empty, but she had a feeling there would be more.
If only she could find other journals, she might discover what was going on in his head.
She placed the book on top of the other on the coffee table and continued her search.
By the time she’d added Vanity Fair and Brave New World to the growing pile of books she wanted to read, she was losing hope of finding another journal.
Maybe Frank started to write in the one she found, then lost interest. As she was about to give up, a copy of Charlotte’s Web caught her eye and her heart gave a leap.
There was no question why that book was down here.
It had been Rosie’s very favourite story as a child and Frank and Grace must’ve read it to her at least a hundred times each.
Resisting the urge to clutch it to her breast and try absorbing all the times the tatty paperback had been touched by the people she loved most in the world, Grace held the book to her nose and breathed in.
She was certain the smell of paper and dust was tinged with the strawberry-scented shampoo she used to wash Rosie’s hair before bed.
She examined the cover. There was a dark patch below where the spider, Charlotte, hung from her web, as the little girl and Wilbur the pig gazed up.
Grace was sure she remembered wiping chocolate from the cover after Rosie held it in sticky fingers.
She took the book over to Frank’s chair, and with her coffee in one hand, the book in the other, she started to read.
***
Her phone was on silent, charging in the kitchen, so when Grace went through to get a drink, she noticed she’d missed a message from Annie.
Don’t suppose you’re free for a coffee now? Don’t worry if not! X
Grace checked the time. The message had been sent fifteen minutes ago. She quickly tapped out a reply. Sorry, just picked this up. I’m free and would love to meet if it’s not too late? x
The reply came through immediately. Annie suggested they meet at a coffee shop on the High Street in half an hour. Grace put a bookmark in Charlotte’s Web. The much-loved story of friendship would have to wait. Grace was going out to meet a friend of her own.