Chapter 32
THE BELL ABOVE the café door jingled as Greta and Marjorie stepped inside. Soft jazz played in the background, and the cakes in the counter display had the plumpest scarlet cherries on top. Even the chocolate powder dusted on top of their coffees formed perfect heart shapes. Everything was free.
Greta glanced at her mum, still struggling to believe she was really here.
Even though she’d died less than a year ago, Greta had already forgotten there was a slight croak in her voice, as if she smoked too many cigarettes a week.
Marjorie’s lips twitched just before she smiled, and it had always been tricky to tell whether her eyes were blue or grey.
The colour shifted depending on the light.
‘You keep looking at me like I might disappear.’ Marjorie laughed. ‘Do I have a smudge on my nose or something?’
‘No. It’s just really great to see you,’ Greta said, the words swelling in her throat.
Marjorie shook out a napkin and placed it on her lap. ‘It’s Lottie’s special day at school. Where else would I be?’
Where else indeed?
Her mum being here only added to Greta’s dilemma. It was like a metronome was ticking in her mind, swinging between staying and leaving Mapleville. And she had no idea where it would stop.
Now that her mum was here, too, everything was becoming clearer. The scales were tipping, ever so gently, in Maple- ville’s favour.
Greta could ask her mum all the things she hadn’t had the chance to before Marjorie passed away—like the name of the first play Greta ever starred in, and which flowers could survive her forgetting to water them.
She could tell her how deeply she loved her, and how she wished she’d said it more often.
Greta would have someone to love her unconditionally, even when she made mistakes. Her mum had always loved Jim, and been the steady voice of reason during some of their rockier times—advice Greta still needed. Maybe more than ever.
And Lottie? Lottie could grow up with her grandma in her life, a warm, mischievous presence who could tease her about her teenage moods, share old photos in a way she wouldn’t tolerate from Greta, and pass on stories, family recipes, and the kind of wisdom that only grandparents knew.
Greta wondered if she’d ever be able to forget about her mum’s death. The funeral, the numbness, and the grief that felt never-ending. Would those terrible memories simply fade here, as if they’d never happened at all?
When Marjorie had been admitted to hospital for her final days, Greta had kept vigil at her bedside, holding her hand while knowing nothing could be done to save her.
The nurses flitted around her bed, taking her temperature, making her comfortable, checking the monitors.
They smiled, but Greta could see the truth in their eyes—that there was no hope.
They had never sugar-coated things for Marjorie, just told her calmly and kindly that her cancer had spread too widely.
Greta had once read that hearing was the last sense to go. She hated the thought that her mum might hear the quiet conversations around her, so she whispered in her ear.
‘When you’re feeling better, Mum, we’ll go for a coffee,’ she’d said, fighting back her tears. ‘You can pick wherever you want to go, and I’ll pay. We’ll have those brightly coloured macarons you like, with the crispy shells and soft centres.’
As the end drew closer, she preferred her mum to hear a sweet lie rather than the awful truth. Greta had tried to appear calm, though she felt like a landslide was taking place inside her.
When Marjorie finally passed, Greta hoped more than anything that her last thoughts had been of those shiny French biscuits rather than the beep of the hospital machinery.
But now she didn’t have to think about any of those things. Because her mum was here, sitting opposite Greta in a coffee shop, with a pink glow to her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes.
‘How are you doing, love?’ her mum asked. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
(Oh gosh, Greta had forgotten how she used to say that. That and a good cup of coffee can solve most things)
‘Things are really great,’ Greta replied. ‘I loved Lottie’s act. Did you?’
‘Of course. She’s a clever girl. Takes after her mum.’
Greta smiled, but felt it wavering. The emotion of her mum being here was overwhelming.
She glanced out of the window at the sunlit street.
A girl glided past on roller skates, performing an effortless pirouette.
A young couple held hands and swirled along the pavement together like a scene out of a Hollywood musical. ‘It’s such a beautiful day,’ she said.
‘Yes, it is. I always love days like this. I can still picture you on your bike in summer, pedalling with streamers on the handles flying,’ Marjorie said. ‘Remember we used to put ice cream in a bowl to melt, then drink it through a straw? Such fun.’
Greta gave a surprised laugh. ‘Yes, I’d forgotten about that. And you were brilliant at making daisy chains, whereas mine always fell apart.’
She’d forgotten about that, too.
‘You just need a sharp fingernail to pierce the stem, and a little patience.’ Marjorie mimed the motion, then put the pretend strand around her neck. She paused, then lowered her hands. ‘I can tell something is on your mind, love . . .’
‘Me? No, I’m absolutely fine.’ Greta batted a hand. ‘I’m having a lovely time catching up with you. Let’s not talk about . . . other things.’
But her mum folded her arms, just like she used to do. She gave Greta a knowing look. ‘You can’t fool me.’
She’d always had a sixth sense when it came to Greta’s emotions.
Greta eyed her, then let her words spill out, like she’d been holding on to them for far too long. ‘I just feel lost, Mum. Like I’m not living the life I’m meant to. I’ve made a few choices lately, and I don’t know if they’re the right ones.
‘Jim and I—we separated, and I’m not sure how to fix things.
Not really.’ She broke off, rubbing her temple.
‘And Lottie . . . I love her more than anything, but sometimes I don’t know how to reach her.
What if I’ve messed it all up?’ She wrung her hands, unable to share her heaviest burden of all, that her mum was no longer present in her life.
Marjorie reached across the table. ‘You’re stronger than you think, love. You always have been. You’ll figure out what you want, how to make things right. And if you fail, try and try again.’
‘I remember you saying that to me before an audition once,’ Greta said.
‘Yes? What happened?’
‘I got the part.’
‘There you are then,’ her mum said with a firm nod.
Greta gave a watery smile. ‘It’s not that easy anymore. That was a long time ago.’
Her mum reached out and took hold of her hand. ‘You’re stronger than you think.’
Greta swooned at the touch of her skin. ‘I’ve missed you so much, Mum,’ she said. ‘I’ve felt lost without you. I . . . I don’t know how to do this. The separation, my career, Lottie . . . everything feels like it’s slipping away.’
‘Missed me?’ Marjorie repeated. ‘I haven’t gone anywhere, love. I’m not going anywhere. And Jim and Lottie? You’ve got a beautiful home and a wonderful family. Everything’s exactly as it’s meant to be.’
Greta raised her head, and something inside her slipped. Her mum might look and speak the same, but just like Edgar said about Eliza, something wasn’t quite right. A knot in her chest tightened.
‘You and Jim have done a wonderful job raising Lottie,’ Marjorie added. ‘She hit every note in her performance and delivered every line perfectly. Don’t be too hard on yourself.’
Greta wanted to bask in the praise, to let it warm her, but something held her back. ‘Thanks, Mum. But I’d feel just as proud if Lottie had sung off-key, hit a bum note, or fluffed her lines.’
Her mum frowned, tilting her head. ‘Tsk. Well, you don’t have to worry about any of those things. Her performance was faultless.’
‘Faultless,’ Greta repeated. The word didn’t sit comfortably with her.
Images dropped into her mind, of Lottie slamming her bedroom door, arguing about her homework, and refusing to tidy her cluttered room. Greta still didn’t know what Lottie was planning for the talent show in Longmill.
‘None of us are perfect,’ she told her mum. ‘And that’s okay. I’m proud ofJim and Lottie no matter what they do.’
Marjorie blinked, as if trying to understand. ‘But everything in Mapleville is perfect. Isn’t that your dream? Isn’t that what you want?’
Greta’s heart galloped. Her mum’s words felt off, like a picture hanging askew on a gallery wall. ‘I don’t want Lottie to be perfect,’ she said. ‘I want her to make mistakes. To have fun, mess up, and learn from it.’
She sat back in her chair. Her own words chiming in her head.
And in that moment, everything came into focus. Her shoulders felt suddenly lighter.
For the first time, Greta truly believed that she no longer wanted life to be perfect. Not for herself. Not for Lottie. She’d been chasing something impossible, and wanting it for her daughter, too.
Now it was time to let it go.
She whispered her words again. ‘I don’t want Lottie to be perfect.’ Then she spoke them out loud. ‘I want Lottie to be free to follow her dreams, whatever they are,’ Greta told her mum. ‘If things go wrong, she can try, and try again.’
If things go wrong . . .
The words buzzed inside her. Things went wrong every day. That was life. It was normal.
She had spent so long acting—on stage, in her marriage, even in her own mind. But she didn’t want to pretend anymore.
Something inside her shifted, like a key had finally opened a long-locked door.
‘I don’t want Lottie to be perfect,’ she repeated, more firmly now.
Greta now realised that the past was never what she’d painted it to be. She’d preserved a memory of Mapleville and held on to it, as if it were flawless. But real people and places were messy, unpredictable and imperfect.
And that was what she wanted.
A sharp tap on the window broke her thoughts. She turned to see a droplet of water shimmering there.
‘What was that?’ her mum asked.
‘Rain, I think,’ Greta said. She placed her napkin down and stood up, watching as the drop trickled down the window. Overhead, more clouds had turned grey. More droplets followed, sparkling like glass beads before sliding down. ‘It’s started to rain.’
A hush fell over the café. Everyone stopped what they were doing. Another drop fell. Then another.
Urgent whispers broke out among the customers. Outside, a man rushed past, staring skywards in disbelief. A mother pulled her child close, shielding them from the unusual sight.
It was just a light shower, a normal occurrence in Longmill. But here? It felt like a sign.
Time was running out.
‘Have you ever seen it rain here?’ she asked her mum.
Marjorie looked out of the window. ‘No. Never.’
Greta exhaled. ‘I’ve always liked the rain. Curling up in a coffee shop with a good book while it pelts down outside . . .’
And with those words, she knew for sure.
I want to go back to my real home.
She wanted to feel the rain on her face, and to warm her socks on the radiator.
To save up for things that mattered, and to collapse onto the sofa after a long day.
She wanted to eat brownies that were so sweet they made her teeth ache, and with cherries that stuck to the roof of her mouth.
To embrace the rough days because they made the good ones shine even brighter.
I want to go home.
She turned to her mum, her heart full of sorrow, yet also tinged with hope.
Greta wished she could keep her close forever.
But Mapleville wasn’t her true home. Her mum might no longer be physically present in her life in Longmill, but she would always be with her—in her blood, in the way she spoke, in the choices she made, and in how she would raise Lottie.
Marjorie would always be a part of her. Greta might not see her anymore, but she would always feel her presence.
Greta’s jaw tightened as she turned to face her mum. ‘I’m so sorry, Mum, but I have to go. I need to see Jim and Lottie.’ Marjorie smiled as if everything was normal. ‘That’s okay, love.’ She reached for Greta’s hand. This time, her fingers felt cooler, less like her mum’s. ‘We can catch up soon.’
Greta swallowed hard. But we can’t. Not if I leave.
She voiced her worry aloud. ‘I’m scared I’ll never see you again . . .’
Marjorie let out a gentle laugh. ‘Don’t be silly. We live in the same town.’
Greta didn’t argue. Instead, she leaned in slowly, wrapping her arms around her mum. She held on tightly, never wanting to let go.
Marjorie chuckled. ‘Be careful, you’ll smudge my make-up.’ Outside, the a cappella singers were putting up umbrellas. They started to sing.
Hurry along, don’t be late,
you don’t want to make anyone wait.
Make your decision, make it fast,
your time here isn’t going to last.
You’re always at home with Maple Gold.
Greta pulled back, blinking hard. ‘I have to go. I love you, Mum.’
‘And I love you, too, sweetheart.’ Marjorie’s voice was light, as if this was just another ordinary goodbye. ‘Would you like to meet tomorrow for coffee?’
‘Yes,’ Greta said, fighting back tears. ‘That sounds wonderful. We could have macarons.’
Her mum lifted her cup to take a sip. ‘Perfect. I love those little shiny biscuits.’
Greta turned away, her lips trembling. She glanced back once more, just to see her mum, still smiling, still here.
‘Bye, Mum,’ she whispered.
‘Bye, love. See you tomorrow.’
‘Yes.’
Then Greta opened the café door and stepped into the rain.