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Authors: Nicola Marsh
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drive him to drink. He did a fine job of that on his own most days.”
“Yeah,” he said. “When Mom died, he hit the bottle pretty hard. Do you remember that time?”
Cilla scrunched up her eyes, thinking. “You were eight and Rose was four?”
“Yeah. Mom had always been a buffer between us and Dad when he drank, but with her gone . . .” Jake had taken on that role. He’d turned into a rebel on purpose, to take his father’s attention off Rose. He had happily borne the brunt of his dad’s nasty streak if it meant Rose was safe.
“You did what you had to do to protect Rose,” she said, staring at him with an admiration he didn’t deserve.
He nodded and she continued. “I did the same with Tam.” Sadness twisted her mouth. “I did anything I could to take Vernon’s focus off her.”
“We did what we had to do to survive,” Jake said, wishing for the umpteenth time since he’d arrived earlier today that he hadn’t lost touch with his aunt. A strong, resilient woman who’d had it as tough as he had, probably tougher, with the Mathieson men.
“Gardening was my savior,” she said, glancing out the window into the inky darkness of a country sky. “Kept me sane.”
“Tinkering with engines was mine.” He had no idea why he was telling her about his past, but in a strange way, it felt cathartic. “Our neighbor was a mechanic and he took pity on me. Probably heard our arguments but never mentioned it. Instead, he taught me everything he knew. Used a contact at the airport to get me into aircraft mechanics because he knew I loved planes. He’s a good guy.”
“I’m glad we had our special go-to places to escape,” she said. “We’ve come a long way, you and I.” She blinked several times and Jake hoped to God she wouldn’t cry. He hated tears. Didn’t have a clue how to handle a woman when she cried.
“Right, I think it’s time for bed,” she said, suddenly brusque. “If Olly’s like other kids, he’ll be up at the crack of dawn, starving and eager to explore.”
Which was testament to how lousy he was as an uncle, considering Olly had had to be all but dragged out of bed this morning and hadn’t even wanted to walk down to the bakery for fresh bagels.
“Okay.” Jake hugged his aunt again. “I can’t thank you enough for letting us stay with you.”
She squeezed him tight before releasing him. “I get it. You both need some time to heal.” She glanced around the room fondly. “This place is perfect for that.”
He hoped she was right.
11.
F or the next two days, Sara fell into a routine. She woke early, ate a bowl of porridge drizzled with maple syrup, strolled through the herb garden, and spent countless hours cleaning out Gran’s things, before having a light dinner of toasted cheese sandwiches, taking a shower and falling into bed, too aware of every single muscle in her body.
Cleaners had been through Gran’s place when she died, but Gran’s personal things had needed to be boxed, a job Sara needed to tackle and complete before she could feel like the house truly belonged to her.
Thankfully, Gran hadn’t been much of a hoarder. Sara had all the books, knick-knacks and clothes boxed for charity on the first day. She’d dithered on the second day because she’d spent hours sorting through Gran’s filing cabinet filled with paperwork and mementos, caught up in memories of times spent here.
She’d always wanted to live here, not be a gypsy like her mother, and thanks to Gran’s generosity, now she could.
But on the third day, when she sat at the dining table contemplating her empty porridge bowl, she knew she couldn’t avoid the inevitable.
She had to open the parcel.
It had arrived after she’d got home the other day and the largish brown box had taken pride of place on a sideboard ever since.
Sara had cited the clean-out as her excuse not to open the box but now that she had time, she still couldn’t do it. Crazy, considering she’d ordered new
“Yeah,” he said. “When Mom died, he hit the bottle pretty hard. Do you remember that time?”
Cilla scrunched up her eyes, thinking. “You were eight and Rose was four?”
“Yeah. Mom had always been a buffer between us and Dad when he drank, but with her gone . . .” Jake had taken on that role. He’d turned into a rebel on purpose, to take his father’s attention off Rose. He had happily borne the brunt of his dad’s nasty streak if it meant Rose was safe.
“You did what you had to do to protect Rose,” she said, staring at him with an admiration he didn’t deserve.
He nodded and she continued. “I did the same with Tam.” Sadness twisted her mouth. “I did anything I could to take Vernon’s focus off her.”
“We did what we had to do to survive,” Jake said, wishing for the umpteenth time since he’d arrived earlier today that he hadn’t lost touch with his aunt. A strong, resilient woman who’d had it as tough as he had, probably tougher, with the Mathieson men.
“Gardening was my savior,” she said, glancing out the window into the inky darkness of a country sky. “Kept me sane.”
“Tinkering with engines was mine.” He had no idea why he was telling her about his past, but in a strange way, it felt cathartic. “Our neighbor was a mechanic and he took pity on me. Probably heard our arguments but never mentioned it. Instead, he taught me everything he knew. Used a contact at the airport to get me into aircraft mechanics because he knew I loved planes. He’s a good guy.”
“I’m glad we had our special go-to places to escape,” she said. “We’ve come a long way, you and I.” She blinked several times and Jake hoped to God she wouldn’t cry. He hated tears. Didn’t have a clue how to handle a woman when she cried.
“Right, I think it’s time for bed,” she said, suddenly brusque. “If Olly’s like other kids, he’ll be up at the crack of dawn, starving and eager to explore.”
Which was testament to how lousy he was as an uncle, considering Olly had had to be all but dragged out of bed this morning and hadn’t even wanted to walk down to the bakery for fresh bagels.
“Okay.” Jake hugged his aunt again. “I can’t thank you enough for letting us stay with you.”
She squeezed him tight before releasing him. “I get it. You both need some time to heal.” She glanced around the room fondly. “This place is perfect for that.”
He hoped she was right.
11.
F or the next two days, Sara fell into a routine. She woke early, ate a bowl of porridge drizzled with maple syrup, strolled through the herb garden, and spent countless hours cleaning out Gran’s things, before having a light dinner of toasted cheese sandwiches, taking a shower and falling into bed, too aware of every single muscle in her body.
Cleaners had been through Gran’s place when she died, but Gran’s personal things had needed to be boxed, a job Sara needed to tackle and complete before she could feel like the house truly belonged to her.
Thankfully, Gran hadn’t been much of a hoarder. Sara had all the books, knick-knacks and clothes boxed for charity on the first day. She’d dithered on the second day because she’d spent hours sorting through Gran’s filing cabinet filled with paperwork and mementos, caught up in memories of times spent here.
She’d always wanted to live here, not be a gypsy like her mother, and thanks to Gran’s generosity, now she could.
But on the third day, when she sat at the dining table contemplating her empty porridge bowl, she knew she couldn’t avoid the inevitable.
She had to open the parcel.
It had arrived after she’d got home the other day and the largish brown box had taken pride of place on a sideboard ever since.
Sara had cited the clean-out as her excuse not to open the box but now that she had time, she still couldn’t do it. Crazy, considering she’d ordered new
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