Читать книгу Christmas at Butterfly Cove - Sarah Bennett - Страница 11

When the end came, it was surprisingly quick. Nee had finally settled into a routine with her father only to be thrown into the bureaucratic nightmare brought on by Vivian’s death. Even for someone with little in the way of personal assets, the world seemed determined to thwart them at every turn. George battled valiantly with solicitors, banks and all the other institutions who demanded a ridiculous amount of detail before they would accede to close accounts and update their records. Nee said a silent prayer of thanks for his meticulous record-keeping as she did her best to relieve him of as much of it as she could. An air of eerie acceptance had settled over her dad. True, he’d never been the most demonstrative of men, but his preternatural calm worried her more than if he’d broken down in tears.

Arrangements for the funeral had been made with a sympathetic undertaker, and the others would be heading up from Butterfly Cove in the morning for the service at the local crematorium the day after. Much as Nee wanted to be the one to shoulder the responsibility, in her heart it relieved her to know Mia would soon be there with her. Her doughty, capable sister would pick up whatever balls Nee dropped.

She sighed as the tinny, cheery music in her ear flipped back to the original track. She bet Mia wouldn’t have spent so long on hold. ‘Come on, come on,’ she muttered into the phone.

‘Thank you for calling Middleworth’s. My name is Sonia, how may I assist you this morning?’

Stunned that for once her impatience had been rewarded, it took Nee a moment to shake off her wool-gathering. ‘Hello. I was talking to one of your colleagues about cancelling an account?’

Keys clicked, the familiar sound of fingers skittering over a keyboard. ‘I’m sorry to hear you are thinking of leaving us. Can you give me the account number in question?’

Nee ground her teeth. ‘I’ve been through all this once already. Can you transfer me back to …?’ She glanced down at the notepad in front of her. She’d been given the bloody runaround so often over the last few days, she’d taken to writing every single detail down. ‘… Colin.’

‘I’m sorry, he’s on another call. Can you give me the account number in question, please?’

Fighting the urge to scream, she took a deep breath and reeled off the number, again. More clicking, then, ‘Thank you, Mrs Thorpe, I have your details on the screen. Can you please confirm the first line of your address, and the postcode, please?’

Nee stared at the automated clock on the phone. Ten bloody minutes she’d been on the phone and they were back to this again. She clung to the final shreds of her temper and tried to keep her tone even. ‘As I told your colleague, I’m not Mrs Thorpe, I’m her daughter—’

The rep cut across her. ‘I’m sorry, I’m only authorised to speak to the account holder. Data protection, and all that.’

Her fake sympathy snapped something inside Nee. ‘Well, unless you’re a fucking clairvoyant, you’re out of luck because we’re cremating her tomorrow.’ She regretted the words the moment she’d said them. It wasn’t this poor girl’s fault, it was the same damn ‘computer says no’ system every so-called customer services department seemed tied to. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry, that was completely unnecessary of me. My mother died recently, and I’ve already been through all of this once with your colleague. I just want to close her account.’

‘There are no notes on the system regarding your request. I can only go by the information in front of me.’ The defensive tone from the operator made her feel lower than a snake’s belly. ‘Do you have probate on your mother’s estate?’ the woman continued.

Nee sighed. She’d banged her head against the probate brick wall several times already. ‘No, we don’t have it yet. It’s only a store card, for goodness’ sake. You must be able to see from your records that it hasn’t been used in months. I’m just trying to spare my father the upset of receiving any more blank statements like the one that arrived in the post this morning.’

‘I’m sorry, but our procedures require a copy of the probate certificate before we can terminate this account. We cannot act on a phone request, as we have no proof of your identity. I’m sure you understand.’

Because people randomly phoned and cancelled store cards belonging to strangers all the time, no doubt. All at once the fight left her, leaving her bone-tired. ‘Can you at least mark the account so no more statements are sent out?’

The line went quiet for a moment. ‘I’m sorry. Mrs Thorpe didn’t authorise anyone to act on her behalf, but I have requested a copy of the account closure form to be sent out to the address listed. It details the steps to follow.’

It was the best she could hope for, apparently. ‘Okay, thanks. Sorry again for being rude.’

‘It’s fine. Thank you for calling Middleworth’s.’ Nee stared at the phone, not quite knowing whether to laugh or cry, then placed it very gently back into its cradle. It was that, or smash the wretched thing against the wall.

The sharp ring of the front doorbell jarred her and she rose from her perch on the bottom step of the stairs. ‘I’ll get it,’ she called towards the half-open door of her father’s study. Let it not be another bloody casserole.

Vivian’s death had drawn the most unlikely of people out of the woodwork, some driven by a true sense of duty and concern, most jumping at the chance for a bit of rubbernecking into the sideshow of grief playing out behind the neatly trimmed hedges of number thirty-two. Neighbours her father had never met beyond the nod of a head took turns ringing the bell, offering a few words of bland comfort and a plate of something. No doubt the presence of one of the long-missing daughters of the house had set tongues wagging behind the twitching net curtains. Not that Nee could have cared less what they had to say for themselves.

She paused before the door to squint at the blurred outline of a figure through the privacy glass set in the wood, but the frosted ridges made it impossible to discern much. Taking a deep, composing breath, Nee fixed the politest smile she could muster and turned the latch. Bold as brass, and twice as bloody gorgeous, the last person she’d expected to see gave her a lopsided grin. ‘Hello, Mrs Spenser.’

Luke? He looked well; still carrying the summer tan he must have picked up at Butterfly Cove. The sun looked to have added a few paler highlights to his wayward blond curls, but the melting heat in his dark-brown eyes was as familiar as ever. Never one to consider herself the fainting type, Nee had to grip the edge of the doorframe until her knuckles turned white to stop herself from sliding to the floor. ‘You … you’re here?’

‘I heard about your mum,’ he said, as though that explained anything at all.

His breath condensed in the air and she became aware of the November chill leeching in through the open door. Acting on autopilot, she stepped to the side. ‘You’d better come in.’

Catching a hint of the clean, sharp scent of his aftershave as he passed her, she closed her eyes against a sudden rush of memories. Luke, nuzzling the spot just beneath her ear as he whispered some private jest to her. The untidy sprawl of his limbs taking up more than his share of the bed. The wink he’d given her when they broke for air after sharing their first kiss in an alley next to The George, less than an hour after setting eyes on each other.

The ground shifted beneath her, the way it always did when he was near, and the brittle shell she’d wrapped herself in over the past few weeks spider-webbed with cracks. A painful knot formed at the top of her breastbone and she tried to swallow it down, knowing if she let it out she’d start crying. And maybe never stop.

A gentle brush against her cheek forced her to open her eyes as Luke cupped her cheek. ‘I’m only here to help, nothing else, okay?’ He sounded so sincere, so forthright and honest, so Luke, she wanted nothing more than to tumble headlong into the comfort he offered.

‘I need you.’ Her lips could barely form the words, but it was enough. He reached past her to quietly close the door and then he was there – all reassuring warmth and that big, solid frame that seemed shaped to perfectly enfold her own. A hint of the crisp, winter air clung to the soft wool of his coat beneath her cheek and she breathed deeply. The scent of disinfected death that had infused every breath for what felt like weeks vanished in that first fresh inhalation.

She’d tried so hard to hold it all together, to tell herself she owed Vivian no tears, no regrets. God, she’d become so good at lying to herself about everything. The spiderweb of cracks shattered and the first wave of grief burst through, would have taken her to the floor had he not been there to hold her up. But he was there. How, why, she didn’t know, didn’t care. Her world narrowed down to one square foot of pale-green carpet beneath her feet and the feel of him against her.

Noises came from her throat, ugly and raw, as she cried. And, God, she cried. For the little girl who’d never known a mother’s proper love; for the loss of her art, snuffed out by the bitter realities of life; for all the promises the man holding her embodied that she’d discarded. Luke said nothing – just wrapped her in his arms and absorbed it all, standing sure.

A quiet cough, the familiar noise of her father clearing his throat, sounded nearby, and she would have raised her head had Luke not stroked his hand over her hair and urged her closer against him. ‘Hello, Mr Thorpe,’ he said, his deep voice vibrating under her ear. ‘I was very sorry to hear about your wife’s passing. I thought you both might need some help over the coming days.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Luke. I must say it’s good to see you again. Nee’s been doing a wonderful job of sorting things out, but another pair of hands certainly won’t go amiss. It … it wasn’t entirely unexpected, but it’s still difficult.’ There wasn’t even a ripple of surprise in her father’s voice, like her estranged husband turning up out of the blue was the most natural thing in the world. That familiar cough of his came again. ‘Right, well, I think I’ll put the kettle on. Will you have something, Luke?’

‘Cup of coffee would be brilliant, thanks, Mr Thorpe.’

‘I think we’re past time for you to call me George. Coffee’s only instant, I’m afraid, we’ve run out of pods for the machine. Lots of visitors, you see. Everyone’s been very kind. Come on through to the kitchen when you’re both ready.’

Laughter sputtered through her tears at their exchange of mundane pleasantries, as if she wasn’t falling to noisy pieces in front of them. She grabbed for the laugh, tried to hold on to it and bring herself back under control, but now acknowledged the grief wouldn’t be denied. Luke pressed a kiss to the top of her head. ‘Take all the time you need.’ She nodded, all she could manage before the tears swamped her again.

When she finally felt able to lift her face from the now-sodden front of his coat, she’d lost track of time. Limp, exhausted, like she’d cried for a week. Luke tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, an infinitely tender gesture, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. Silence hung between them as he waited her out, broken only by the faint strains of her father whistling along to some classical tune on the radio. China rattled against wood, followed by the metallic clink of cutlery. If her dad was laying the table still, they couldn’t have been standing there as long as she’d thought.

Inertia held her in its claws. She should move, step back and at least give Luke a chance to take his coat off. But if she broke the moment, she’d have to deal with all the bitter truths she’d just wept out on his shoulder. That was the trouble with life. It didn’t wait for you to catch your breath, didn’t care if you were ready or not, it just kept coming at you. Move. Drop your arms. Take a step back. Her fingers clung stubbornly to the back of his coat, her feet glued to the spot.

A loud grumble rolled from his midriff, and Luke chuckled as he continued to smooth his hands up and down her back. ‘My stomach smells whatever your dad’s toasting.’

‘Probably crumpets.’ She’d made a trip to the supermarket that morning, anything to get out of the house for a little while. They hadn’t needed much – mostly refills for the coffee machine, which was the one thing she’d forgotten, of course – so she’d wandered aimlessly up and down the aisles grabbing random things that wouldn’t take much thought and even less effort to prepare. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had crumpets, but they’d appealed to her enough to end up in the trolley.

He gave an exaggerated groan. ‘Have pity on a man. Next you’ll be telling me there’s strawberry jam to put on them.’

‘You always had such a sweet tooth.’ She saw him in her mind’s eye, covers pooled at his waist, Sunday papers strewn across the bed as he munched his way through a mountain of jammy toast and endless cups of coffee. His breath whispered against her cheek, and it would be so easy to turn her head, to seek out his lips and pretend the past year had been an aberration. But this wasn’t one of those time-slip stories. She couldn’t wish herself back to another point in time and tread a different path.

Tasting the bitterness of that truth on the back of her tongue, she stepped back. His arms lingered, a brief resistance to her attempt to retreat before he let her go. And so he should. Luke might be here with the best of intentions, but she didn’t deserve the easy comfort of his presence. People didn’t just forgive and forget, and even if he believed he was different in that, she wasn’t the hopeful girl he’d fallen in love with. ‘Let me take your coat, and we’ll see what Dad’s rustled together for tea.’

He ducked his head, trying to catch her eye, but she fixed her gaze at a point over his shoulder as she held out her hand. Tension filled his frame for a moment, before he released it on a sigh and quickly unbuttoned his coat. She busied herself with hanging it on the row of hooks, fussing at the soggy mess she’d made on the front until he caught her hand and pulled it away. The firm grip on her fingers told her he wasn’t about to let go in a hurry, so she chose to ignore the way her palm slotted perfectly into his as she led him down the short hallway.

The gilt-edged frame of a mirror caught her eye, but she ignored that too, knowing she’d see nothing good in it. Her eyes itched, that awful dry-burn that came after too many tears, and the skin around her nose felt raw. Fixing the best smile she could muster on her lips, she entered the kitchen, pausing when she saw the feast laid out on the table. ‘Oh, Dad, this looks brilliant.’

George shrugged a little awkwardly. ‘It was no bother, and I thought Luke would probably be hungry after his journey.’ He turned to Luke who was pulling out the chair next to the one she’d chosen, ‘You came up on the train? The service from London is pretty good, I find.’ Another attempt by her dad at polite small talk, she assumed, because she might not have seen him for a few years, but he’d always been a creature of habit and trips to the capital weren’t something she ever remembered him making.

Luke nodded. ‘Euston’s pretty easy access for me, too, which helped.’ He reached for the mug George held out to him. ‘Thanks. Nee’s right, this looks great.’

George passed a mug of tea to Nee then took a seat opposite. ‘Please, help yourselves. I didn’t know what you would want, so I put a bit of everything out.’ His smile faltered. ‘Everyone’s been very generous, we’ve more food than I know what to do with. If you’d prefer something hot …’

He made to stand, but Luke waved the hand already gripping a crumpet at him. ‘No, no. This is perfect, honestly.’

Nee added a dash of milk to her tea and watched in silence as the two men filled their plates with a selection of sandwiches, cold meat and, in Luke’s case, a slab of fruit cake to go with the crumpet already dripping in jam. He paused, the crumpet inches from his mouth, fixing a determined look on her. ‘Eat something.’ Order given, and it was most definitely an order, he stuffed about half the crumpet in his mouth and closed his eyes with a happy sigh.

It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse him, a tiny spark of heated indignation breaking through the suffocating weight of sadness blanketing her, but two things stopped her. Firstly, she was bloody starving for the first time in days. Secondly, he’d come when she hadn’t known she needed him, when she’d given him no reason to ever want to be near her again.

Helping herself to some fruit and cheese, she ate in silence as Luke told her dad about the newest addition to Aaron and Kiki’s family, and the ‘surprise’ party they’d thrown for his brother the previous month. It sounded like he’d had a great time with everyone, reinforcing her decision to leave Butterfly Cove as the right one, even if it caused a pang of regret at the same time.

He cut himself another slice of fruit cake, adding a thinner piece to her plate at the same time. Raising an eyebrow at his presumptuous action got her little more than a cocky grin in return. Damn him for knowing how much she loved fruit cake – they’d treated themselves to a Fortnum’s one as part of their homemade wedding supper. Memories of that day swamped her, bringing the fresh sting of tears to her eyes. His smile faltered and she bit the inside of her cheek to hold back the waterworks. ‘I’m okay. Thanks for the cake.’

‘I’m being bossy, sorry.’ He didn’t try too hard to look contrite, whatever his words.

‘It’s fine.’ She didn’t examine her own motives for acquiescing so easily. Being taken care of was too bloody nice.

‘In that case, when you’ve finished that, I’ll make you another cup of tea and you can take it up to bed with you.’

Give a man an inch … ‘I’m going to have a bath.’ A pathetic little rebellion, but she wouldn’t let him push her around too much.

He nodded. ‘Fine. Bath, then bed.’ She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t keep the corner of her mouth from twitching in amusement.

‘I think we could all do with an early night,’ her father interjected with a slightly desperate attempt at diplomacy. ‘There’s clean bedding in the airing cupboard so it won’t take me two minutes to make up one of the other rooms, unless …’ George trailed off, colour rising in his cheeks.

Oh. God. He couldn’t possibly think she and Luke would be sharing a room, could he? Nee gaped at her father, feeling her own blush heat her skin. Luke surely wouldn’t expect it …

She didn’t dare wait for him to respond. ‘I’ve already made up Kiki’s bed ready for tomorrow, but Luke can use Mia’s old room.’ Her elder sister had decided to stay with Pat and Bill, the parents of her late husband. They remained close and had welcomed Daniel into their family with a graceful ease few possessed. The couple would be spending Christmas with their other children and grandchildren, so Mia wanted to catch up with them whilst she could. Kiki’s children were staying home with Madeline and Richard, who had also agreed to look after the couple of artists staying at the studios until Mia and Daniel returned. No one had mentioned Luke to her when they’d been making arrangements, and she wondered whether they even knew he’d shown up. They’ll find out soon enough when they arrive.

Needing to escape, she pushed back her chair. ‘I’ll make up the bed whilst my bath is running.’

The bland expression on Luke’s face told her nothing. ‘Thanks. I’ll fetch your tea up in a minute.’