Rainy Day Sisters (32 page)

Fiona was silent for a long moment, her face drawn in haggard lines. “I never said,” she finally answered, “that I didn't make mistakes.”

“Actually, you've always implied that you don't,” Lucy replied. She felt tired now, tired and defeated. She and her mother would never see eye to eye on this, or anything. And maybe she needed to accept that. Accept that her relationship with her mother would always be fraught, fractured. Painful.

“What about Juliet?” Lucy asked abruptly, and Fiona stilled, her gaze widening. She said nothing. “I did tell you I've been living with her for the last three months.”

“Yes,” she answered warily.

“Juliet thinks . . .” Lucy didn't want to betray her sister's confidences, but she didn't want to ignore them, either. “Why don't you ever see her or speak to her?”

Fiona pressed her lips together. “That's not your concern, Lucy.”

“She's my sister, and I am living with her. I think I have a right to ask.”

“What did Juliet tell you?”

Lucy hesitated and then said, “Not all that much. Only that you never wanted her and the two of you never had a real relationship.”

Fiona looked away. “That's true.”

“Mum.”
Lucy stared at her, and reluctantly Fiona turned back to look at her. “Why? Why have you never . . . ?”

“Like I said, that's between me and Juliet.”

“But you've never told her, either.” Fiona said nothing and Lucy persisted. “Don't you think she deserves to know?”

“Some things,” Fiona answered, “are better not known.”

“Don't you think you should let Juliet decide that?” Still Fiona said nothing and wearily Lucy shook her head. She was so tired of it all. She half wished she'd never come back to Boston, even though she knew she'd had no choice. Her mother may have let her down a thousand times, but she didn't want to let her down in return.

“I can't let her decide,” Fiona said, and to Lucy's shock her voice choked. “I wish I could. I wish . . .” She took a deep breath. “I wish I hadn't made so many mistakes, but I know I did. And maybe the biggest mistake was not admitting that.”

Lucy searched her mother's face, saw regret warring with stubbornness. “And now?” she asked.

“I'm about to have major surgery, Lucy. I can't . . . I can't cope with anything else right now.”

“But eventually?” Lucy pressed. “Whatever mistakes you've made, Mum, you can still right them. You can still talk to Juliet.”

Lucy thought she'd refuse, retreat into hauteur as she often did. Then finally she gave a little nod. “Maybe,” she said, and Lucy knew she'd have to be content with that.

A few hours later the surgery was over, and Lucy joined her mother in the hospital room. Her mother was groggy, her chest swathed with bandages, her gaze unfocused.

“Well, I survived.”

“Yes, you did. The doctor says it went well.”

Fiona glanced down at her bandaged chest. “I suppose I'll need some new artistic inspiration.”

Lucy smiled, glad her mother could joke at a time like this. “This might be a whole new start to your career.”

“I didn't want a new start,” her mother answered, her face crumpling a little, and then she leaned her head against the pillow and drifted back to sleep.

Lucy gazed at her mother lying so still in the hospital bed and thought how fragile she looked. In sleep, her silvery bobbed hair spread out on the pillow, Fiona appeared diminished, the aggressive vitality Lucy had always associated with her mother now absent.

Her mother, Lucy thought as she sat down next to the bed, was just a woman. Fallible, vulnerable, if not completely lovable.
Human.

It comforted her, in a strange way, to know her mother was weak. Lucy knew she'd built her mother up in her eyes, ever since she'd been a child. She'd bought into the Fiona Bagshaw the Artist persona just as her mother had, and somehow they'd both forgotten that Fiona was just her mum.

And she was her daughter.

Leaving her mother to sleep, Lucy went out into the hall to check for messages. She switched on her phone, and her heart lightened to see Juliet had called. Twice. Quickly she pressed the button to call her back.

“Hey,” she said when Juliet answered with her usual brisk “Tarn House.”

“How did it go?”

“Okay. She's out of surgery. The doctor says it went well, but there's still a lot ahead of her. She's hoping to have breast reconstruction in a few months, when the mastectomy has healed.”

“So she can do a whole slew of new sculptures.
My Breasts, Rediscovered.
”

“Probably,” Lucy agreed. She couldn't tell from Juliet's tone whether she was still angry with her, but at least she'd called.

“How are you?” Juliet asked. “How's Boston?”

“Fine. I haven't seen much of it. I've just been to Mum's apartment and the hospital.”

“Are you going to see your friends?”

She hadn't even texted Chloe to say she was back. “Yes, probably. Since I'll be here for a while.”

There was a silence, and then Juliet said flatly, “You mean you're staying through her recovery, until she has the reconstruction?”

Which meant months, not weeks. “I haven't thought that far ahead, Juliet, but I can't just run off.”

“I never said that.” Another silence, taut with tension. “It's too bad you'll miss Christmas here,” Juliet said finally. “The carol service down at the Lifeboat Station with Father Christmas—well, Rob Telford in a shabby old Santa suit. And of course the tractor pull down on the beach on Boxing Day is fun, especially for the children. The Christmas Market in the village hall is small, but sweet.”

“I'd love to see all of it,” Lucy said. She could feel a lump forming in her throat.

“Maybe next year.”

Lucy took what she hoped her sister meant as a peace offering. “Yes, next year,” she said. “Definitely.”

After she'd hung up from Juliet, she decided she might as well as call Alex. Get all the awkward phone conversations over with.

“Hello?” Alex's voice sounded faintly harassed, and Lucy could hear the girls behind him. It sounded like they were emptying the dishwasher, possibly onto the floor.

“Alex, it's Lucy.”

“Lucy—Poppy, a little quieter, please!” There was the muffled sound of his hand on the receiver. “Sorry about that. It's a bit chaotic here.”

“I miss that chaos,” Lucy said. She heard Charlie bark and her heart gave a sorrowful little pulse.

“How's your mum?”

“Okay,” Lucy said, and told him what she'd already said to Juliet.

“So it sounds like you might not be back by January,” Alex said neutrally.

Lucy's hand tightened on her phone. “I'm not sure,” she said. “It really depends on my mother's recovery and . . .” In that moment she couldn't think what else it depended on. “Well. You know.”

“Yes, I know,” Alex said, and again she felt that awful subtext running beneath their words.

“Alex, I want to—”

“Look, Lucy,” he cut across her. “I understand that your mother needs you. Trust me, I do. If my mother had stuck around long enough for her to need me, I'm sure I'd have been there like a shot.” Which made her feel only worse. “But the truth is, your leaving has made me think.” He paused, and she heard him moving through the house, closing a door. “Maybe we should just put things on—on hiatus.”

She wasn't surprised, and yet his suggestion still hurt. Unbearably. But she wouldn't beg. Not this time. “If you think that's a good idea,” she answered after a pause.

“I do. It's not what I want, but I think it's sensible. I don't want Poppy and Bella to get their hopes up for something that might not happen.”

The lump in her throat had grown to golf ball proportions. “You really don't think I'm coming back, do you?” she asked, squeezing the words around it.

“I don't
know
if you're coming back, and I'm not sure you do, either.” He hesitated, and then asked heavily, “Do you?”

And Lucy couldn't answer, because she knew he was right.

She ended the call without saying much more beyond a few trivialities, and asking Alex to say hello to Poppy and Bella for her. As she slid her phone back in her pocket, she fought a sense of unreality. Had their relationship ended, just like that? But then, it had never had a chance to begin.

Her mother was starting to stir and Lucy walked back into the room. Fiona's eyes fluttered open; she blinked several times. “My mouth is as dry as a bone. My lips are sticking to my teeth.”

Lucy poured water from the jug on the bedside table. “I think that's from the anesthetic. Here.” She handed her mother the glass of water, guiding the rim to her lips. Her mother took a few sips, and then sank back against the pillows.

“I'm sorry, Lucy. For everything.”

“We don't need to talk about that now,” Lucy said. “Although we need to at some point. Especially for Juliet.”

“I know.”

“Well, then.” She replaced the glass of water on the table. “For now let's just think about your recovery.”

And what about her recovery? Lucy wondered several hours later as she drove back to her mother's apartment in the Back Bay. She was in Boston with no job, no apartment, no life.

Her life was back in Hartley-by-the-Sea.

At least it had been, although Lucy didn't know where it was now. She'd been back for only twenty-four hours and she already felt as if all the friendships she'd made in England were slipping away from her. Alex had backed off quickly enough. If she returned in a few months, would she feel as if she was starting over yet again? Would everyone wonder why she'd returned? She didn't have a job; she'd been there for only three months. Now that she was on
hiatus
with Alex, returning seemed less likely than ever.

She pulled into the parking lot by her mother's luxury condo and turned off the engine. The wind off the bay could be unforgivingly cold, colder even than the wind off the Irish Sea back in Cumbria.

Although maybe she'd gotten used to Hartley-by-the-Sea; she'd learned to love the little village and its motley residents, the sweep of wind and even the endless rain. She thought of all the things she'd miss: the Lifeboat Carol Service she and Juliet had been planning to attend; Father Christmas's appearance outside the Hangman's Noose, which she'd wanted to see with Poppy and Bella. Her little chats with Dan Trenton at the post office shop and the children like Eva and Oliver who smiled at her in the school yard; the chance to exhibit her paintings at the beach café; pub quizzes and her friendship with Rachel and Abby; all her art lessons . . .

How could she have just
left
? She'd walked away from everything that was important to her: not just Alex but Poppy and Bella too, Juliet, the friends she'd made at school . . .
everything
.

Juliet had been right to be angry. Lucy had come running the minute her mother had called her, not only because she'd wanted Fiona to need her, but because she'd been afraid to believe in the life she'd been building in Hartley-by-the-Sea.

Because it was easier to run away than to stay and try, and risk failure. Risk hurt.

But she needed to take some risks. She needed to stay for once, to say the things she really felt, even if it meant Alex would tell her no, just as Thomas had done.

Resolutely Lucy dug out her cell phone. Alex wasn't Thomas. And she'd changed. She was stronger now, more confident, more secure in herself. She'd call and she'd beg, damn it.

She called Alex's home phone, but it went to the answering machine. He was probably putting Poppy to bed. Still, she didn't want to let the moment pass. She might not be this brave again, and so she left a message.

“Alex, it's Lucy. Look, I haven't rehearsed what I'm going to say. I just was sitting here in my car realizing how much I don't want to be here. I know I left so suddenly and made it seem like I might not come back, but the truth is my home is there, not here.” Her words came faster, too fast. He'd never make out what she was saying, but she'd still try. She'd say it, because that's what she should have done in the first place.

“I don't want to be on a hiatus. I want to be with you, and with Poppy and Bella. I miss all of you. I miss Hartley-by-the-Sea. I even miss the awful weather.” She let out a tremulous laugh. “Do you know I thought you'd have sensible shoes and a nasal drip? That was before I met you, of course. Before I saw how gorgeous and sexy you are—okay.” She took a deep breath, a realization of all she'd said filtering through her. “Call me,” she finished abruptly, and disconnected the call.

Had she really gushed all those feelings into a
voice mail
? He'd have them on record forever. She pictured that voice mail going viral just like her mother's editorial had, and shuddered. Not, she knew, that Alex would ever post the recording online.

Still she winced at some of the things she'd said, and positively cringed at the vulnerability she'd shown. Would she take any of it back?

Maybe the bit about the nasal drip. But no matter what happened now, she knew she was still glad she'd told him the truth. And yet sitting there in her car, the night dark all around her, she also knew there was someone else she both wanted and needed to see again, maybe even more than Alex.

Juliet.

Juliet

LUCY HAD BEEN GONE
for only three days and Juliet felt the ache of her absence like a sore tooth, a constant, niggling irritation. She'd turn to say something, and Lucy wasn't there. At night she flicked on the horrid reality TV Lucy had made her watch, and could only stomach a few seconds of it. It had been different when Lucy had been there, offering the running commentary on all the contestants, making Juliet laugh. She even missed the tea bags left in the sink, and the shoes in the hall. Her house was too
neat
.

Thankfully she kept busy with a rush of pre-Christmas walkers, and then planning the Lifeboat Carol Service, a village tradition that started with Father Christmas coming down in Cumbria's version of a sleigh—a trailer pulled by a Land Rover—and handing out sweets to all the children outside the pub. Then onto the beach, and an appearance at the Lifeboat Station, where the brass band from Whitehaven led everyone in carols and volunteers from the Women's Institute dressed as elves and handed out mulled wine and mince pies.

It was an event that warmed your heart even as you froze your tail off at the service held in an unheated shed where the village's two lifeboats were usually stored, and this year Juliet had volunteered to be in charge of the organization. When Rob Telford pulled out of being Father Christmas at the last minute because his father was ill, she flew into a panic she hid by being cross.

“A fine time to tell me this,” she snapped. “The day before—”

“Why not get Peter Lanford to do it?” Rob suggested. “He's always willing to pitch in when needed.”

Peter.
She hadn't seen much of him in the days since Lucy had left; he'd waved to her once from his Land Rover, when he'd been moving sheep, and she'd considered walking the mile up to Bega Farm and—what? Say hello? Ask to come in for a cup of tea or a tot of whiskey? She wasn't sure where their friendship stood, and in any case they were both busy.

But now she had a reason to see him, and so after her call with Rob, Juliet headed up the track to the Lanford farm. She'd gotten only halfway there when she saw Peter out in one of the sheep fields, tossing hay into an enclosure. He stopped when he saw her, then threw his pitchfork into the back of the trailer half-full of hay, and strode towards her.

“Juliet. How are you?”

“All right. Or should I say, areet.”

His face creased into a smile. “Good to hear.” Juliet thought of the way she'd broken down in front of him after Fiona had called, and she knew then that was the real reason she hadn't headed up to Bega Farm before now. She hated that Peter had seen her at her most vulnerable.

“Rob Telford's backed out of the Lifeboat Service,” she said. “And we need another Father Christmas.”

“Ah.”

“Are you willing? You know we have the suit and beard and the rest of it.”

Peter scratched his jaw. “I suppose I could do it. I don't normally go out in an evening, though. Because of Dad.”

Juliet knew Peter had arranged for a caregiver to come in during the day to be with William, but evenings were harder. “Can he come along?” she asked.

“I think the crowds might be a bit much. And it's cold out, for him.”

She nodded. “I'm sorry, I should have realized. I'll ask someone else—”

“No, I'll do it,” Peter said. “Can't be letting the village down.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I'll find someone to sit with Dad. Liz Benson might be willing.”

Juliet nodded again; she was starting to feel like a marionette. She wanted to say something more, but she wasn't sure what it was, or even if she could. She stared at him instead, noticing a faint peppering of gray in his brown hair, and how reddened his cheeks were from the cold. “Thank you, Peter,” she finally managed. She took a step back, and then another, and with a little wave she started back down the track to Tarn House.

The evening of the carol service she stood in her kitchen, tapping one foot in ill-concealed impatience while Peter suited up for the service in the bathroom. He emerged with a self-conscious grin, the slightly moth-eaten beard of cotton wool obscuring half his face, his fingers plucking at the red felt cap in his hand.

Juliet studied him critically, her hands on her hips. “You haven't got enough belly.”

He patted his small pouchy stomach. “I put one of the throw pillows in there.”

“You need another one. You've got to be a convincing Father Christmas, not one on a diet.” She went to the sitting room and grabbed a pillow off the sofa. “Here,” she said, and reached for the front of his red suit. She'd already pulled it up before she considered what she was doing; she'd glimpsed Peter's toned stomach before she dropped her hand and stepped back, thrusting the pillow at him. “You do it.”

Avoiding her gaze, Peter arranged the other pillow. He looked ridiculous, Juliet thought with sudden affection, in the worn red felt trousers and top, both adorned with fake white fur and silver buckles. Completely ridiculous. He put the cap on his head, pulling it down to hide his brown hair. “Think I'll do?”

“Yes, I'm sure of it,” she said with more conviction than she actually felt.

“I don't actually like being out in front of people,” he confessed. “But since I'm behind all this rig, I suppose it won't matter.”

“You'll be fine,” Juliet said bracingly. “Right, we ought to get up to the turning circle at the top of the village. Andrew Lofton is driving you.”

Icy rain had been falling for the last three days, and although it had stopped now, the pavement was still slick, and ice-covered black puddles glimmered in the moonlight. Juliet drew in a breath, the air so cold it hurt her lungs. She wondered how many children would even make it out on such a cold, icy night and hoped that at least a few would, for Peter's sake.

They walked in silence up the length of the village; once, Juliet slipped on the ice and Peter reached out and steadied her by the elbow. She nearly leaned into him then, almost put her head on his shoulder in a move that would have been utterly unlike her, and yet she craved his physical touch.

She jerked away from him instead, wishing he didn't affect her this way, every inconsequential interaction making her wonder
what if
 . . .

What if she hadn't been so stupid as to bollocks up their friendship with that sperm request? What if she was brave enough now to tell him she wished things were different, that she wanted to be more than his friend?

In any case Peter dropped his hand and they continued in silence up the road.

Andrew Lofton, another sheep farmer, was waiting with his Land Rover at the turning circle at the top of the village. Peter climbed into the trailer in the back; in an attempt to be festive, Andrew had festooned it with Christmas lights and tacked a
Ho Ho Ho
banner to the back of the car. With Peter standing there awkwardly, still a rather thin Santa, Juliet thought it all looked a bit
less than
, but she supposed it wouldn't matter too much in the darkness. In any case, all the children really wanted was sweets.

“Here you go, Peter.” She handed him a white cloth sack filled with candy. Peter took it, peering into the depths. “One each, I suppose?”

“That's right, and no arguments. No one saying they don't like Smarties or sour cherries or the rest of it.” That had happened last year, and Rob had allowed exchanges of sweets, which had been a disaster of whining children and annoyed parents. “They take what they get,” Juliet said sternly, and got into the passenger side of the Rover.

Andrew started driving slowly down the street. He'd rolled down the windows and had Christmas carols playing on the car stereo, and all in all Juliet supposed it was merry enough, although she still felt a little flat. She remembered how she'd told Lucy about the service, how excited her sister had been to experience it.

She'd called Lucy twice over the past week to check in about Fiona, although she didn't actually care about their mother. She cared about Lucy, and whether she was coming back.

Lucy hadn't made any promises. Fiona had developed an infection and had to stay in the hospital for a few more days, and Lucy had said once again that she hoped to be back in January. Juliet still didn't believe her.

A small crowd of children had gathered by the Christmas tree outside the Hangman's Noose, and they let out a raggedy cheer as the Land Rover approached.

“Ho ho ho,” Peter called, and Juliet smiled to hear how his voice boomed. Maybe he could manage this role after all.

Andrew stopped the car and Peter started handing out sweets. Juliet watched from the passenger seat, keeping an eye on some of the older boys who were known to stir up trouble. Oliver Jones could be unruly sometimes, but now she saw him hanging back, holding his mother Lena's hand. A few children asked for different sweets, and Peter refused.

“Maybe I'll give you a different sweet on Christmas Day,” he suggested, his voice just a little too hearty, and Juliet heard one of the older boys answer sneeringly, “You're not coming round on Christmas Day. You're not really Father Christmas.”

“Shut your mouth, Danny Briggs,” Diana Rigby snapped. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

Juliet knew that the children of Hartley-by-the-Sea believed in Father Christmas as long as they could, sometimes right up to age ten or eleven. Everyone liked it that way; it was almost a point of pride, how naive the village children could be. How long the magic lasted.

“Who is it this year, anyway?” the boy continued, undaunted. “It's not Mr. Telford from the pub.”

“Right, I'd best get a move on,” Peter said, his voice still determinedly jolly. “Must see the children down at the beach. And I'm looking forward to a mince pie, myself.” Juliet watched as he passed a hand over his face, which unfortunately knocked his beard askew.

A burst of laughter erupted from the children; it wasn't precisely unkind, but it wasn't good, either. Juliet cringed. Even stolid, silent Andrew Lofton winced a bit.
If Lucy were here,
she thought,
she'd manage to make this funny. She'd salvage something from it, but it's just me instead.

“Get a move on,” she told Andrew, and he started driving down the main street again, even more slowly this time due to the crowds around them.

A few of the sneering boys followed the Land Rover; the younger children fell away as they made the turn onto the beach road.

“We know you're not Father Christmas!” one of the boys jeered.

“You're the stupidest Santa I ever saw,” another boy called.

“I know who you are!” This from the boy who had started it all, his voice crowing. “You're Peter Lanford, the one with the crazy old father!”

“Right!” Juliet was unbuckling her seat belt before she even realized what she was doing. She flung open the door and jumped out of the still-moving Land Rover, stumbling a bit before righting herself, and pointed a shaking finger at the three boys. “Clear off, you lot, before I box your ears and send you back to your mothers. Look at you, terrorizing everyone and ruining Christmas for a bunch of little children. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

Only one of the boys appeared remotely cowed, and even more furious, Juliet took a step forward, her arm raised. “Get away with you!” she shouted, her voice carrying and cracking on the still night. “All of you clear off before I give you a good slap!”

“Juliet.” Andrew Lofton had stopped the car and now Peter clambered down from the trailer, and put his hands on her shoulders. “All right, you three,” he said to the boys, who were still standing there, looking undecided as to whether they wanted to keep on with their taunting. “Clear off like she said.”

The quiet note of authority in Peter's voice convinced the boys in a way that Juliet's shrieking hadn't, and they headed back down the beach road towards the village.