The Secret Art of Forgiveness (13 page)

Not the only thing around here that needs professional help, apparently.
She was going to tell him to mind his own business, but the words wouldn't come out between her chattering teeth. She was so utterly soaked through and so cold her mouth had decided to stop working. Finally, she managed, ‘I've made some calls, okay?'

‘Good. Now, go inside and get dry. You look like hell.'

‘You couldn't put just a little positive spin on that?'

‘Truth will out, Emily, the moment you look in the mirror. Now stop talking and start moving.' His hand was on her back, steadying her and she moved away from it. He was an abominable man… who just happened to have one nice, neighbourly bone in his body.

And warm hands.

‘So, what are you waiting for? Scoot. Or you'll get pneumonia.' It was the same thing she'd said to The Judge and she felt a jolt of emotion that mingled with the thought of the wobbly ladder. He was looking out for her.

She should probably do the same for him. Just being neighbourly. ‘You don't want me to hold the ladder for you?'

‘No. I'm fine.' Now she was down and safe he seemed to have let go of whatever it was that had shaken him so much. ‘Honestly, I'll wedge it under those eaves over there.'

‘I'd prefer to stay and hold it.'

‘And I'd prefer you went inside.' He gave her a soft smile, which she could just about make out through the lashing raindrops. The first damned smile she'd ever seen on him and it gave her a jolt in her gut that was so surprising she didn't exactly know how to deal with it.

***

An hour later and she was in the kitchen. Steam rose gently from the kettle, the Aga gave off a warm glow and Emily was showered, thawed and feeling a whole lot better. Or would have been had Jacob Taylor gone home, but here he was hammering up the falling ceiling tiles. His T-shirt and jeans were drying in patches with the warmth of his body as he worked.

She watched him for a second and struggled with a mix of irritation that he was here and gratitude that he was fixing things for her.

He stepped down from the ladder and peered at his handiwork. ‘That should hold for a little while. Anywhere else?'

‘There's a drip in the library over in the far corner near the window. Then, on the second floor, pretty much each of the bedrooms has some sort of issue. It's going to cost zillions to repair it all.'

‘Deal with all that later. First things first, you have to fix the holes. What about calling Rigby's? They're the best builders around.'

‘That's because they're the only builders around.' Call Sally's dad? He'd probably make the holes bigger. ‘I'll just Google roof repairs again and see what else I come up with.'

He frowned. ‘Why not Rigby's? They're local at least and they could probably come out today. I know Bill, he's a decent guy.'

To you, maybe.
But not, she suspected, to someone who had hurt his daughter so badly. ‘I always like to get three quotes. It's best practice, right?'

His eyes narrowed. ‘Has this got anything to do with your argument in the street?'

She so didn't need him to remember that. ‘Look, Sally and I know each other from way back. Things didn't end well. But we've all moved on, right? I have other things to worry about now.' Although she couldn't get the damned argument out of her head. Actually, out of her bones. It felt as if she was almost wearing the burden of that night all those years ago and she felt weighed down by it.

By everything.

She sighed, because she hadn't asked for any of these problems but they just kept coming at her. And she was the only one here and she had to sort it all out. She could feel pressure weighing on her chest and suddenly felt a little overwhelmed.

Mr Taylor shrugged, taking the hint that she wanted to be left alone. ‘I'll go upstairs and have a look at those rooms.'

‘It's okay. I can manage. The rain's easing off. You probably need to get home? Right?'

Jacob paused, the stepladder shoved under one shoulder. ‘I can do it, Emily. You have enough on your plate with everything you're doing for Judge Evans.'

Tell me about it.
‘So, I'll just add this to my list.'

‘Or, I can do it.' His jaw fixed tight as if he were annoyed, but there was a light in his eyes.

She realised he wasn't really annoyed at all, just vaguely amused by her. ‘I prefer to get on and do things myself. Thanks.'

‘Are you this difficult all the time, or is it just with me?'

His honesty was refreshing, if not a little confrontational. She bit her lip and tried not to laugh. For some reason, it mattered to her that he saw she was independent and capable. That everyone saw her as that. It was something she'd been forced to be from a young age – and God, yes, relying on a mum and dad to help her out, coach her, support her, would have been lovely. But she hadn't had that. She hadn't had anyone to steer her through those teenage years, or the serious, growing–up-into-a-functioning adult bits. ‘Don't flatter yourself, Mr Taylor. It's not about you at all. I'm like this all the time. I like to call it forthright, though. Not difficult.'

A corner of his lip curled upwards. ‘I bet that went down well, living here with your equally
forthright
sisters and The Judge. He used to be quite formidable, too.'

‘
Step
sisters,' she corrected him. ‘And no, we didn't get along. Which is one of the reasons why I left. And I don't think I was missed…' This was steering into quite dangerous territory and she'd already revealed too much to him today, what with being scared on a ladder and failing to fix things and now this. She didn't want to discuss her life with him.

His eyebrows rose. ‘And now? How's it going? Are things any better?'

She didn't want to dig too deeply into her family relationships, especially when she couldn't reconcile her own feelings, but her words tumbled out anyway, ‘Not today, actually. No.'

Mr Taylor's eyes softened a little. ‘I'm sorry. I know he can be difficult.'

‘Understatement of the century. But he's sick, and so up and down I can't keep track. I just have to deal with it.' That was the crux of it, she had to keep reminding herself.

‘What did you think might happen… when you came back?'

‘I don't know. Some sort of deathbed reconciliation? An emotional reunion? I'm realistic enough to know that neither can happen with a man with dementia.' No matter how much she might want it.

Jacob Taylor was very good at asking questions and delving just deep enough for her to want to give him answers. There was something about him that made her want to talk. She didn't like it; it wasn't who she was. She'd been comfortable in New York, in her new life, giving away as little information as she could about her past, but now she was finding herself being confronted by it at every turn. He was very good at getting that kind of information out of her; she'd told him more in five minutes than she'd told Brett in five years. Was this how they did it? The scammers? Wormed their way under your skin with gentle questions and sympathetic eyes? ‘Why are you asking all these questions?'

He looked taken aback. ‘It's better than a weird silence or pointless small talk, don't you think?'

She liked small talk. She could chit-chat to anyone about celebrities and world events, and the weather. What she couldn't do was examine her past and her relationships with a stranger. Or on her own, for that matter. ‘Well, I'm sorry, but I have things to do. And no doubt you have too? What is it you do, by the way?'
Other than scamming neighbours?

He picked the ladder up again, taking the hint. He was good at taking hints and good at talking. ‘I'm a journalist.'

That explained the pauses for her to trip into and bare her soul – he was just doing what he'd been trained to do. And she was falling for it. She needed to be on her guard from now on. ‘What kind?'

‘Freelance. So anything goes.'

‘How does that work?'

‘I pitch an idea, or ideas, and see where they take me. I used to sub for a national paper, so I have a lot of contacts –'

There were footsteps in the hallway, the
sloop sloop sloop
of The Judge's slippers on the tiles. She jumped up. ‘Okay, I'd better start on dinner. Casserole today, that can't be too hard, can it?'

Jacob watched as she lifted out the pan. ‘It must be exhausting.'

It's the hardest thing I've ever done.
‘It's fine. Really.'

‘Yes, Emily Forrester. Of course it is.' Then he backed out of the door, his eyes telling her that he knew very well this wasn't fine at all.

Chapter Six

Memories of the twist in her gut, and the pain in Sally's eyes as she'd stalked off, kept pricking at Emily's conscience. Yesterday's conversation had been preying on her mind.

The way they'd ended their friendship had been painful, but so long ago it barely gave her much pause for thought these days. But when it did she felt the shame and humiliation just as freshly as she had as a teenager, desperately trying to explain herself, all tongue-tied and overwhelmed. The heart-wrenching hurt when the only person who believed in you stopped doing just that. It was like a bruise on her soul – faded but still there.

So, even though she'd tried to apologise, she didn't want to leave the village again without making things right between them. Or at least walking away knowing she'd tried. She didn't want this bad feeling to fester and for them to get to a point where things could never be put right, like with her and The Judge.

But first, she had to decide what to do with her charge. It was Thursday evening – maybe they could find a quiet spot in the White Hart for The Judge while she went and made her peace. ‘Hey, Judge, do you fancy a stroll down to the pub? Keep young Tom company?'

‘Not right now. I've got to finish this crossword.'

All in all, the antibiotics had kicked in and he was marginally better, more coherent, less confused, with fewer angry outbursts – although she was at least prepared for that now. But certainly not well enough to be left for any length of time on his own. They were sitting around the fire in the kitchen, which had become their go-to place… funny, all those rooms and they both gravitated to this one whenever they had a quiet minute.

She'd had him help her fold laundry and prepare vegetables for dinner, even though she'd boiled them to a mush and had to pretend soup had been on the menu all along. He could manage most chores well enough if supervised and was enthusiastic at learning new things. Even if he forgot most of it later.

How would he go on next week with the visiting service? She tried to squish the flicker of anxiety. It wasn't her problem once she'd left, was it? ‘Is it okay if I pop out for a while?'

‘Of course. Night off, is it?'

‘Yes, I think it just might be.' Not off, exactly, not with what she had planned. She rummaged through her bag for her phone, wondering how she'd managed to find herself organising babysitting when she didn't own any children. It was probably too short notice for Greta, considering she did have children who were most likely getting ready for bed right now, so she tried a different tack.

‘Hello? Tom? Hey, it's Emily here. From The Hall. I feel awkward asking, but I don't suppose you're free tonight? I have an important errand to run and need to pop out for a while, but I don't want to leave The Judge on his own.'

His voice was laced with humour and surprise. ‘You want to leave me in charge of Judge Evans? Do your sisters know?'

‘I won't tell them, if you don't.' She laughed. Clearly the lad was as astute as she'd been at his age, and clearly equally as terrified of Tam and Tilda. That explained why she'd felt an instant camaraderie with him in the pub; a younger brother kind of kid, someone trying to fit into a family where fitting in was hard. ‘You'll just have to play cards with him, that kind of thing. I won't be long. There's money in it for you.'

‘Money, eh? As it happens I do have the night off.' Tom laughed. ‘I'm on my way.'

***

It had been well over a decade since she'd walked up the path of the old station house. The front door had changed colour; well, it now actually had one, consistent covering of paint on it instead of being a variety of different coloured patches. Painting the front door had been only one on a list of jobs Mr Rigby hadn't got around to finishing and that had been the bane of Sally's mum's life. Hard to use a bathroom when the door didn't shut properly. Difficult to cook when the stove wasn't wired in. Sally's mum had always complained that being married to a builder sounded lovely in theory but all it meant was that he spent too much time fixing other people's houses and never had time or energy for his own. Still, he'd got around to painting the door. Or at least, someone had.

And this house had always been a haven to her. It might only have had three bedrooms compared to her twelve, but at one time it had felt more like home than The Hall ever had.

She dredged up some courage and knocked, her fist making similar sharp raps on the wood as her heart was doing in her chest. In her free hand she held a bag containing a bottle of chilled chardonnay and some After Eights. A long time ago they'd been Sally's favourites.

No answer.

She knocked again, saw the twitch of the curtain in the ground-floor bay window. Sally's face. Then… nothing.

Emily hammered harder, this time along with, ‘Sally? Sally, can you open the door please?'

Across the cobbled street a light came on in one of the new mews houses. She imagined someone pounding a door at seven o'clock on a Thursday night must be the most exciting thing to happen around here for years. ‘Sally, for God's sake, I know you're in there. Mrs Rigby? Maggie? Will you let me in?'