The Secret Art of Forgiveness (18 page)

He peered closer, tracing a shaky hand across her screen. ‘That's not me. That's my grandfather… isn't it? My grandfather and… oh.' His eyes filled. ‘And, Monica. Is that…? It's her in the garden. Was she here? Where's she gone?'

‘Monica?' There was a tight ache in Emily's heart. She looked closer, and yes, she did look very like her mother with the same dark eyes, the same unruly hair. ‘No. That's you. That's you and me.'

But he wasn't listening, or her voice wasn't registering. His trembling fingers smudged over her phone screen as he stroked her image's hair. ‘Monica. Where is she? Where's she gone?' There was a single tear edging down his cheek. ‘Something happened to her and I can't remember…' He shook his head slowly. He couldn't remember, but he knew. Somewhere deep inside that muddled brain of his, he knew. ‘Where's Monica?'

‘Oh, Judge.' It was all Emily could say, her throat too filled with the loss of her mother and his renewed loss all over again. The way he looked at the photograph made her heart melt and hurt at the same time. He had truly loved her mum. Truly. Deeply. And now she was gone. And most of him, too. It was so unfair.

‘Where is she? In the house?' He started towards the kitchen door.

‘No. Please. Listen. It's…' What the hell had she done? Made him even more aware of the fact he was lonely and lost and that there were people missing from his life. People who'd mattered.

Would he remember her after she'd gone tomorrow? The cook. The very bad barber. His companion. She felt the sudden surge of tears and pressed her palms to her eyes to stop them.

‘Yoo-hoo!
There
you are!' There was a click of the gate latch and then laughter. ‘We went to the front but no luck. No one answered, we were knocking for ages – oh, what's going on? You okay?'

‘Well…' Wiping her tears away Emily tried for light-hearted as Greta, Sally and Tom rushed towards her. She took a stuttering breath. Then another, trying to make the pain go away – and failing – all the time glancing over to The Judge who was still shaking his head. Still confused. Still looking for his poor dead wife. ‘This is a surprise.'

‘Obviously.' Sally got to her first, taking in the scene of the two of them in tears. ‘What on earth's the matter?'

Em bit back a sob as she watched Tom take The Judge by the arm and lead him into the kitchen.

‘I think I did the wrong thing and I've upset him. I took a photo of us together and showed it to him, but he didn't even recognise himself, Sally. He thought it was a photo of his granddad. And he thought I was my mum.'

‘Oh, sweetheart.' Sally burrowed into her bag and offered her a hankie. ‘It's a shitty illness.'

‘It is. Yes. Thank you for being honest instead of tiptoeing around me.' Emily tried to control her wobbling lip by pressing her hand to her mouth. ‘He doesn't understand; he thinks she's here. She's not. She died. It broke him. And me.' Memories of the aftermath of her mother's death shrouded her, making her heart hurt. Everything had gone wrong from that day. The misunderstandings, the stark grief, the inability to fix things for each other, but only make everything worse. ‘How can I tell him that? How can I make him live that again?'

‘You don't have to. He's gone inside with Tom, and I bet that in a minute he'll be talking about something completely different.'

Emily used the tissue, then stuffed it up her sleeve. ‘As long as it's not about that lost dead dog, I don't care.'

Sally looked at her kindly, but then started to smile. ‘That hair, though? What on earth happened?'

For the first time in a while Emily laughed. ‘Oh, God. It's terrible, isn't it? I tried, I really did.'

‘You want me to fix it?'

This was what friends did. They made you feel better without even asking. ‘I wish you could fix more than that, but yes… please,
please
fix his hair for me.'

‘Okay. No problem. First, a cup of tea? Let's go have a cup of tea.'

‘Yes. Thank you. Thank you. I need one. It's the sudden confusion that gets to me. One minute he's fine and the next it's like talking to a stranger.' Emily sniffed, feeling a lot better having them here and not facing this on her own. ‘Sometimes I just don't know what to do.'

‘Don't do anything, he'll have forgotten it all soon. Now, I hope you don't mind that we've descended on you like this? We couldn't just let you go without saying a proper goodbye.'

Emily had just emailed Greta and Sally to say her goodbyes and thank yous, unable to bear saying it face to face. It would be hard enough saying goodbye to Tom when he came to sit with The Judge tomorrow morning until Tam got back. And even harder to say goodbye to The Judge… she didn't want to think about it. ‘No. No, it's lovely to have you here, but I don't have anything to offer you.'

‘Don't panic, love.' Greta held up an enormous plastic box then led them into the kitchen. ‘I know you're pretty hopeless on the domestic-science front, so I brought some things over. Didn't want food poisoning to be your last hurrah. I have Judge Evans' favourite custard tarts and some vanilla slice for you, a coffee and walnut cake and some lemon meringue cupcakes. A feast! Now… cup of tea?'

They'd seated themselves around the large wooden table, fussing over The Judge, distracting him and making him forget all about the recent upset. Something in her heart lifted as Emily reached for the kettle. These were good people. Kind. Helping to soothe her heart and ease her leaving. She knew, at least, that he'd have some kindness from them when she was gone. That was what happened in a small village; people looked out for each other. Not like in…

No, she couldn't possibly compare her two homes. They were both wonderful in so many different ways. And one was where she lived and loved, and where she was heading back to, tomorrow. ‘Tea, anyone? I have normal, green, jasmine, night-time slumber, or coffee?'

Sally took the kettle from Emily's hands. ‘No. Sit there and calm down. Let us do this last thing for you. Judge, would you like a drink?'

‘Oh. Yes.' He was all smiles, laughing at something Tom had said to him. ‘Gin and tonic. Heavy with the lemon, please.'

‘Judge!' That was a surprise. Emily shook her head. ‘I don't think so.'

‘Why the hell not? The sun's over the yardarm somewhere in the world, isn't it?' He was looking to Tom for encouragement.

The young lad's eyes widened. ‘Hey, don't look at me. I have no idea what you're talking about and I don't have any booze on me. Tea's just fine.'

‘The library, my dear. Oh, you are hopeless.' The Judge disappeared for a few minutes then came back carrying a tray of rattling crystal decanters filled with amber liquid. ‘There's brandy and whisky here, and in the far cupboard under my hideous portrait there's a few more bottles – gin, I think, and vodka and vermouth.' He gave a stage whisper, ‘My secret stash; don't tell anyone. Hurry along and get them, boy. Now, who's for a dry martini?'

‘You sly old dog, Judge Evans. Shaken and stirred, please!' Tom grinned as he disappeared, then came running back seconds later clanking with more supplies. ‘Don't know what that means, actually. But I'll try anything once.'

‘Really? Do you think you should?' Emily stared at The Judge. But he was so calm and pleased with himself she didn't have the heart to stop him. And hell, if he was happy, then she was happy. ‘Oh, go on then. I'll have one, too.'

‘You're a barman, Tom, you should know how to make cocktails.' Greta collected some glasses and a jug and offered them to The Judge. Emily washed her hands then rummaged around for some ice in the bottom of the freezer, among the lost and lonely single peas, the odd piece of diced carrot and a slightly tilting lasagne she'd made for when the girls got home tomorrow… at least she'd tried.

‘There's not a lot of call for cocktails in the White Hart,' Tom defended himself. ‘A pint of bitter, yes. And a spritzer – which is a damned waste of decent white wine if you ask me. So, I'm all ears. Teach me, Judge.'

‘You should have a cocktail night, on special or something… that might bring in a new clientele.' Emily watched The Judge mix a good amount of different spirits into the jug, then pour it into each of the glasses. She wasn't at all sure he was doing it right, but she didn't want to say. He looked completely confident and she wasn't going to spoil it.

After a few minutes he handed them all a glass. ‘Here you go. Bottoms up.'

Grinning, they all clinked together. ‘Bottoms up, indeed! Cheers! Slainte!'

Emily took a sip and tried not to choke. It was terrible and very, very alcoholic. ‘Lovely, thank you.'

Greta coughed. Sally grimaced and shuddered. Tom held his empty glass out. ‘Yum! You know you might be on to something with the cocktail night… I'll talk to Liam; he's always open to new ideas. Any more left in that jug?'

‘You'll go far, lad.' The Judge poured him another and topped his own glass up, too.

‘So, Em, what will you do when you get back to New York? Is Brett meeting you at the airport?' Sally gave an audible lovestruck sigh. ‘It'll be like that scene in
Love Actually
where people are meeting their long-lost loved ones. It always makes me cry. Must be lovely to be so in love.'

‘Yes.' Greta's eyes narrowed. Clearly she hadn't forgotten about the conversation the other night.

Oh-oh. Diversion needed. ‘Yes. Well… Talking of Liam…?' Emily choked as Greta dug her in the ribs and glanced over meaningfully at Tom. Shoot, Liam's brother.

He laughed and patted Sally's arm, which was encased in a cardigan the same colour as her now blush-red cheeks. ‘Don't worry, I'm not blind. I can see you fancy the pants off him. You want me to put a word in?'

Giggling, she finished her glass and shook her head. ‘What, say something awful like, my friend fancies you? Eurgh. I'm not a teenager any more. This is something I need to deal with in my own way.'

Tom wasn't having any of it. ‘Because staring at him like a drooling, blithering idiot is working for you, right? He's a man… he's oblivious to anything subtle.'

‘Yes. Well, we had a nice little chat the other night, but then he asked if I'd watched the FA Cup Final, and I didn't even know which teams were playing.'

Tom shook his head. ‘I can't believe he's even a brother of mine. He needs to work on his game.'

‘Maybe you could casually mention me and weigh up the lay of the land? Is he seeing anyone else?' Sally smiled. ‘Is he interested in anyone… in particular?'

He rubbed his hands in glee. ‘Excellent… sleuthing.'

Emily poured another round of drinks The Judge had made. ‘Oh, you must let me know what happens. Email me. Phone me. Keep in touch? Promise?'

Tom shook his head. ‘You know, I just don't get the appeal of NYC. How can you possibly even contemplate leaving when we have the summer fair coming up?'

Emily laughed. ‘Doilies? Toilet-roll holders? Maybe I should fly back just to experience the cliché that is the fair? And… maybe I shouldn't.'

‘Okay, then… Miss Sophistication.' Sally leaned forward. ‘It might be twee and quaint to you but we still love it.' She looked to Greta and Tom for support. ‘No? Oh, God… and I'm on the committee – I only joined because Liam's on it, too, to be honest, but now we're gearing up for it. Tamara's in charge, which is a trial, as you can imagine… and it's been getting less and less popular. Okay, then how would you do it in New York? Sprinkle some of your fabulousness over us, please.'

‘Oh, God, I don't know…' Emily started to squirm. ‘I'm not fabulous, not at all. I'm sure it's fine as it is.'

‘Well, what would you do instead of a second-hand book table?'

She thought for a moment. ‘We'd probably have an actual author. Or a few. A panel. Book signings. Talks. Pulitzer possibly…' She laughed at their wide eyes. ‘Because that's how we roll.'

‘And not how we roll. Although we do have Jacob Taylor… I wonder if he's Pulitzer-winning?'

‘I wouldn't know.' There was a strange, fluttery feeling in Emily's stomach that squashed some of the intensity of her upset with The Judge. ‘I can't imagine he is; surely he'd have mentioned it.'

‘What?' Sally deepened her voice. ‘
Hello, I'm Jacob, and I'm a Pulitzer prize-winning journalist?
Not his style, really. Although he is very yummy to look at.'

Greta's eyes widened. ‘Oh, you think so, too? Yes, who wouldn't like a bit of Mr Tall, Dark and Mysterious? Em?'

Now it was Emily's turn to become wide-eyed… but for her this was accompanied by a tingle throughout her body. ‘I hadn't noticed, to be honest.'

‘Don't go all coy about being engaged – I saw you talking to him on Thursday. Getting quite cosy, if you ask me.'

‘We were being neighbourly.'

Greta gave a sigh and swallowed some more cocktail. ‘God, I'd love to get neighbourly with a man like that.'

‘Er…' It was time to move on from this particular topic of conversation. It made Emily feel altogether uncomfortable. ‘What were we talking about?'

‘Authors. Book stall.' Sally grimaced. ‘What about a cake stall?'

‘Yep, we'd have one of those, but also a celebrity chef.' Em nodded, relieved they'd moved away from Jacob Taylor. ‘Yes. A marquee with cooking demonstrations.'

Sally started to take notes on her phone. ‘This is a fun game. Or would be if we had anyone remotely famous living here. Local band?'

‘Probably, but it'd be a chart-topper. This century. This decade. Even this year if we could swing it. And possibly someone kitsch, too, from the seventies – a band that was big then and wants to make a comeback – that'd bring in the Baby Boomer dollar. Er… pound.'