Yesterday's Sun (13 page)

In the distance Holly heard the occasional hooting of an owl, and she imagined it was laughing at her. She didn’t blame it. She lifted up her head to expel a huge sigh of relief, but the smile on her face faltered as she stared at the skies above her. On the night of her vision, there had been a full moon, not the partially hidden face that peaked out behind the shadow of the earth. The images of the moon etched on the surface of the dial were all perfect circles. She understood in that moment that if the moondial really did hold any power of its own it would be by the light of the full moon. Cautiously, using her finger and thumb, she prized the glass orb from the weak grasp of the dial and returned it to its box.

Holly felt defeated and deflated. There were three whole weeks to wait until the next full moon at the end of July, and Holly felt like her life had been placed in limbo. Dealing with the emotional fallout from this latest separation from Tom was bad enough, but living with the nagging doubts and the growing possibility that she had seen a vision of her future—one where she had already died—was just too much to bear.

That night, Holly tossed and turned in bed, trying to make sense of everything she had seen or thought she had seen during her hallucination, and the connections she had made to this vision since then. Perhaps the bang on her head when she had fallen in the garden had caused a long-term problem. Perhaps she hadn’t seen a conservatory in her original vision. Perhaps she hadn’t seen Tom with short hair. What if her mind had just altered her memory of the vision when Tom told her about his plans? Didn’t that make more sense? Holly knew this didn’t explain away the parallels between her own experience and the legend of the Moon Stone, but the link between the moondial and the Moon Stone was still a tenuous one. “Reflection is the key.” That was what the inscription said, but what did it mean? The moon reflected the light of the sun into the darkness of the night. The moondial took that light and reflected it where? Into the future?

Holly wondered if she should speak to Jocelyn about the dial. Had she simply imagined Jocelyn’s uneasiness as they stood around the moondial? Did Jocelyn have more secrets to reveal? Holly couldn’t share her thoughts until she had unraveled the puzzle a little more and she couldn’t do that until the moon was full. She shook her head to free herself from the spider’s web of theories that tangled up her thoughts into a silken mess.

It was no surprise that during each and every night that followed, Holly seemed to sleep less and less as the moon shrank into a crooked, smirking smile, before slowly opening wide its yawning mouth, ready to swallow up her fading hope that everything could be explained away by a simple bump on the head.

While the moondial occupied her thoughts during the night, it was Mrs. Bronson’s sculpture that occupied her days. The baby figure was faultless; its smooth, soft curves had just enough echoes of Libby to tug at Holly’s heart every time she looked at it, which she often did. The mother figure was nearing completion, too, cradling the baby in her arms in a way that made Holly’s arms ache for the weight of her own child. The mother’s arms were wrapped around the tiny figure as if it were the most delicate of flowers, but there was also something about the pose that suggested the mother had a grip of iron.

Holly stepped back to review her work. Her hands were covered in dust from sanding and chipping away at any imperfections to reveal smoother lines and refined curves. It was almost finished, but still Holly frowned. She stepped slowly around the sculpture, surveying every inch of the spiraling form and the transition points where the black stone would meet white. It didn’t have the finesse that would be reserved for the final version, but otherwise everything looked as it was supposed to. Still not satisfied, Holly took a few more steps back until she was practically at the door, checking the work from a distance. There was something about the pose that Holly felt was wrong even though it was precisely as she had drawn it in her initial sketches.

Her eyes drifted toward a chisel but she stopped herself from going and picking it up. Instead she released a deep sigh. “It’s good enough for Mrs. Bronson,” she told herself with a touch of annoyance.

It was mid-July and although she had until the end of the month to sign off the sample piece Mrs. Bronson couldn’t wait, and had been pestering her for days. Holly knew she had to take a leap of faith and accept that this was the best she could produce. She went to lean against the studio door in resignation. Unfortunately, at that precise moment, the door opened outward and Holly’s body met nothing but thin air.

“Watch yourself,” Billy shouted, catching Holly midfall.

Hovering no more than a foot from the ground and relying on Billy’s arms to keep her from hitting the floor, Holly looked up into the builder’s eyes as he leaned over her. He gave her a sympathetic smile as he shook his head. “You women really can’t be trusted on your own,” he told her with a sigh.

“I can look after myself perfectly well,” said Holly with a growl.

“Women,” he replied with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“You can let go of me now, Bill,” Holly suggested.

“You’re the boss,” he said, letting go of her.

Holly landed on the ground with a clatter of jarred joints. “Thanks, Billy!” she said, rubbing her elbows as she struggled up. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Reporting for duty, ma’am.” Billy saluted her. Holly stared at him vacantly so he continued. “Your husband has commissioned me to build you one conservatory.”

“Hmm,” frowned Holly. “Just what I need.”

“Ooh, wait until you see it. It’s going to be spectacular,” gushed Billy.

“Ooh, I can just imagine it,” sighed Holly, mirroring Billy’s enthusiasm with an added sprinkle of sarcasm that only she could appreciate.

“Well, imagining is all you can do. I agreed the plans with Tom but I’m not to show you. You’ve done enough meddling by messing about with the position of the doors. Tom wants the finished product to be a surprise.”

“That might be more difficult than you think,” Holly replied.

“I suppose there’s no chance that you could stay out of the garden for the next couple of weeks?”

“No chance,” confirmed Holly. “I tell you what,” she added when she saw Billy’s shoulders sag in disappointment. “I’ll avert my eyes whenever I go past and promise not to go snooping.”

“It’s a deal. We’ll start work after the weekend.”

“Great, I’ll see you next week,” replied Holly.

Billy looked over toward the sculpture and was obviously about to give Holly his expert opinion.

“See you Monday, Billy,” Holly told him before he had a chance to speak.

“Could it do with—” he began.

“Go away, Billy,” Holly said, a little more forcefully but with a suppressed laugh tickling the back of her throat.

With Billy out of the way, Holly picked up the phone and called Mrs. Bronson. If she could arrange for her client to visit the studio next week then she would be ahead of schedule and able to spend some time working on the other pieces she had promised Sam for the gallery. That was, of course, assuming Mrs. Bronson was happy with the scaled version. Holly stared at the sculpture as she made the necessary arrangements with Mrs. Bronson over the phone. The frown returned.

She just hoped it was her own self-doubt and insecurities that made her look at the piece differently. The mother-and-child theme was always going to be a challenge, but even Holly couldn’t have suspected how challenging.

Holly sighed, chasing away the ghosts of the future. Hopefully Mrs. Bronson would have an uncomplicated view and see the sculpture as Holly had intended: a simple and idealistic portrayal of the bond between mother and child.

Holly’s separation from Tom had grown, and not just in terms of distance. The emotional effects were wider than the Atlantic Ocean that now lay between them. She had been prepared for the impracticalities of their long-distance relationship that the time zone differences caused, but what she hadn’t factored in was the chaos Tom had left her to face on her own, thanks to the moondial.

She realized it had been naïve to think that she could handle the bizarre situation that she found herself in on her own. She had been cast adrift by her loveless parents, but when Tom came along, he had become her anchor. Her original five-year plan had set the course for her adult life, but it was Tom and only Tom who had given her the stability that she had craved for so long. The next five years were supposed to be plain sailing and, for Tom, having a baby and a wife was fundamental to that plan.

With the full moon only days away, Holly needed him more than ever. She wondered how he would react if she were to tell him about her hallucination and how she was even vaguely willing to accept that she had seen a vision of the future. He would probably book the next flight home. He would be supportive, of course, but he would never understand her fears. He wasn’t the one who had walked into a house where the air was leaden with grief. He hadn’t felt his heart break at the sight of the one he loved falling apart. And he hadn’t see the vision of Libby, with the most perfect, beautiful green eyes staring back at him, and then been unable to hold her, not then and perhaps not ever, if the vision was as portentous as Holly was starting to believe it was. So when Holly picked up the phone and made her usual international call to Tom, she let the sound of his voice ease her fears and gave away no clue of her growing anxieties.

“So how’s Billy getting on with my project?” Tom asked eagerly.

It was midafternoon in Fincross and the sun was high, breaking record temperatures for the year. It would have been a beautiful day for sitting out in the garden if Holly had been allowed outside in what had now become a construction site. The patio where Holly, Tom, and Jocelyn had enjoyed their Sunday brunch had been ripped up and the foundations had been laid for the conservatory.

“I’m under strict instructions from Billy not to look out of any of the windows or go into the garden, so how would I know how it’s going?” complained Holly.

“But everything’s going to plan?”

“Billy’s still complaining about the position of the conservatory doors and won’t stop bending my ear. I’ve had to recruit Jocelyn to use her influence over him just to stop him changing the design behind my back.”

“Well, he has a point. I’m still not convinced it’s the right place for the doors.”

“I told you. I’m the creative one. I know what’s best,” Holly assured him.

“So, speaking of creativity, have you seen the dreaded Mrs. Bronson yet?”

“She left not long ago,” Holly told Tom as she sat at the kitchen table picking at a sandwich.

“And?” he demanded.

“And she loved it, thank God.” Holly leaned back in her chair and let the sense of relief wash over her. She couldn’t stop grinning.

“I’m not surprised. It looked amazing even when I saw it only half-finished. Can you send me a photo now, please?”

Holly had refused to show him the completed article until Mrs. Bronson was ready to sign off. She knew Tom would love it, but Mrs. Bronson was the client and she was the one that needed to be pleased.

“I will,” she promised.

“So she didn’t want any changes, then?”

“Well, I didn’t get off completely scot-free. She was keen to point out that her dearest child has a longer face and a dimple on his chin. I had half a mind to tell her she should be grateful I’ve based it on a far prettier baby, but the client is always right.”

“So of course the final sculpture will look more like her son,” added Tom.

“Of course,” Holly said with a wicked grin.

“Really?”

“How could you doubt me? If she wants her baby’s ugly features immortalized, why would I do anything else?”

“Because it’s your work being immortalized maybe?”

“Now, I never thought of it that way. I might need to rethink it.”

“Like you haven’t already,” laughed Tom. “Well, I hope you won’t abandon our babies if they’re ugly.”

Holly’s smile faltered and she was just glad that Tom was on the end of the phone and not in front of her.

“Our babies will be beautiful,” she said, before the pause became too noticeable. She closed her eyes and a familiar face came to mind.

“They will be if they take after you.”

“As long as they have your eyes,” she told him. A vision of Libby looking up at Holly hovered behind her closed lids and she had to squeeze her eyes tightly to chase away the ghost of her image.

“My eyes, but your nose. And your mouth. And your hair. Beautiful babies who will grow up to be just as gorgeous as their mum,” Tom went on with absolute certainty. “Well, the girls will. I’m not so sure about having sons with long blond hair though. Call me old-fashioned.”

Holly giggled and the sound chased away the tension that had been building up inside her. This was why she needed Tom in her life, to make everything normal and safe and simple. “You’ve got it all planned out, haven’t you? You’ve probably even picked the names,” Holly accused him.

“Me? You’re the one with all the plans! Although, now that you mention it, I had been toying with some ideas for names,” admitted Tom.

“Don’t tell me you’ve picked out a bunch of weird and wacky names now that you’re aspiring to celebrity status.”

“Hmm, don’t remind me. I’ve got an appointment with the stylist soon. I can’t believe what the studio is putting me through. But no, no stupid names. I was kind of toying with the idea of calling one of our boys Jack, after Dad.”

“OK,” Holly replied skeptically. “And I’ll ignore the reference to having hordes of children yet again.”

“And I’d really, really like it if we named our first girl after Grandma.”

“Edith?” Holly grimaced at the very idea.

“No, I wouldn’t be that cruel. Grandma’s second name was Elizabeth. We could call her Beth or Eliza or even Lizzy for short.”

“Or Libby,” added Holly, the tension returning to her body with all the subtlety of a knockout punch in the chest.

“Hey, that sounds perfect. Our little Libby. I can just imagine her now.”