Rainy Day Sisters (27 page)

So really, Lucy told herself as she swept mascara onto her lashes in preparation for another day at Hartley Primary, she had nothing to complain about. So she wasn't going to dive headfirst into a relationship. With her history, it was better this way. Really.

It was the last day before half term, the weeklong break at the end of October, and Lucy had nothing planned for the holiday week except helping Juliet out with the steady stream of guests booked into Tarn House. Poppy had already told her, confidingly, that Alex was taking her and Bella to see his in-laws down in London, so Lucy wouldn't even have the paltry hope of accidentally on purpose bumping into him on the beach when he walked Charlie.

It was just as well, Lucy decided as she started packing up that afternoon. The children had left at half past one, shouting and running down the hill, delighted to be off school for an entire week. And maybe some time away from Hartley Primary would help to get Alex out of her system. She'd certainly be busy enough helping Juliet.

“So what's going on with you and our head teacher?”

“What?” Lucy looked up to see Diana standing in the doorway, eyebrows raised expectantly. “Nothing's going on. Why do you even ask?”

Diana glanced furtively at Alex's closed door; he was working, right up to the last minute. “Because I have it on good authority that you've been to his house twice. Late at night.”

“This is your bridge-playing neighbor.”

“That's the one.”

“I'm friendly with Bella and Poppy,” Lucy said with what she hoped was a convincing shrug. “It's no big deal.”

“No? Because two dates in Hartley-by-the-Sea is the same as getting married.”

“They weren't dates.”

“In Hartley-by-the—”

Lucy held up one hand. “Enough, I get it. Trust me, Diana, nothing is going on. You'll have to find someone else to gossip about.”

Diana must have finally believed her, because she sighed and said, “Pity. I always thought the two of you would make a good couple. You'd bring him out of his shell and he'd keep you tethered to earth.”

Lucy smiled at that but then shook her head. “It's not going to happen.”

“I suppose you are leaving soon.”

That was something she most definitely didn't want to think about. “I still have almost two months left,” she protested, but in her head she was calculating the days and she realized her time in Hartley-by-the-Sea was half-finished. How had that happened?

Two months wasn't a very long time, she realized as she headed back to Tarn House. The first two had gone by in a flash. She had a feeling the next two months would pass even more quickly.

The next week certainly went fast as she helped Juliet; Rachel was away visiting universities with a reluctant Lily, and so Lucy and Juliet did all the housework as well as the fry-up breakfasts and the afternoon teas. Lucy had never done so much physical labor before, but she enjoyed herself too, chatting with Juliet as they developed a system for the morning (Lucy handled toast, and Juliet manned the Aga), and spending the evenings with guests or on Thursday at the pub doing the quiz.

By Sunday night Lucy was exhausted, and contemplated returning to school the next morning with less than her usual enthusiasm. She didn't relish seeing Alex again, although the pain of having him back off had, with time and effort, lessened just a little.

Since they were free of guests, Juliet brought a bottle of wine and two glasses into the sitting room; Lucy lay back on the sofa, propping her feet on the arm, something she suspected would have given Juliet fits a few months ago, but which she now eyed slightly askance, saying nothing. Progress, of a kind.

“So what about this baby thing?” Lucy asked when they were both settled with full glasses of wine. It was progress of another kind that she felt brave enough to ask the question.

Juliet glanced warily at her, and then shrugged. “It was a crazy idea. I must have been mad even to think of it. As for asking Peter . . .” She closed her eyes, cringing. “Definitely mad.”

“Biology is a powerful force.”

“I don't think it was just that. It was more . . .” She sighed and stared at the ceiling. “A baby is like a blank slate. Someone to love, someone to love you, without any of the emotional baggage.”

Lucy considered this for a second before asking carefully, “Don't you think we're both bound to bring our baggage to motherhood, Juliet?”

“Well, yes. I suppose. But a baby is genetically programmed to love its mother. I think that was the idea I was fixated on.” She made a face. “Pathetic, really.”

“No, not pathetic. Or if it is, then I'm in that boat with you. I stayed with Thomas for so long because I wanted someone to love and need me. And I've been looking at Alex the same way.” Now she was the one to make a face. “Here is this widower with two motherless daughters in desperate need of someone like me to make them all better.”

“It helps that he's a hottie,” Juliet pointed out.

“Well, yes. There's that too. Too bad he didn't feel the same way.” She'd told Juliet, a while back, about the whole “fun, but” conversation. Juliet had made a rude noise, which had made Lucy feel a little bit better.

Now they were both silent for a moment, lying on opposite sofas, staring at the ceiling, drinking their wine. “So here we are,” Juliet finally said, “with no men and no babies.”

“At least we've got each other.”

“Girl power,” Juliet replied dryly, and Lucy grinned. She felt happier than she had in a long, long time. Happier, perhaps, than even when she'd been with Alex.

“Don't knock it, sister.”

“Oh, please.” But Juliet was grinning back. “Have you thought about what you're going to do when you go back to Boston?” she asked a few minutes later, and Lucy's smile faded. She'd managed not to think about returning to Boston for the whole half term, and she didn't particularly want to think about it now.

“Not really.” She took a slug of wine. “I have no job, no apartment, no boyfriend. There's not much to go back to.”

“You must have friends. . . .”

“Yes,” Lucy said, and thought of Chloe. She'd Skyped with her a few times, although not in recent weeks. “Yes, I have friends,” she told Juliet. “But I also have friends here.”

“You could stay,” Juliet said, and Lucy blinked at her, startled.

“What . . .”

“I mean, if you wanted to. Only if you wanted to. You'd be welcome here, of course—”

Of course?
A few months or even weeks ago there would have been no
of course
about it. “That's very kind of you . . . ,” she began, and Juliet rushed in, stumbling a bit over the words.

“I'd understand if you wanted to get your own digs. But if you're happy in Hartley-by-the-Sea, if you've made a life for yourself . . .”

It was all too tempting. Juliet was right; she was happy here. She had a life. And if she stayed here, maybe Alex would change his mind about starting a relationship. Not like that was her main reason, of course.

“The trouble is,” she said to Juliet, “I don't have a job after Christmas.”

“You could find one,” Juliet answered. “Make one, even. Start a business offering arts and crafts parties for children. Exhibit your paintings locally. The beach café would put them up.”

The beach café. A far cry from an upscale Boston art gallery, and yet she didn't really mind.

“If you wanted to stay, you could make it happen. It's just a question of whether you want to.”

“Do you want me to?” Lucy asked. “Really? I wouldn't cramp your style, horning in on your territory?”

“Oh, Lucy.” Juliet bit her lip, and then shook her head. “No, I'd love if you stayed. But don't stay just for me.”

Yet Juliet was perhaps the best and most important reason to stay.

Juliet

THERE WAS A MAN
in her garden. Juliet braced her elbows against the sink as she leaned forward and peered out the kitchen window. Since the clocks had turned back last week, the sun set at four o'clock and the days felt wintry. And the man in her garden, she could see as she squinted, looked like he was wearing only a pair of trousers.

He stumbled past her rosebushes, and Juliet wondered if he was a drunk who had made his way down from the pub. Then the moonlight caught his white hair and she realized with a lurch who it was. William Lanford. Peter's father was wandering half-dressed in her garden with no shirt or coat after dark.

Juliet grabbed her coat and shoved her feet into her hiking boots before opening the back door and stepping outside. “William?” she called. “Mr. Lanford?”

He swung around to stare suspiciously at her. “Who the devil are you?”

“Juliet Bagshaw. You're in my garden.”

“No, I'm not. I'm going to the pub.” She saw a heartbreaking mixture of belligerence and fear in his rheumy eyes. “A man deserves a drink at the end of a long day.”

“Yes, he does.” Juliet could see from the porch light that William Lanford was shaking from the cold; worse, his feet were bare and bloody from walking all the way from Bega Farm. She'd seen Peter leave an hour ago in his Land Rover, and had no idea how to reach him. She didn't have his mobile number. “It's a filthy night to be out, though,” she said to William, trying to keep her voice mild. “Even for a drink at the pub.” He simply snorted at this. “Why don't you come in here for a drink?” Juliet suggested.

“Do you have any whiskey?” William demanded.

“No,” Juliet admitted, “but I've got some nice sherry.”

“Sherry!” William quivered with indignation. “That's a lass's drink.”

Juliet almost smiled at that. She should have known better than to suggest sherry. A shudder ran through his body and Juliet knew she had to get William Lanford inside quickly, and preferably back to Bega Farm.

“How about I drive you back to your place?” she suggested. “I know Peter has a good whiskey back at Bega Farm. Glenfiddich.” William didn't answer, but she could see the dawning confusion in his eyes, an awareness that things were not as he thought they were.

“I don't know. . . .”

“It's so cold out,” Juliet continued, hoping she sounded persuasive. “And I think it's starting to rain.” A few raindrops had spattered in her face as they'd spoken and William's whole body was now shaking from the cold.

“It's not far,” William insisted. “And I've come a long way already.”

“Let me at least get you a coat,” she said. “You must have forgotten yours in the rush for that drink. It's freezing out, William.”

Confusion contorted his features as he looked down at himself, and the lucid part of him realized he'd gone out only half-dressed. “What's happened to my shirt?” he muttered. “Someone's gone and taken it.”

Juliet had read that people suffering from dementia could become paranoid and aggressive. Understandably so, but she didn't know how to deal with that now. “Come on, William,” she said as gently as she could. “Let's go find your shirt.” She reached for his arm and he shook it off, glaring at her.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice trembling. “Where am I?”

“I'm Juliet Bagshaw, a neighbor of yours,” Juliet answered steadily, although she felt strangely emotional. “And you're in my garden.”

William shook his head, his face crumpling with the bewilderment of a child. “But I was just trying to go to the pub.”

“I know you were. And you deserve a nice big tot of whiskey, after this.” Smiling, trying to reassure him, she reached for his arm again. This time he didn't resist, and holding her breath, hoping he'd continue to cooperate, Juliet guided him towards her car. Thankfully her keys were in the pocket of her coat, and she helped William into the passenger seat before climbing into the driver's side and starting the engine.

She reached over and did his seat belt for him, drawing it over his bare, sunken chest, and he stared at her with troubled eyes. “Peter won't like this.”

“He might be worried about you,” Juliet allowed. “But he'll be glad you're safe.”

“I shouldn't have gone out.” William plucked at the seat belt. “Peter told me not to go out. I shouldn't have gone out.”

‘We'll get you back home, William,” Juliet soothed, and started driving down the dirt track that led to Bega Farm. It wasn't meant for a car like hers, and they bumped and juddered down the road while Juliet silently prayed the car wouldn't get a flat tire.

Finally Bega Farm appeared, its lights twinkling in the vast darkness. As Juliet parked the car, she saw the front door had been left wide open, and the rain was blowing in.

With a quick smile for William, who had not spoken during the journey, Juliet got out of the car and hurried around to the passenger side. She sucked in a breath when she opened the door and saw that blood from a cut on his foot had soaked into the foot well. The cut was deeper than she'd thought.

William followed her gaze to his feet and then glanced back at her, panic starting in his eyes. Juliet reached out a hand and drew him up to standing.

“Let's get you inside, shall we?”

Painstakingly, her arm around William, she guided him into the house. He was limping badly now and Juliet knew he would need his foot seen to. Inside the house was as much a mess as ever. Juliet led William past the kitchen with its forgotten dishes and dirty clothes to the sitting room, and helped him to the faded easy chair where he'd sat when Peter had given him a shave.

“Now then, let's get you comfortable,” she said as cheerfully as she could. “I'll just go find something for your feet.”

William didn't answer; he seemed exhausted, his face gray and haggard. Juliet fetched a bowl of warm water and a towel, and after a second's hesitation she ventured upstairs to find a clean shirt for William. The floorboards creaked as she walked down the upstairs hall, feeling guiltily that she was violating Peter's privacy, but knowing she didn't have much choice.

She peeked in several bedrooms that looked unused and forgotten, and then paused in the doorway of what was obviously Peter's room. A big bed, unmade and rumpled. One of his Aran jumpers tossed on a chair. She saw a book and a pair of reading glasses left on a bedside table, and unable to keep herself from it, she tiptoed closer to have a look. It was an Agatha Christie, Inspector Poirot, which made her smile a little. She liked Poirot.

Quickly she backed out of the room. The next room she looked in was William's, and she found a stack of neatly folded, ironed laundry on his bureau, which was surprising considering the general state of the house. She took a shirt from the top of the pile and hurried downstairs.

When she came back into the sitting room, she saw that William had fallen asleep, his head lolling against the back of the chair. He woke when Juliet started bathing his feet, dabbing at the cuts and scratches, but kept his head back against the chair and didn't say anything.

At least one of the cuts looked quite deep, and with a quick smile for William, Juliet went in search of some antibiotic ointment. She found an old, cracked tube in the cupboard above the sink, and decided it was better than nothing.

Fifteen minutes later she had William's feet bathed and bandaged and had managed to help him into the clean shirt. He was docile through it all, depressingly so, as if the will to engage in any way had leached out of him. Juliet tried to keep up a stream of cheerful chatter, but she was no Lucy and her conversation petered out after just a few minutes. William didn't seem to mind.

“There you are,” she said when she'd settled him back into his chair. “Now for that tot of whiskey.”

But when she returned to the sitting room with the promised drink, William was asleep. Juliet left the whiskey on the table by his chair and went back into the kitchen. She gazed around at all the mess for a moment, and then, since she didn't have anything better to do, she started to tidy up.

She loaded the dishwasher with the dirty dishes and left the grease-covered pots and pans in the sink to soak. She scrubbed down all the surfaces and dug out an ancient bottle of enamel cleaner from underneath the sink and had just given the Aga a good scouring when the lights from Peter's Rover shone through the window and she heard the sound of a car door slamming, and quick steps down the path.

Peter threw the door open, striding in, still dressed in waterproofs and mud-caked Wellies.

“I thought it was your car. Has something happened?”

She saw the panic etched in every line of his face and said quickly, “It's okay. Nothing serious—”

“My dad,” Peter said, not a question, but Juliet nodded as if it had been one.

“He was in my garden. He was a little disoriented.”

Peter's mouth opened, but no sound came out. “I told him to stay here while I moved the sheep,” he finally said. Juliet could hear both guilt and confusion in his voice. “He's normally very good about staying put when I ask him to.”

“He told me he wanted to go to the pub,” Juliet explained. “But I got him back here and saw to his feet—”

“His feet?”

“He was barefoot,” Juliet explained. “And without a shirt. He must have walked all the way from Bega Farm to Tarn House.”

Peter raked a hand through his hair, his fist clenching on the flyaway strands. “I shouldn't have—”

“He's all right, Peter.”

“Let me go check on him.” He moved past her to the sitting room, tracking mud across the kitchen floor. At least, Juliet thought, she hadn't gotten round to mopping up yet.

A few minutes later Peter returned to the kitchen. He stared at her for a moment, and then his gaze moved to the cleaned kitchen. “Thank you,” he finally said. “You've been very kind.”

“It's nothing.”

Peter didn't answer; his face was still pale, his expression dazed. Juliet had an urge to hug him, but she doubted that would go over well and in any case she wasn't sure she could manage it. She felt as jerky and awkward as a wooden marionette; it had suddenly become difficult to know what to do with her arms.

She decided he could use a shot of whiskey instead, and she could, as well. She fetched the bottle of Glenfiddich and poured them both measures before handing one to Peter, who took it almost absently, his gaze unfocused.

“Thank you. . . .”

“Drink up, Peter.”

He took a sip, blinking as the alcohol hit the back of his throat, and then he drained his glass and placed it on the counter. “I won't be able to manage on my own anymore,” he said, and Juliet shook her head.

“No, probably not. But having a caregiver in could be a good thing.”

“Dad won't like being meddled with.”

“He was all right with me.”

“But some stranger . . .”

“You could interview someone,” Juliet suggested. “Find someone he likes.”

Peter gave her a bleak look. “There's not enough money to be choosy.”

Juliet nodded. There was no such thing as a rich sheep farmer, not in Cumbria. “I'm sorry,” she said, because she didn't know what else to say, and she was.

“I'm sorry too,” Peter said. “And I don't mean my dad. I'm sorry I've . . . I haven't been more forgiving.”

Juliet stared at him, dry-mouthed, before she finally managed to stammer back, “I'm—I'm sorry I did something you needed to forgive.”

And finally,
finally
Peter gave her one of those slow smiles she'd missed this last month. “We areet, then, Juliet?”

“We're areet,” she answered with a return smile. She couldn't keep from feeling a little twist of sorrow, though, for what they might have had, and missed out on. All because she'd been so bloody stupid. So afraid.

“I should go.” She took a step towards the door.

“Thank you for everything,” Peter said. “I'd drive you back, but—”

“You don't want to leave your dad. And I have my car. I understand, Peter. And if you need help, you know you can ask me.” She looked at him seriously, almost sternly, because she knew Peter was as proud as he was gentle, and he wouldn't like asking for help. “If you need someone to come and sit with your dad, or you could bring him up to Tarn House for a change of scenery. I'm around most days.”

“He might like that,” Peter said, which was as close to a yes as Juliet would get. She nodded, and Peter nodded back, and then, reluctantly because she knew she wanted to stay, she left.