Rainy Day Sisters (35 page)

“Yes.” Fiona nodded wearily. “I suppose it should have.” She didn't say anything more, and Juliet stared at her, at the sandy hair that was the same as hers and Lucy's, but now streaked with silver. At the gray eyes, even the slightly crooked nose. Both sisters looked like Fiona. Why hadn't her mother been able to see it? Why hadn't she been able to push past the tragedy and heartache, and love the child she'd been given, the child she'd chosen to keep?

Maybe it really had been impossible for Fiona; maybe she just hadn't tried. Either way it didn't really matter.

“So that's it?” Juliet said. “That's all you've got?”

“I don't expect you to understand—”

“No, you do,” Juliet cut her off, her voice hardening. “You expect me to understand and absolve you. And Lucy too, although that probably never seemed difficult to you, since she went trotting back to Boston to take care of you.” She shook her head slowly. “I think you're the most selfish woman I've ever known. You could have tried just a
little
over the years. You could have reached out to me, even to explain why you couldn't reach out more—”

“Was I supposed to explain to a child that her father was a rapist?” Fiona asked, her voice hardening too.

“I'm thirty-seven. I think you could have found the right time to tell me.”

“I didn't see the point when you were an adult. We didn't have a relationship.”

“At least you're honest about that.” She drew a deep breath. “I don't know what you could have done when I was young, but I'll tell you this. Anything, no matter how small, would have been better than what you did, which was bloody nothing.”

Fiona rose from the chair; with shock Juliet realized she was actually angry. “I fed you. I clothed you—”

“Am I supposed to applaud?”

“I gave you two hundred and fifty thousand pounds—”

“You can't pretend that was anything but a payoff.”

“Maybe it was,” Fiona answered evenly. “But it was something. And you never even said thank you.”

“Maybe that's because you'd never said sorry,” Juliet snapped back. “When I called you on your birthday five years ago, you hung up. How do you think that made me feel?”

Fiona sank back into her chair. “You surprised me—”

“So you should have got yourself together and called back.”

“It was easier to pretend you hadn't called at all.”

“Right. Easier.” Juliet nodded. “I get where you're coming from, Fiona. Completely.” She turned away, everything in her so tight and tense she felt as if she might snap. From behind her she heard Fiona stand up.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Did she? Her mother had come all this way, and for what? To offer up excuses? “You can stay,” she said without turning around. “For Lucy's sake. But I suppose we'll just ignore each other as always. The bedroom at the top of the stairs is free.”

Fiona was silent for a moment. Then Juliet heard the squeak of her chair and the sound of her mother leaving the kitchen. She let out her breath in a rush and bowed her head, her hands clutching the rail of the Aga. Upstairs a door closed softly.

In one abrupt movement Juliet turned from the Aga and stalked out of the kitchen. She yanked on her boots, grabbed her coat, and headed out into the freezing night. It was dark and moonless; she hadn't brought a flashlight, so she stumbled down the track to the only place she could go, the only place she wanted to be. Peter's house.

Through the window she could see that he was alone in the kitchen, drinking coffee and going over accounts, when Juliet hammered on the door.

“Juliet—” He caught her in his arms as she practically fell through the door. “My God, what's wrong?”

“My mother,” she said, and realized her teeth were chattering, and not just from the cold. She felt cold inside, cold with the shock of having her mother come here, and all the awful things she'd said.

“Your mother?” Peter led her to the table, then went for the whiskey. Juliet downed it in one fiery gulp.

“This is becoming a habit,” she joked feebly as she placed the glass on the table. Her hand trembled and the glass nearly fell. Peter steadied it.

“What's happened with your mother?”

“She's just come to bloody Cumbria.” She let out a wild laugh and then buried her face in her hands. “And she told me why she never wanted or loved me.” She looked up at him between her fingers, suddenly terrified that this would change his opinion of her, and yet knowing she had to tell someone, and that she wasn't ready for it to be Lucy. “She was raped, Peter. My father was a rapist.”

Peter stared at her for a long moment, a moment that felt endless in its silence, and then wordlessly he covered her hand with his own.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm so sorry.” Juliet didn't say anything. She didn't think she could.

He squeezed her hand and Juliet sniffed. “I feel like it changes who I am,” she said. “I know it shouldn't, but . . .”

“I understand that, Juliet.” He hesitated and then said, his voice matter-of-fact, “My father used to hit me.” Juliet blinked and Peter continued. “I don't mean the odd slap. Proper beatings, with his belt. I used to hate him. I dreamed about killing him.”

She could not imagine Peter dreaming about killing anyone, but neither could she imagine him being beaten as a boy by
William
. “But . . .” she began, although she didn't know what she was going to say.

“It's why my brother, David, left. After my mum died, I was going to leave too, but I was tied to this land and farming's all I've known. So I stayed, and then my father got sick, and I was the only person who could care for him.”

“Are you telling me this because . . .” Juliet began uncertainly, and Peter filled it in for her.

“A lot of reasons, I suppose. Because you don't have to be like your parents. I certainly will never hit my child.”

“You're the most gentle man I know, Peter.”

“And seeing my dad looking so weak and helpless now, it's made me think. He's just a man. He made some mistakes, some bloody great big ones, but in the end he's just a human being, same as me. And there were a few good times, amidst all the bad.” He squeezed her shoulders gently. “Were there any good times with your mother?”

Were there? Had the bad memories overwhelmed any good ones? “I don't know,” Juliet admitted shakily. “I can't remember. But, Peter, I don't think I can forgive her.”

“Of course you can't,” he said with a nod. “Not now. Not yet. But one day, for your sake as much as hers, I hope you can.”

Juliet searched his face, seeing only acceptance in his eyes. “You're a good man, Peter Lanford.”

He smiled at that. “No more than any other, I reckon.”

“I don't know if I'm as good as you.”

“Then I'm glad this isn't a competition.” He pulled her gently to her feet, and then put his arms around her. She pressed her cheek against the rough wool of his jumper, felt the steady thud of his heart. “Give yourself time, Juliet. You're as hard on yourself as you are on your mother.”

“So you think I'm hard on her.”

He laughed softly, a rasping sound. “I don't care about your mother. I care about you.” And then he touched a finger to her chin and tilted her face up so he could kiss her, a whisper across her mouth, and Juliet felt the tightness inside her loosen, just a little.

It was a start, she realized, and kissed Peter back. It was a start.

Lucy

LUCY HAD BEEN SITTING
on her bed, her hands clasped tightly together, listening to Juliet's and Fiona's voices rise and fall below her in the kitchen. She'd closed her eyes and willed a silent, formless prayer heavenwards. She wanted their relationship to work. She wanted their reconciliation.

At least they were talking for a while. She unclasped her hands because the bones in her fingers had started to ache. She could still hear their voices: low murmurs, and then a sudden rise and fall. And then, after a few more minutes, the sound of her mother coming up the stairs and the distant slamming of the front door.

Not good sounds. Not healing, life-affirming, everyone's-okay-now sounds.

Cautiously she tiptoed from her bedroom and down the upstairs hallway. The house was eerily quiet; Lucy could hear the ticking of the hall clock. She stood at the top of the stairs, not sure what she should do, and her mother opened one of the bedroom doors.

“Mum . . . ?”

Fiona stiffened, her chin rising a notch. “I'm afraid that didn't go very well.”

“Where's Juliet?”

“She left.” Fiona gestured towards the downstairs. “She stormed off. I don't know where.”

Lucy sagged against the wall. “What happened?”

“Oh, Lucy.” Fiona's mouth tightened in that old, familiar way. “Did you think we were going to make up just like that? Because I can assure you, too much has happened for that.”

“Did you . . . did you tell Juliet why . . . ?” Lucy ventured.

“Yes.”

And it obviously wasn't any of her business. “But she's still angry.”

Fiona lifted one thin shoulder in a shrug. “Like I said, too much has happened. I think she'll always be angry.”

Her mother's tone sounded almost . . . indifferent. “I hope,” Lucy said, “for Juliet's sake, she's not.”

Fiona considered this for a moment before nodding slowly. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose I hope that too.”

“You
suppose
?” Lucy stared at her mother, at the weary yet determined lines of her face, and she knew that nothing had actually changed. She was still living in her absurd little bubble of optimism; her mother was still her mother, self-obsessed, determined, arrogant, impossible. She loved her, Lucy knew; she couldn't help it. But she wasn't actually sure if her mother loved her back. “Why did you come here, Mum?” she asked quietly, and Fiona looked startled.

“Because . . . because I wanted to make amends. Explain things. Facing death does that to a person.”

“But what about Juliet?”

Fiona stared. “What about her?”

“I mean . . . don't you care about her?”

“Oh, Lucy.” Her mother gave one of her familiar sighs, the sound of weary disappointment with poor, stupid Lucy. “It's not that simple.”

Lucy could feel an ache in her throat, and an even deeper ache in her heart. How many times had her mother dismissed what she'd said, believed, or hoped for? But she didn't have to buy into her mother's philosophy anymore. She didn't have to give it a moment's worth of credence. “Actually,” she said, “sometimes it is that simple.”

She walked past her mother into her bedroom, filled with a sudden, restless anger for Juliet's sake as well as her own. She'd hoped her mother's coming here would change . . . well, everything. Juliet and Fiona would reconcile. They'd finally be a happy family. The End.

She sank onto the bed, annoyed with herself for being so bloody naive, even as she still half wished it could happen. Eventually she heard her mother's footsteps along the hallway, and then the sound of a door down the hall closing. She changed into her pajamas and brushed her teeth, listening for Juliet's now-familiar tread, but she fell asleep before she heard anything other than the lonely rustling of the wind through the trees.

She woke up to rain spattering against the windows, and even though it was nearly nine o'clock in the morning, it was still completely dark out.
Welcome to a Cumbrian winter,
she thought, and almost snuggled back under the duvet before she remembered. Juliet.
Fiona.

She threw on jeans and a sweater and hurried downstairs. Milly and Molly were in the kitchen by their food bowls, whining and circling them. With a jolt Lucy realized Juliet must not have come home last night.

She took the dogs out into the nasty morning—ice, rain, and wind—and let them do their business while she huddled on the doorstep. Then she fed them their kibble and made herself a cup of tea, wondering where Juliet was and when Fiona would come downstairs.

Then she saw the note.

She eyed it warily, thick cream paper with her mother's elegant script, propped between the salt and pepper shakers, addressed to both of them. Lucy wrestled with indecision for several seconds about whether to wait for Juliet before she plucked the note from the table and opened the folded paper.

I think it's better if I go.

—Fiona

That was it. Seven words and her name. Lucy sank into a chair.

The back door opened and she glanced up to see Juliet coming in, looking decidedly rumpled but also surprisingly composed.

“Where were you?”

“At Peter's.” Juliet closed the door and shrugged out of her jacket. “It's horrendous out there.”

“All night?” Lucy practically squeaked.

“Yes, but not like that. Well, sort of like that.” Juliet reached for the kettle. “Don't ask for details.”

She nodded to the kettle. “It's already hot—I just boiled it. And of course I'm going to ask for details—”

“I needed someone to talk to after my conversation with Fiona. Someone who's a little removed from it.”

“I can understand that.” Lucy waited until Juliet had made herself a cup of tea and sat down. “She's gone,” she said, and handed her the note.

Juliet scanned it briefly and then tossed it onto the table. “I'm not actually surprised.”

“She came all this way to leave after one night?” Lucy could hear the hurt in her voice. “
I'm
surprised.”

“She's probably gone to a spa somewhere in Manchester or London, to recover from her ordeal.” Juliet shrugged and took a sip of tea. “Her heart wasn't in it, Lucy.”

Even now Lucy couldn't help but say, “She seemed sincere when I talked to her in Boston. . . .”

Juliet grimaced. “I don't know if our mother actually knows how to be sincere. But she gave me some answers, and I'm thankful for that. Mostly.”

“Answers . . . ?” Lucy ventured cautiously, and Juliet shook her head.

“I'll tell you sometime, just not right now. It's still . . . raw.”

Lucy swallowed and nodded. “Okay.”

To her surprise—and gratification—Juliet reached over and covered her hand with her own. “The three of us were never going to be the perfect family, Lucy,” she said. “No matter how much you wanted it.”

“I know.” Lucy gave a sniff and then a halfhearted chuckle. “But I still hoped. I always hope.”

“Hope is a good thing. I think. You've got me doing it now too, so it had better be.”

“That's a lovely thing to say,” Lucy said with another sniff and laugh. “Of anything I could have done for you, Juliet, I think I'd want it to be that.”

Juliet smiled and removed her hand. Sentimental moment over, clearly. She nodded towards the dogs, who had crept from their baskets and now lay under the table, their heads on their paws, gazes pleading. “How about we take these two for a walk?”

Lucy gave an incredulous glance towards the window. “It's the worst weather out since I arrived here.”

“So? You're a Cumbrian now, aren't you? The weather shouldn't stop you.”

“I thought I was going to be an offcomer for another thirty years or so.”

Juliet shrugged and drained her mug of tea. “It's all in the attitude.” She raised her eyebrows. “So?”

Lucy felt herself starting to grin. “So? That sounds like a challenge.”

“You do have sensible gear now, at least.”

“That I do.”

“So what are you waiting for?”

Lucy glanced once more at the window. It was bucketing down icy rain, and the wind was howling. “Absolutely nothing,” she said, and with Juliet grinning back at her, they reached for their coats, called for the dogs, and headed out into the rain.