Yesterday's Sun
YESTERDAY’S SUN
A Novel
Amanda Brooke
To Jessica and Nathan for making me what I am: a Mother
C
ONTENTS
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
O
ne hand of the clock swept across the other, marking that brief and unstoppable moment when one day ends and another begins. Holly lay in bed rubbing the swell of her stomach and soothing her unborn child against the cold tremor of fear that had swept across her body, as unstoppable as the hands of the clock.
It took Holly a considerable amount of effort to roll from her back onto her side. She had to maneuver her bump carefully while at the same time suppressing inevitable grunts and groans for fear of waking Tom, who was facing away from her, gently snoring. Holly nuzzled closer to him until her nose felt the familiar tickle of his untamed locks. She breathed in deeply, savoring his warm, sweet smell.
“I love you,” she whispered. The sound of her voice was barely audible, but then Holly had become an expert at keeping quiet. She had spent so many restless nights lying next to him, fighting the urge to break her silence and to tell him that the day she would leave him was drawing ever nearer.
“Today’s the day,” she told him. “You’re going to become a father, and what an amazing daddy you’re going to be. But it’s not going to be easy. You’ll think you won’t be able to cope, but you will. You’ll be angry with me for leaving you both, but eventually you’ll understand. One day, you’ll look at our daughter and you’ll know what I know. You’ll know that she was worth the sacrifice.”
Tom shifted in his sleep and Holly held her breath. She didn’t want to wake him, not yet. But she had to give voice to her apology, even if she didn’t want him to hear it. It was one of the last things on her to-do list—that and give birth, of course.
Holly had spent the last few months preparing for the arrival of her daughter and, just as importantly, preparing for her departure from their lives. Tom loved Holly for her obsession with plans, something that bordered on neurosis, but even he would be shocked to discover how well she had prepared for this day. How else could she die peacefully?
“I love you,” Holly repeated. A single tear rolled down her cheek and she felt the burden of knowledge pulling her down far more heavily than the baby she was carrying. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t tell you. I couldn’t tell you. However terrifying this is for me, it would have been unbearable for you. I’ve had to make some tough decisions and I’ve learned the hard way that the best decisions are never the obvious ones. And I’ve learned something else, too. I’ve learned that love endures, sometimes in the most amazing ways. I promise you, I’ll be there at your side in your darkest hours.”
A sob escaped and this time it was loud enough to stir Tom. He turned sleepily toward her. “Are you Ok?” he mumbled, and then startled himself awake. “Is it time?”
“Time? Not quite yet,” Holly assured him with a rueful smile despite herself. Time had been her enemy from the moment they had moved into the gatehouse, the house they now called home. That had been only eighteen months ago and her thoughts returned to that pivotal moment when time began to run out for her.
H
olly closed the front door and leaned heavily against it, breathing out a huge sigh of relief. The movers had been miracle workers, transforming the empty shell they had arrived at that morning into something that Holly could call home. The house had once been an imposing gatehouse, sitting at the entrance to the majestic Hardmonton Hall. But the Hall was now a burned-out ruin and the gatehouse, set just outside the tiny village of Fincross, had been all but forgotten. Despite its gray stone walls and peeling paint, Holly had fallen in love with the house. It had stood the test of time far better than the Hall itself and seemed the ideal place to build a home and settle down, perhaps forever.
Still leaning against the door, Holly took a furtive look at her reflection in the full-length mirror that had been left propped against the entry wall, waiting to be hung. The house—correction, her home—may have improved its looks during the day, but Holly was definitely looking worse for wear. Her long blond hair—usually her crowning glory to compensate for her otherwise average looks—was pulled back in a bedraggled ponytail. The little makeup she had put on at the start of the day was no more than a memory, having retreated into the tiny wrinkles at the corners of her blue, almond-shaped eyes.
She hoped she looked more tired than old. After all, she was only twenty-nine and she felt as if her life was just beginning. Married for only two years, this was the first place she and Tom had actually owned and the first chance they had had to put down proper roots.
Ignoring her reflection, Holly took in her new surroundings. The hall ran down the center of the house, with a door on the left leading to a small reception room that would become Tom’s study. The door to the right led to a larger reception room, which would be their living room, and the half-open door gave teasing glimpses of familiar pieces of furniture in their new surroundings. The city-living furniture was a harsh contrast to the chintz-inspired wallpaper and hardwood floors, but Holly had rather eccentric tastes and liked the conflict in styles.
“I’ve checked the list and I think it’s complete,” Tom said, appearing in the doorway at the farthest end of the hall, which led from the kitchen.
Tom looked even more disheveled than Holly in his well-worn jeans and T-shirt. The look did nothing to flatter his tall, wiry stature or show off the toned body that Holly knew lay beneath. The difference between the two of them was that this worn-out look was normal for Tom. He was far too interested in the world around him to pay any attention to himself. That was probably why he made such a good journalist. He was warm and approachable—never smarmy, never intimidating—and people opened up easily to him.
Holly had resisted the urge to smarten him up, not least because it was his contrast to her own style that appealed to her. Holly was an artist and, when she wasn’t knee-deep in plaster of Paris and paint, she liked to dress up in carefully contrasting combinations of vintage and contemporary clothes, a style that was also reflected in her artwork. The other reason Holly accepted Tom’s unkempt style was purely selfish. He spent a lot of time working away from home and she didn’t want him impressing the ladies too much.
“What list?” Holly asked suspiciously. “There’s still tons of work to do. It’s going to take weeks before we’re properly unpacked and that’s before we even start thinking about redecorating.”
“Not the moving-house list,” Tom corrected her. “
The list
.” He was stepping slowly toward her with his left hand out in front of him, inspecting an imaginary piece of paper on his upturned palm. He stopped two feet in front of her.
“You do realize that you’re looking at an empty hand?”
Tom ignored her. “Find boyfriend. Check! Find gallery to exhibit your artwork. Check! Get married. Check! Establish select clientele to buy said works of art. Check! Earn enough to give up your day job. Check!” Each time he said, “Check!” Tom was using the index finger on his other hand as an imaginary pen to mark off each accomplishment.
“And finally?” asked Holly, already knowing the answer.
Tom moved a step closer. “Move to the country and live happily ever after.”
“Check,” whispered Holly just before Tom kissed her.
After an indecent amount of time, Tom took a breath. “And I do believe, Mrs. Corrigan, that you’ve completed your list a whole six months ahead of schedule.”
“I do believe you’re right, Mr. Corrigan,” Holly answered smugly.
Perhaps “smug” was the wrong word. “Eternally grateful” might be better. Holly had worked hard at her five-year life plan but, in truth, her success at finding the perfect husband and a blossoming career had been more by luck than design. In fact, she owed it all to a drunken accountant.
When Holly was twenty-five, having left art school with an armful of accolades but no real idea how she was going to make a living out of her talent, she had found herself juggling countless part-time jobs to make ends meet. The jobs had accumulated as she worked her way through college and, when she left, she carried on with them until they began to consume so much of her day that art became a luxury she couldn’t afford, let alone find the time or energy to work on.
Her epiphany arrived one night in the shape of a middle-aged city worker who staggered drunkenly into the backstreet bar where she worked. Her hero, after several attempts, claimed a seat at the bar and immediately took Holly hostage with a lengthy monologue about his wonderful life and recent promotion in a leading accountancy firm. It wasn’t until the drunk told her about how his promotion was all part of his five-year plan that Holly, a neurotic list-maker, started to pay attention. Suddenly realizing how aimless her own life was, she asked herself why, if this good-for-nothing drunk could succeed, couldn’t she? She went home that night and couldn’t sleep until she had set out on paper the goals she wanted to achieve in the next five years.
Within a year, Holly had a new direction. She traded in her collection of part-time jobs for one full-time job in a television studio, working behind the scenes on production and finally putting her talents to good use. It also meant that she had enough spare time to develop her artwork and earn occasional commissions through contacts with a local art gallery.
Next on her list was her love life. That wasn’t supposed to happen until year three, but Tom arrived ahead of schedule. He had been visiting the TV studio for a job interview and left a few hours later not only with a new job but with a new girlfriend, too.
Holly had spotted him wandering around the props section, obviously lost. He had emerged from the interview on a high, having being offered a job as a special correspondent on environmental issues, but what started out as a snooping expedition around the studio quickly turned into an endless journey through a maze.