“But I picked up some things at the supermarket…” Gemma made a halfhearted gesture in the direction of her carrier bags.
Wrinkling her snub nose, Hazel expressed her opinion of that. “Macaroni and cheese out of a box, I’ll bet, or something equally ghastly. You need something that hasn’t been thrown together at the last minute. Food is comfort for the soul as well as the body” The last she intoned with great weight, then laughed. “So says the philosopher of the kitchen.”
With a shamefaced smile, Gemma confessed, “It was the first thing I saw on the shelf.” She stretched, relaxed now from the warmth of the room and the tea, and looked around the pleasant kitchen. The old glass-fronted cabinets had been rubbed with a soft green stain, the walls were covered with peach paper, and any spare spaces on counters and table held Hazel’s baskets of jumbled knitting yarns. Suddenly finding herself loath to leave, she said, “It does sound lovely. Are you sure we wouldn’t be imposing? I’m always afraid we’ll wear out our welcome.” Seeing Hazel’s emphatic reassurance, she added, “And I’ll admit it’s been a hellish week.”
“Rough case?” Hazel asked sympathetically.
“You could say that.” Cradling the hot cup in her hands, Gemma told her about Alastair Gilbert.
When she’d finished, Hazel shuddered, concern evident in her expression. “How awful. For them and for you. But there’s more than that, isn’t there, Gemma?” she asked, with the direct gaze that must have made her patients squirm. “You disappear for days without notice, show up again, then leave Toby without a word of explanation— what’s going on?”
Gemma shook her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I’ll be all right.”
Shaking her head, Hazel leaned forwards earnestly. “Who are you trying to convince? You know it’s not good to bottle things up. You don’t have to be superwoman all the time. Let someone else share a little bit of the burden —”
“I don’t need a therapist, Hazel,” Gemma interrupted, then instantly regretted it. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s got into me lately. I’ve been sniping at everyone. You didn’t deserve that.”
Sitting back with a sigh, Hazel said, “I don’t know—maybe I did. Old habits, you know. I’m sorry if I overstepped your boundaries, but I care about you, and I want to help if I can.”
The kindness in Hazel’s voice brought an ache to Gemma’s throat, and she felt a sudden longing to pour out her troubles and be comforted. Instead, she swallowed and asked tentatively, “How could you bear it, Hazel? Giving up your job like that? Weren’t you afraid of losing yourself?”
Hazel watched the children for a long moment before answering. “It hasn’t been easy, but I haven’t regretted it, either. I’ve learned from experience that it’s a great emotional risk to ground one’s identity entirely in one’s work. Life is entirely too tumultuous for that—you can lose a job or a career tomorrow, and then where are you? The same is true of marriage and motherhood. You have to rely on something deeper than that, something inviolate.” She looked up and met Gemma’s eyes. “Easier said than done, I know, and I’m not avoiding the personal question. I waited until fairly late to have a child, and as much as I enjoyed my work I decided that being with Holly the first few years of her life was an experience I wouldn’t have a chance to repeat. I sometimes feel guilty about that, knowing so many women who don’t have that option—like you.” Hazel’s dimples appeared as she grinned at Gemma. “But then I’m not sure you’d take it if you could.”
Brow furrowed, Gemma studied her mug as if the contents held an answer. “No way, I’d have said in the beginning. I saw being pregnant and having a baby as a bloody nuisance, to tell the truth—just another way I’d let Rob’s carelessness spill over into my life. But now …”
Toby, perhaps sensing some current of unease in his mother’s voice, stopped his play and came to stand beside her, butting his head against her arm.
Gemma cuddled him and tousled his hair. “But now I don’t know. There are days when I envy you.” She thought of Jackie Temple’s unexpected revelation. Was anyone ever satisfied with her lot?
“And there are days when I think I’ll go mad if I hear another toy advert,” countered Hazel, laughing. “So I cook. That’s my defense.” She stood up and carried their empty mugs to the sink. “And I think it’s time to switch from restoratives to sedatives.” She pulled a bottle of white wine from the fridge. “This Gewurztraminer’s lovely with the spices in North African food.” Retrieving a corkscrew from a drawer, she started to peel the foil cap off the bottle, then stopped and turned back to Gemma. “Just one more thing. I’ll not push you, but I want you to know that I’m always here if you want to talk. And I’ll not let the therapist get in the way of the friend.”
Gemma fell asleep that night in the curving leather chair in the flat, Toby sprawled across her lap, only to wake in the wee hours, chilled, numb from the weight of her son’s relaxed body, with Claire Gilbert’s face burnt into her mind like the bright afterimage of a flare.
CHAPTER
7
The doorbell pealed as Kincaid and Nick Deveney waited on the steps of Dr. Gabriella Wilson’s creeper-covered cottage, a few doors up the lane from the Gilberts’.
Escaping gratefully after a morning of meetings at Guildford Police Station, they’d left Will Darling to collate the still-incoming reports. When Dr. Wilson’s name had appeared on the list of burglary victims gleaned from yesterday’s house-to-house of the village, they’d made her their first priority.
As they drove into the village, Deveney had mumbled something around the cheese roll he clutched in his right hand while shifting with his left. Swallowing, he said more clearly, “Kill two birds. And make Gemma happy, at any rate,” he’d added with a cryptic glance at Kincaid.
They’d begun to feel the cold by the time the door swung open. A small, competent-looking, middle-aged woman studied them. She seemed to have taken up where Kincaid and Deveney left off, for she held half a sandwich in her left hand, a perfect half-moon-shaped bite missing from its edge. “You’ll be the police, I expect,” she said equably. “I wondered when you’d get around to me again. Come in, but you’ll have to be quick about it.” Turning, she led them down a passage towards the back of the house. “I barely manage a bite as it is, between morning surgery and afternoon calls.”
Passing through a swinging door, they entered the kitchen and she gestured towards a table cluttered with papers and periodicals. Kincaid pulled out a chair, gingerly removing another stack of papers before he sat down. “Dr. Wilson, if you could—”
