Gemma wondered if Rosemary felt a little envy for the daughter who had turned away from the family business to make her own way. Had Rosemary dreamed of a life that held more than raising her children and helping with her husband’s shop?
“Our banker, an old friend of Hugh’s and mine, loaned her the start-up money. Caspar was livid, and even though she’s kept her head above water so far, he hasn’t forgiven her. I think his pride is more damaged than his pocketbook. He sees it as a sort of defection.” Rosemary looked a little abashed. “I’m talking out of turn.
It’s just that—well, I can’t say these things to Juliet, and I certainly can’t discuss it with friends in town. Everyone knows everyone’s business here. But I’m worried about Juliet, and the children. Lally especially—it’s such a difficult age. And her father spoils her, which only complicates the situation further.”
“He doesn’t sound the type to spoil his children,” said Gemma, thinking that what he sounded was a right prat.
“Oh, well, fathers and daughters.” Rosemary smiled. “To his credit, I think he does love the children. And he can display a certain earnest charm.”
Gemma must have looked askance, because Rosemary let out a peal of laughter. But before she could speak, the phone trilled and she rose to answer it. After a murmured conversation, she rang off and turned back to Gemma.
“You’ll get a chance to see for yourself, soon enough,” she said briskly. “That was Duncan, calling from his mobile. We’re to meet them at the house.”
From the moment Kit stepped into his grandparents’ sitting room, he felt he’d known it his whole life. The shelves of books and the faded Oriental rug reminded him of Gemma’s friend Erika’s house, except
that here the space was dominated by two large, scuffed brown leather chesterfields rather than a grand piano. The little wall space not filled with books held framed cartoons of odd-looking people and even funnier- looking dogs. A low fire burned in the grate, and a large fir tree had been jammed into the corner nearest the window.
Sam crouched beneath the tree, sorting packages into a pile. “I’ve got more than anyone else,” he crowed as he delved under the branches for another gift. Toby knelt beside him, and Kit could tell from his brother’s expression that he was wondering if there were any packages under the tree for him.
“You do not,” said Lally. Perched on an ottoman, she watched her brother with an expression of disdain. “And nobody cares, anyway.
You’re a wanker.” She glanced at Kit from under her lashes, as if to see whether he was impressed with her vocabulary. He was. Hoping she couldn’t see him blushing, he gave an involuntary glance at the door. Gemma would box his ears for saying something like that, and he didn’t want her to think badly of Lally.
“Am not.” Sam stopped in his pawing to glare at her, while Toby, losing interest in someone else’s loot, wandered over to the hearth.
“You don’t even know what it means.”
“Do so. It’s—”
Before Sam could enlighten them, Toby interrupted. “Kit. Kit, look.
They’ve got our names on them.” He was pointing to the stockings hanging from the mantel. There were four, each a different Christmas tapestry, and names were embroidered across their velvet tops. He reached up, tracing the lettering on the last one. “It says ‘Toby.’ ” At five, he was very proud of his rudimentary reading skills.
Moving closer, Kit saw his name beside Toby’s, and Sam and Lally’s on the other two.
“Nana didn’t want you to feel left out,” Lally informed them, which made Kit feel more awkward than ever, rather than included.
The last thing he wanted was anything calling attention to the fact that he didn’t belong, or anyone feeling sorry for him.
Having lost the focus of attention, Sam had risen from his pile of gifts and was jiggling impatiently. “Come see my Game Boy,” he demanded. “It’s upstairs. My dad gave it to me for my birthday.”
“Kit doesn’t want to see your Game Boy,” said Lally, with unde-niable finality. “You take Toby.”
Sam hesitated, his inner struggle showing clearly on his face. He wanted to show off his toy to Toby, but he hated giving in to his sister’s bossiness. Pride of possession won. “Okay. But we’ll be right back. Come on, Toby.”
Kit felt his breath stop with terror as the door closed behind the younger boys. What would he find to say to Lally alone? He needn’t have worried.
“I know where Nana keeps the sherry,” Lally announced. “We can have a sip, but not enough so that she’ll notice the level’s gone down in the bottle.”
“Sherry?” Kit made a face. He’d been given a taste once at Erika’s. “But that’s nasty. Tastes like cough medicine. Why would you want to drink that?”
“It does the trick, doesn’t it?” She slipped off the ottoman and opened a cabinet near the fireplace. “Granddad keeps his whisky in here, too, but it’s really expensive, and he says he checks it to make sure it’s not evaporating.”
Kit stared at her back as she reached up for a bottle. Could that possibly be a tattoo, just where her shirt rose to reveal the top of her jeans and an inch of bare skin? She turned back to him, bottle in hand, and he tore his eyes away from her midriff.
She pulled the cork and took a drink, but he noticed it was a very small one, and she had to hide a grimace. Holding the bottle out to him, she said, “Sure you don’t want some?”
Kit shook his head, blushing. Would she think him a total prat?
“Don’t tell me you never get into your parents’ drinks cabinet at home?” Lally wiped the lip of the bottle with the hem of her shirt and recorked it.
“They don’t keep much,” Kit answered evasively. Duncan usually had a bottle of whisky in his study, and there was often a bottle of wine or a few beers in the fridge, but he certainly wasn’t going to admit it had never occurred to him to sneak any. Besides, Duncan had let him have a taste of watered-down wine when they had friends over for dinner, and he hadn’t cared much for it.
“You have to develop an appreciation for the finer things,” said Lally, coming back to the ottoman, and Kit had the feeling she was repeating something she’d heard often. She sat, drawing her knees up under her chin, and scrutinized him.
Feeling like a specimen under the dissecting microscope, Kit squirmed and searched for something— anything—to say that might impress her.
Lally’s rescue left him feeling even more confused. “Do your parents fight?” she asked.
“I—sometimes, I suppose.” Did Lally know that Gemma wasn’t his real mother, that his mum had died? If not, he wasn’t going to tell her.
He thought of the tense silences that sometimes happened between Duncan and Gemma since she had lost the baby, and felt a coldness in his chest. He didn’t want to talk about that, either.
“My mum and dad fight all the time,” Lally went on, as if she hadn’t expected an answer. “They think we don’t hear them, but we do. That’s why Sam’s so hyper, you know. He didn’t used to be like that. Or not as bad, at least. Mum’s never home after school anymore either, since she started her business. Do you think my mum really found a body?” she asked, sitting up a bit straighter.
Not having really given it much thought, as his parents seemed to find bodies on a daily basis, Kit answered, “She said so, didn’t she?
So I suppose she did.” It didn’t seem the sort of thing one would make up.
“What do you think it was like?” Lally’s eyes sparkled.
Kit flashed on the one thing he couldn’t bear to think about, the
image as vivid as the day it had happened. He felt the nausea start, and the prickle of sweat on his forehead. Desperate to change the subject, he said, “Where’s your house, then?”
“Nantwich, near the square.” Lally appeared to notice his blank look. “You don’t know the town at all, do you? It’s dead boring. But you can find things to do. Once we get dinner over with tonight, we’ll go out. I’ll show you round a bit.”
The sitting-room door swung open with a bang, making Kit jump, and Sam looked in.
“Uncle Duncan just rang. We’re going to our house, all of us, in Granddad’s estate car. Nana says we have to
