‘But she still loves you, in her own way.’
He shook his head.
‘You were together for over thirty years, Dad. You had three children together.’
‘Yes, but …’ He looked towards the cloudless sky, his brown eyes watery. ‘Bloody disease,’ he muttered, his voice cracking. He’d aged. His dark hair speckled with grey, the creases on his forehead deepened. Amelia leaned into him. Rested her head on his shoulder. Finding out her mum had terminal cancer had taken its toll on them all.
‘It’s crap,’ she said, looking towards Lark sitting cross-legged on the grass brushing a tear from her pale cheek. None of them were doing a good job of hiding their desperation. They needed to sort themselves out.
Lark looked so different to the last time Amelia saw her. Gone were the pale-blue dungarees, the high ponytail, her love of Justin Bieber. Today, she wore a flowing black dress, and black lace-up ankle boots. She was growing up fast, looked older than her seventeen years, her long blonde hair flowing down her back, her freckled cheeks masked by pale foundation, her lips painted red.
‘She’s refusing to go to university next year,’ her dad said, seeming to notice where Amelia’s eyes had landed.
‘Lark?’
He nodded. ‘She’s been so moody lately. I can’t get to the bottom of it.’
‘Mum’s dying,’ Amelia whispered. ‘She isn’t coping.’
Lark looked up, and caught Amelia’s eye across the expanse of grass. Her eyeliner had smudged beneath her eyes, and Amelia felt a pang of guilt that she rarely saw her anymore. ‘I’m worried about her,’ she said, turning back to her dad.
He nodded. ‘Me too.’
The rest of the family reached reception, and Lark got to her feet and shuffled towards them, head down.
‘We should probably go over,’ Amelia said. ‘Try to look happy.’
‘Yes, of course – chin up and all that.’
They rose and linked arms. ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ Amelia whispered.
As they approached, Jackson – who was only six years older than Amelia at thirty-six – had taken charge, and was in full voice.
‘It looks a bit small in there,’ he said, peering through the bay window into reception, one hand over his eyes to block out the sun. ‘I’ll go in and get the keys, shall I?’ He pushed his sandy-blond hair from his face with an exaggerated flick. ‘Then we can unpack,’ he went on. ‘Have a rest and freshen up before dinner. How does that sound?’
‘Good to see you taking charge,’ Amelia said with a roll of her eyes. This man walked in on my family and changed everything. She bit down on her lip. What right did she have to say anything? Her fleeting visits to the apartment Mum shared with him in Tweedmouth, brandishing huge bunches of flowers that only went some way towards easing her guilt, were hardly the act of a supportive daughter. She’d been a coward hiding in London, hoping a miracle would happen and she would never have to face the loss of her mother.
Her mum, who was holding on to Jackson’s arm, threw her a pleading look. She loved Jackson – Amelia knew that, even if she didn’t understand why. Yes she was still heartbroken that she’d left her dad, but this break wasn’t about Amelia. This was about her mum’s happiness – a happiness that would be cut short long before it should have been.
‘Sounds fine by me,’ Amelia said, and a lump rose in her throat as her mum smiled and mouthed, ‘Thank you.’
She let out a sigh, and looked away. How the hell was she – or any of them – going to get through the next few days?
Chapter 6
A Year Ago
Ruth
Ruth stood behind an antique reception desk, inquisitive grey eyes, like marbles, fixed on the couple entering. The woman looked familiar, though she couldn’t fathom why, but then Ruth had met so many people over the years – visitors to Drummondale House.
‘Good morning.’ She moulded her face into a welcoming smile, without showing her teeth. She didn’t like her teeth – far too small, her mother always said. ‘Welcome to Drummondale House.’
‘Hey there.’ The man was American, and exceptionally handsome. His face lit up in a smile. ‘I’m Jackson Cromwell, and this is my partner Caroline Taylor.’
Ruth’s guests fascinated her. The anticipation of discovering more about their lives was her only pleasure outside of cooking. They always arrived smiling because they were on holiday, hiding their faults and flaws, their quirks, and deepest troubles. But what was beneath their façades intrigued her. It was like finding hidden treasure when it revealed itself – always a delight to see that they were never quite as happy below their holiday sheen. No happier than she was.
Ruth had been here all her life. Her mother had owned this small part of the Drummondale estate, and her father before her.
‘Your great-grandfather won the land in a poker game from George Collis,’ her mother told her once. And now it was hers – a sizeable piece of land right smack bang in the middle of the Drummondale House estate. Her mother had used the land as a camping retreat until her death thirty-five years ago. She’d been an untrusting woman. ‘Ruth,’ she would say, ‘keep your eye on everyone you meet, and trust no one. Nobody’s really your friend.’ And Ruth followed her mother’s advice always. Apart from that one summer when she was seventeen, when he said he loved her – and she’d believed him.
‘It’s stunning here,’ Jackson continued, looking through the window, forcing Ruth from her memory. She couldn’t help staring at him. There was something about him that drew her in.
‘Aye, it is. A beautiful part of the country,’ she said.
‘He’s been on TV and on the Broadway stage.’ It was Caroline. ‘He did really well in the US.’
‘Sorry?’ Ruth moved
