One Last Gift, page 21
“Keep it?” Cassie finished, but her tone was nonjudgmental. She shook her head, not to condemn Amy, just trying to get her head around it. Of course Amy wouldn’t have known if she’d wanted the baby. She couldn’t imagine having to contemplate it—giving birth when the father was already dead. Cassie took a slow, painful breath. “I think we ought to sit down,” she told Amy, who nodded, eyes wide, almost fearful-looking. Like she was worried about what Cassie would think. Cassie tried to smile reassuringly. “I’ll finish this,” she said, gesturing at the kettle.
She made two peppermint teas while Amy sat down in the living room on the blue sofa, and the mundane action calmed her a little. She brought the mugs through, set one down next to Amy, then sat in the armchair opposite. “So,” she said. “Umm…wow.”
Amy gave a short, breathless laugh. “Yeah. Wow is right.”
“How are you feeling?”
Amy shook her head, her curls, kept in place by a blue headband today, bouncing. “I’ll be honest. I’ve been a bit of an emotional mess.” She picked up her tea and cupped it in her hands.
“Yeah. I can imagine.” Cassie paused. She had absolutely no idea what to say. She should’ve noticed. She should have noticed before now that something was up, should have paid more attention to Amy when they met at the hotel a few months ago. How had Amy managed to hide it? Cassie tried to think back to their meeting. The signs were there. The loose clothing, the decaf coffee. But clearly, she’d been too wrapped up in her own life that she hadn’t been looking hard enough at what was in front of her. “Amy, I’m so sorry that I—”
Amy held up a hand to stop her. “Don’t. If anyone should be apologizing, it’s me. I just…”
“I know,” Cassie whispered. Because she got it. She really did think she got it. She flicked her gaze around the living room—around Tom’s living room—again, and Amy followed the movement.
“Linda helped to pack up the flat,” Amy said quietly, “but I still find the occasional thing of his, you know? I wanted to move, but at the same time I couldn’t bear to part with the place that has all the memories of him, so I’ve just been…in limbo, I suppose.” Cassie nodded. She thought she understood what Amy meant—that’s how she felt herself. Less so since she’d started the treasure hunt, but it still flared up, now and then. Like she was trying to escape the memories, the pain, and yet trying to hold on to everything at the same time.
Cassie hesitated. But she had to ask, had to know. “Did Tom know?” she asked quietly.
Amy met her gaze, held it. “Yes.”
“But he said…He said you guys had broken up.”
Tears sprang into Amy’s eyes. “Yes. I told him and he…” She heaved in a breath, apparently unable to finish the sentence. Cassie couldn’t speak right away, either. She stared at Amy, not understanding. Or not wanting to understand, trying to finish the sentence in different ways in her mind. Amy stemmed a sob. “He said he couldn’t handle it, said he needed some time away from it. And I got mad—this was happening to both of us, you know? It wasn’t only him who had to deal with it—and I wanted him to commit to it, to me, to say we’d raise the baby together, because I wanted it.” Her words were coming more quickly, blurring into one mass. “It was an accident, but I wanted it—and I wanted it with him. I wanted us to be a family. But he just left.” She was crying now, her shoulders heaving with the sobs, and Cassie, trying to stem her own tears, stood up and went to sit next to Amy on the sofa, putting an arm around her.
“I…” Cassie swallowed. “I’m not sure what to say.” It didn’t make sense to her. Tom had ditched Amy as soon as he found out she was pregnant? Surely not. That wasn’t like him.
She’d been so scathing about Sam leaving Jessica on their wedding day. Was this any better, leaving your long-term girlfriend when she got pregnant? No, Cassie thought firmly. What Sam had done was worse—the wedding had been planned, and there had been plenty of opportunities to get out of it. This would have sent Tom reeling, and it would’ve been a surprise. She knew, in a distant corner of her mind, that she was trying to make excuses for him. She wanted him to have a clean record, needed to be able to think of him as the perfect big brother.
“Are you going to keep it?” she asked quietly. Surely, with the timeline, Amy had decided to go through with the pregnancy, but there was still a chance she was considering giving the baby up for adoption.
“Yes.” Her voice was a little stronger. “Yes, I’m keeping it. And I’m sorry, I wanted to be sure of that before I told you, because I didn’t want to make you sad about it—and then I felt like I’d left it too long and I was trying to figure out how to tell you. I wrote a message so many times, but nothing sounded quite right.”
“Let’s just make a deal that neither of us apologizes, OK?” Amy pressed her lips together, but nodded. “Besides, I’m glad I know now, and that’s the most important thing.” She reached out, took Amy’s hand in hers. “And if you need help, Amy, with anything—I’m here, OK? I’ll be around more, I promise, and I’m totally up for babysitting when the time comes.” She glanced at Amy’s stomach again. It was Tom’s baby in there. She couldn’t work out exactly how she felt about that. Tom’s baby—a part of him. But something he’d never get to see for himself. Something he’d chosen, apparently, to run from.
Amy smiled, though it was a little watery. “You’re going to be an aunt.”
“Yeah. I suppose I am.” And then the two of them were crying, but the hot, salty tears that traced their way down Cassie’s face felt cathartic, so that when she sobbed herself to a stop, something in her had settled a little.
“So,” Amy said, wiping her own tears away and brushing a stray curl aside, “how’s work?”
It felt so ridiculous, given the enormity of Amy’s news, to be talking about work, that Cassie laughed. “It’s fine, I guess.” She went on to tell Amy about the events exchange weekend that was coming up—about the fact that Robert was actually letting her go to it. In truth though, for the past two months something else had been playing on her mind, too. She couldn’t quite shake the image of the house in Wales, the fact that it was for sale, the potential she’d seen there. The idea of taking something a bit run-down and giving it love, making it shine again.
When Amy went to get them another mug of tea—needing, Cassie sensed, a moment alone—Cassie brought out her phone, opened up her email, and stared at it.
It wasn’t committing to anything, was it, if she just asked a question? Tom would tell her to, she knew, if he was here. There was no harm in asking someone who knew the industry—someone who had donated to keep a local pub going, who had said they had some experience there. Who would know, perhaps, the types of business that succeeded and failed?
Hi. So I know you said you had some experience with local pubs as businesses, and I wondered if you’d mind talking something through with me?
She took a deep breath and sent it. All she wanted, really, was to talk it through with someone who didn’t have any emotional connection—Linda, Hazel, or Josh wouldn’t think in that critical way she thought she needed. So she could ask the question, discuss it, realize how ridiculous the whole idea was, and then put it aside.
It must have been the reason Tom had sent her to that house in the first place—he’d have wanted to plant the idea in her mind.
But then again, maybe she didn’t know him as well as she’d thought. After all, he’d clearly run from Amy, from the baby, because he was scared of committing, scared of that responsibility. So maybe her fearless older brother hadn’t been completely fearless after all.
And if she didn’t know him as well as she’d thought she did, if she wasn’t able to tap into what he’d been thinking, then how the hell was she supposed to figure out the next clue?
Chapter Twenty-Five
“So what are you going to do now?” Sophia asked Sam, looking at him over the rim of her wineglass. He was sitting in a bar in Brooklyn—a trendy, newly opened one—with her, Toby, and Zoe, and had filled them in on the fact that he no longer had the job with the youth center.
“No idea,” Sam said truthfully. He shrugged, like it was no big deal, not letting on how much losing the youth center job was making him feel…adrift, again.
“We’re going back to the Hamptons in a couple of weeks,” Toby said. “You should come.” Sophia nodded vigorously, dark hair shining in the low lighting. “We’ll take the yacht out for another spin—it’s unbelievable in the summer. We’ll figure something out, don’t worry.”
“Yeah, maybe.” The problem was, though, that his time in the United States was fast running out—he’d gotten an ESTA in order to get in, which was quicker and easier than a visa, but meant that he was only on a ninety-day stay, and those ninety days were approaching an end. So now he had to figure out what next—home, or somewhere else? He’d been looking into some other destinations, unable to deny the allure of traveling somewhere else, of ignoring the problems he’d left back home and putting off figuring out what to do about it all. He had no job, no flat back in London. He had no idea what to do career-wise either, wasn’t sure if being a solicitor was still on the table, if his reputation would now be ruined.
He brought up the message Jessica had sent him earlier that day. Saw your photos of the climbing today on Instagram. I’m proud of you. Tom would be proud too. Let’s talk in person, when you’re back.
They’d spoken on the phone, briefly, a couple of months ago, and it had been awkward and painful, and she’d hung up before they’d really said anything. So the message today had come slightly out of the blue. And the tone of it…Well, he wasn’t quite sure how to read into it.
“Another round?” Toby asked. Nods all around, and Toby slid to his feet. “Mind giving me a hand, Zo?” Zoe sighed a little, her face unimpressed as usual, but got up and followed Toby to the bar.
“Just a sparkling water for me, thanks,” Sam said absentmindedly. It wasn’t that he’d stopped drinking completely, but he was trying to cut back, rather than relying on it as a crutch as he’d done after Tom had died. He opened up his emails, saw one from Cassie. His heart thumped a little in anticipation, the way it always did with messages from her.
Hi. So I know you said you had some experience with local pubs as businesses, and I wondered if you’d mind talking something through with me?
He stared at the message, felt his heart speed up. He didn’t know what she wanted to talk about—she’d kept it vague, perhaps deliberately. It could be something to do with Linda’s pub, or something to do with her job, maybe. But whatever it was, she was presuming he had a level of knowledge he didn’t. He didn’t have the first clue about running anything in the hospitality industry. He shouldn’t have said that.
He felt Sophia shift next to him, angle her chair so she was closer. Felt her leg press against his, the smell of her musky perfume wash over him. They hadn’t slept with each other since that one time in the Hamptons, but she was making her intentions very clear now. And maybe it would be easy, to go there again, to distract himself from the fact that he was, once again, purposeless.
“So, you still staying with Toby?”
Sam cleared his throat. “Yeah. He’s been great, letting me crash with him.” And he had—been great. Sam didn’t know what he’d have done if he hadn’t been offered that lifeline.
“It’s not far from here, is it?” She reached out, trailed a hand down his arm, bright red nails scraping lightly against his skin.
So easy, maybe, but not what he needed. He knew, deep down, that it wouldn’t make him feel better, not in the long run. So it wasn’t fair—to her, or to himself.
He pulled back. “I’m sorry, Sophia, I can’t do this.”
She stuck out her bottom lip in a pout, but Sam was saved from having to elaborate by Toby and Zoe returning with the drinks.
Sam looked down at his phone, at the email again. He couldn’t keep doing this. Couldn’t keep lying to her anymore. He took a steadying breath.
How about I talk it through with you in person?
He felt something settle as he pressed send.
It was time, it seemed, to go back to London. Time to see Cassie, to tell her the truth, and hope that she didn’t slam the door in his face this time.
* * *
—
Sam looked out the window at the approaching manor house, listening to the crunch of the taxi tires on gravel. It was a stunning building; he could appreciate that. Elizabethan in style, it was gray brick with a hint of peach in places, tall and slightly imposing, with chimneys that looked a little like turrets. The mullioned windows almost seemed to be watching him approach, he thought, like they were the house’s eyes, assessing the newest arrival. Assessing him, and his intentions. Whatever the hell they were.
“Here we are then,” said the taxi driver. He stopped the engine, coming around to open Sam’s door. “Nice place, this, isn’t it?” he said conversationally, hooking slightly puffy fingers into his belt loop and turning a circle to take in the whole house.
Sam grunted his assent as he got out of the car. It was warm—not as hot as New York, but sunny and bright, English summer at its best. There was bright green foliage running alongside each side of the stone steps that went up to the entrance of the manor, bushes and trees running out farther to the right, so that they were well and truly surrounded by countryside. Sam was a little surprised that he’d gotten a booking so last-minute, especially given the fact that Cassie’s event—an engagement brunch, apparently—was running tomorrow morning.
Was it stalkerish that he knew that, had followed her here? He reckoned it was probably safer not to answer that question.
He’d come straight from the airport—it had taken about an hour and a half from Heathrow. It was weird—he hadn’t actually been into London, just skirted around the edges on the M25, but he’d felt the presence of the city, looming and almost suffocating, like it was reminding him of what he’d left behind, reminding him that it was still ready to claim him. He ran a hand through his hair, then took the suitcase the driver offered.
“You have a nice stay then,” the driver said, hitching up his trousers before he got back into the car and drove away. Sam raised his hand in thanks, then started up the steps. No point questioning the decision—it was made now.
He’d only taken two steps up, struggling slightly with the heavy suitcase, when a woman with short hair and broad shoulders, wearing a navy-blue blazer over a matching blue dress, came out of the entrance at the top of the stairs. “You leave that there!” she demanded, and Sam jolted enough that he let go of the suitcase. She ran down the steps on tiny little heels, moving with a grace that surprised Sam. Up close, he could see that she was wearing a pearl necklace. “I’ll get that—our guests don’t carry luggage.”
“Oh no,” Sam said hurriedly, alarmed at the prospect of this woman hurting her back trying to lift his brick of a case. “It’s really heavy, I’m very happy to—” But she’d already nudged him aside and picked it up, lifting it with apparent ease. She marched up the steps in front of him and Sam stared after her, feeling ever so slightly emasculated. Then he jerked into action and quickly followed her into the reception area.
She put the case down, then boomed, “Brian!” Sam saw a thin man with a slightly balding head, wearing a white shirt with a purple tie, scurrying over. “Will you take this to Mr. Malone’s room, please?” Sam had no idea how she’d known it was him, or how Brian knew which room he was in, but Brian nodded and smiled in a way that made Sam immediately like him, and wheeled Sam’s suitcase away.
“I’m Emma,” the woman said, moving through the reception to behind a smart wooden desk. “I’m the front-of-house manager, and you can always just grab me if you have a problem, OK?” Sam nodded. She produced a key, then led him out of the reception area and through the manor.
“Here,” Emma said, after they’d climbed two sets of stairs. “This is you.” She opened the door and let him step inside in front of her. The room was bright and open: cream wallpaper with green trees on it and a comfortable-looking bed with a gray headboard. It was massive—much bigger than a usual hotel room—with its own sofa, as well as a wooden table and two chairs.
Emma indicated a few features of the room, then gestured to the windows. “You have a view of our gardens, which are set over thirty-five acres.” Thirty-five?! Sam thought to himself. Jesus. “They were designed by the visionary gardener William Robinson in 1885, and our head gardener carefully maintains them today—if you see him out and about with his collie dog, do feel free to ask him any questions about the grounds.” Visionary, Sam thought, smiling a little. It was a good word. “Do you have any questions at all?” Emma pulled her blazer around her with both hands.
Sam noticed his suitcase was already there, at the foot of the bed, and wished he could sink down next to it. “If I want food…?” He was hungry, the type of hunger that was part tiredness, and he hadn’t eaten anything on the plane.
“We’ve reserved a spot for you in our Michelin-starred restaurant downstairs, should you wish, but there’s also the option of room service, which is twenty-four hours.”
Sam nodded his thanks, thinking he was going to have to be careful about how much he spent this weekend—the two-night stay alone was enough to make him wince, and whereas in previous months he would have happily ordered whatever bottle of wine at a fancy restaurant along with the most expensive main course, he was hardly in a position to do that now.
Emma smiled at him, reiterating that he should shout if he needed anything, then left him alone. Sam glanced around the room, still a little dumbfounded at the fact that he was actually here, doing this. The bed, with its many pillows and soft-looking duvet, was calling to him, inviting him to flop down there fully clothed and not move, but he made himself turn and leave the room. He’d hunt for food first, get that out of the way quickly, then he could crash and think about how the hell he was going to explain everything to Cassie tomorrow.
