The Secrets We Share

by Emma Hannigan

  Ava hung up and shook her head with irritation as she dunked two fizzy tablets into a beaker of water. Her mother was always as cool as a cucumber. Not for the first time, she wondered if it was all a front. Did Clara flail horribly internally? Did she put on a poker face and retreat in turmoil to her room, where she gently bashed her head off the wardrobe door?

  Thoughts of Max plagued her as she worked. Most of all she wanted to know if he was still in contact with Sean. Were they still friends even? More to the point, did Sean think of her at all, or was she simply a mistake he was glad he hadn’t committed to?

  A text pinged through on her phone, making her groan. It was from some randomer called Feargall who seemed to think they were meeting for dinner and a movie this evening. She quickly texted back saying a family emergency had come up. He answered saying that he wouldn’t bother her again, and that he could take a hint. She rolled her eyes. These bloody men were getting under her skin. Why couldn’t they just deal with the fact that she didn’t need hangers-on and get over themselves? Why did life have to be so damn complicated?

  She was in the back room attempting to fill out a fabric order form when Ruth appeared grinning like a fool.

  ‘Yes, Ruth,’ she said, hoping the other woman wasn’t looking to have a big long chat.

  ‘Look!’ Ruth said, pulling a little basket of exquisite pink flowers from behind her back. ‘The florist just delivered these for you.’

  ‘Great!’ Ava said, groaning inwardly. She snatched the flowers, then told Ruth she was about to make a private call and ushered her out, closing the door. Plucking the card from the little green plastic stick, she read the message.

  Our date meant the world to me. You know where I am. Call me. I’ll be waiting. My bed always has space for you. K x

  She tossed the card into the waste-paper basket, then squeezed her eyes shut and hoped to God the painkillers she’d just downed would somehow realign her brain and stop her body from feeling diseased. She’d no idea who the hell K was, and cared even less. She was far too hung-over to deal with all this emotional claptrap today.

  She plopped down heavily on to a chair and bit her lip. There was far too much coming at her at the moment. Men, Max, Nathalie … It was enough to drive a girl insane.

  The walls were closing in. Much as she hated to admit it, Ava knew it was getting close to the time when she’d have to deal with the past once and for all. If she could ever face it.

  Chapter 9

  The sound of rain pelting against the windowpane woke Nathalie. Looking about in disorientation, it took her a moment to remember where she was. She crept out of bed and peeped through the curtains. The sky was grey and woolly and the flowers in Oma’s garden seemed to be bowing in soaked misery.

  A delicious smell filled the air as she emerged from her room and padded down the stairs to the kitchen.

  ‘Hello, dear!’ Clara said. ‘I hope the rain didn’t keep you awake during the night. It was quite nasty out there. Typical Irish summer weather, I’m afraid. The forecast says it’ll brighten up later. Fingers crossed.’

  ‘It’s so odd to see this kind of weather in summer,’ Nathalie said, shuddering.

  ‘I know, it took me a while to get used to it when I moved here first.’

  Nathalie wanted to ask about a million questions, but she needed to figure out whether she wanted to get to know Oma better. It might be easier to be polite, spend a few days here and call home to say she was fixed, then just split.

  ‘What are you making?’ she asked as she crossed the open-plan room and gazed into an ancient-looking heavy black frying pan. ‘It smells like Dunkin’ Donuts.’

  ‘They’re buttermilk pancakes. I like them with blueberries and maple syrup. Will you try some? It’s too late for breakfast so I thought these might make a tasty brunch.’

  Nathalie’s immediate instinct was to say no. She wasn’t used to eating all this food. Normally she’d have a smoothie on the way to school – a low-GI version. This stuff looked like a bad breakfast from the before pictures in The Biggest Loser. But her stomach, it seemed, had other plans and growled hungrily.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ Clara said. ‘Sit and I’ll bring it to you.’

  ‘Wow!’ Nathalie exclaimed involuntarily as Clara put a pretty patterned plate on the table, piled high with perfect round pancakes. The blueberries were like tiny glistening jewels beneath the glossy covering of thick, hot syrup. A generous dusting of something brown intrigued her.

  ‘What’s the other topping?’

  ‘Home-made praline. It’s toasted nuts in caramelised sugar, ground to a gravelly powder. Trust me, you’ll love it.’ Clara lifted a dripping pancake on to her plate and spooned extra berries and syrup on top. ‘Dig in. If you hate it, you can always have toast, or you can starve.’

  Nathalie stared at Clara to see if she was joking. It appeared she wasn’t. She was sitting and serving herself as if everything was as it should be. Nathalie cut off a bite and felt her eyes roll.

  ‘This is to die for,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Clara said happily as she dug into hers. ‘I learned all my cookery skills from my mother. My sewing, too. But the big change in our relationship happened when she showed me how to quilt. It was the tool we used to bond.’

  ‘Why did you need to bond? Didn’t you guys get along?’

  ‘Not always,’ Clara said easily.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Clara said simply. ‘I’ll tell you sometime.’ She picked up the newspaper and began to flick through it. ‘I don’t know why I bother to read this. It’s full of depressing and dreadful stories. Why can’t the front page have a great big photo of a kitten or a baby laughing? That’d cheer us all up.’

  ‘I’ve never thought of it like that,’ Nathalie said as she helped herself to another pancake, hoping Oma wasn’t going to notice and call her a greedy pig. Mercifully she seemed quite oblivious.

  ‘I could teach you how to quilt if you were interested,’ Clara ventured.

  Nathalie wanted to shout that she didn’t give a fiddler’s about the quilt thing. But she guessed she’d better be polite seeing as she was staying at this house and eating so much food.

  ‘Er, yeah. I guess.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Clara said happily. If she noticed Nathalie’s reluctance, she certainly didn’t let it show. ‘It’s such a murky day out there, it’ll be the perfect distraction for us. It’ll stop us wanting to murder one another. Nothing worse than sitting in a room with someone you don’t know while fishing about in your head for something to talk about. Exhausting and quite unnecessary.’

  Nathalie grinned. She was starting to find this woman quite entertaining. She was as crazy as a bees’ nest that had been attacked by bears, but her attitude was kind of different.

  Once brunch was over, Clara indicated that Nathalie was to help pick up the dishes.

  ‘I never allowed either of my children to be idle. We all helped around the house. I think that’s fair.’

  Nathalie was mildly taken aback. So was that the reason she was here? To be some sort of a home help? She scowled as they cleaned the kitchen. Clara didn’t speak much until she led Nathalie into the room across the hall.

  ‘I present my sewing room,’ she said proudly.

  It smelled slightly musty but was meticulously organised. Countless rolls of fabric were stacked on top of one another on specially built shelves. The greater part of the room was taken up by a vast table with a brass measuring tape embedded in the end. Scissors ranging from garden shears size right down to tiny mouse-sized ones hung on nails in a row. Once the overhead lights were turned on, the table was brightly illuminated and Nathalie could appreciate how intricate work could be carried out here.

  ‘I’m very finicky about this room,’ Clara said. ‘I know where every single thing is and I want to keep it this way. You’re welcome to make something, but I’ll warn you now, it could bring out a hidden violence in
me if you mess it up and refuse to clean after yourself.’

  ‘OK, I get it,’ Nathalie said, widening her eyes. She half expected Clara to be glowering at her, hands on hips, like one of her teachers. Instead she was over the other side of the room humming in delight. Nathalie was starting to get a handle on this broad. She was direct and to the point, but very mild-mannered with it. It was odd. She’d never met anyone quite like her before. She wasn’t sure how to take her at all.

  ‘I listen to classical music while I work,’ Clara stated, as she flicked on an ancient-looking CD player. ‘The haunting melodies take me to another place, where imagination knows no bounds. Now, take a look at the colours of the materials. Which ones are you most drawn to?’

  Nathalie wandered around the room, reaching out on occasion and touching a roll of fabric.

  ‘This place is wonderful,’ she breathed, forgetting to be grumpy for a second.

  ‘I think so too,’ Clara smiled. ‘I’m glad you get it. But why wouldn’t you? You have my blood. So would you like to get started?’

  ‘Pardon? With what? What are we doing?’ Nathalie asked in mild shock.

  ‘Will we make a quilt together?’ Clara asked.

  Normally Nathalie would have no qualms about telling someone she didn’t have an interest in something. But now she hesitated momentarily.

  She hadn’t realised there were so many unanswered questions. She’d obviously figured there were all sorts of hassles between her dad and his family, but what had Oma been hinting at earlier? Why had she had problems with her own mother? Did it have anything to do with the reason her father had cut ties with them? Nathalie was guessing the major family feud was somehow all Oma’s fault.

  ‘Sure, let’s make a quilt,’ she agreed. ‘I’m quite a dab hand at sewing, as it happens. I like to customise my clothes at home. I often buy things purely so I can alter them or add some sparkles. It’s good to own stuff that nobody else has. One-off pieces as such.’

  ‘Yes, I agree,’ Clara said.

  ‘I’ve never done quilting, though. I may not be any good at it.’

  ‘All you need is time and the inclination to create something unique. Do you think you have that?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Americans do a lot of guessing, don’t they?’ Clara mused. ‘When you say that, you really mean yes, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nathalie said firmly.

  ‘OK. Good.’

  The other advantage to being in Ireland, Nathalie decided as Clara set about collecting scissors and implements, was that while the pain of losing Mackenzie had been raw and all-consuming back in LA, here she felt slightly freed from the constant ache. In fact her mind was so focused on Oma and keeping up with her that she hadn’t much space for feeling wretched.

  The phone rang. Clara picked up the extension in the sewing room.

  ‘Hallo, Ava,’ she said. ‘Oh jeepers, I totally forgot. No, it’s done. I have it here. I’ll drive by and drop it off. Keep an eye out for me. I’m in my stay-at-home comfortable clothes, so I won’t come into the shop and frighten your customers. I’ll pull up outside and you can run out to me like a good girl. All right. Yes, dear. See you soon.’

  She hung up and grabbed a black suit-hanger from the opposite side of the room.

  ‘I need to drop this gown to Ava. I was putting in the zip. It’s a complicated design and I’m the best at it. The fabric is so expensive, Ava couldn’t afford for it to be made a muck of. There’s no point in dragging yourself out in that rain.’

  ‘I guess. Rain isn’t really my thing,’ Nathalie said with a shrug.

  ‘So why don’t you start choosing some fabrics for your quilt? I presume I can trust you not to pull the place asunder while I’m gone?’

  Nathalie was about to either laugh or ask Oma whether she thought she was a wild animal when she realised she’d already run out the door.

  ‘I’ll see you shortly then, dear,’ Clara called from the hallway, before slamming the front door.

  Nathalie was quite surprised by how easily Oma had accepted the fact that she’d prefer to stay here alone. Her mom would’ve kicked up blue murder and made hurt faces and acted as if Nathalie were betraying her.

  As she heard the car starting up and reversing out the driveway, she spied a box in the corner, perched on a side table. The lid was on the floor and she could see a small wad of letters stacked neatly and bound in bunches by elastic bands. Feeling as if she were prying, but unable to stop, Nathalie picked up the top bundle. None of the letters seemed to have envelopes, but all were written to the same person. A man called Master Leibnitz.

  Peeling off the band, Nathalie looked at the first letter. It was written in a foreign language. As she scanned it, she realised it was German. Behind each letter it appeared there was a hand-written translation in English. Intrigued, she began to read.

  She hadn’t gone past the date and greeting when the sound of Clara’s car returning out front made her replace the letter, reattach the elastic band and dash back to the table, where she snatched a couple of rolls of material and threw them down.

  ‘Hallo? Nathalie?’ Clara called out.

  ‘I’m in here,’ Nathalie said, hoping she didn’t look quite as freaked as she felt.

  ‘All done. Will we begin some quilting?’ Clara walked into the room, explaining how bad the traffic was due to the rain. ‘So you’ve started with some cream fabrics,’ she said. ‘What colours would you like to introduce? We need to work out a palette before we begin cutting.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Nathalie couldn’t stop thinking about the letters. She felt insanely curious. There were piles of them in the box and they were really old, dating back to 1930-something. She longed to ask Oma about them, but she didn’t think Clara would appreciate knowing she’d looked through her private things.

  The phone rang again. This time it was Amber. Clara spoke to her for a moment before passing it to Nathalie.

  ‘Hey Mom,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m good,’ Amber said. ‘How are you getting on?’

  ‘Really well, actually,’ Nathalie said, deciding that for now it was easier to play ball. ‘You’ll be very impressed, Oma and I are embarking on a special project right now.’

  They chatted for a while and Clara left the room to give them privacy. Nathalie said all the things her mom wanted to hear. How lovely Oma was, how beautiful Ava was, and how she was settling in just fine.

  ‘You were right and I was wrong,’ she said sweetly. ‘It’s good to be away from LA. It’s totally different here and I think that’s a good thing for me right now.’

  ‘Oh darling, I’m so relieved to hear that you’re OK,’ Amber said. ‘Stay in touch, and I’m here for you any time you need me.’

  Nathalie forced a smile as Clara reappeared in the room.

  ‘All OK with your mother?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes thanks. She’s mightily impressed that we’re sewing.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Clara said. ‘Now, back to business and enough dilly-dallying.’

  For what felt like the hundredth time, Nathalie looked at Clara to see if she was irritated. She wasn’t; she clearly just figured it was time to get going. Nathalie raised an eyebrow but did as she was told and began to concentrate on picking out colours.

  After a couple of hours, Clara stretched.

  ‘That’s more than enough for the moment,’ she said. ‘Now I will go to the grave. I like to visit Gus there.’

  Nathalie baulked. The last thing she wanted was to visit a grave. She’d had enough of the scent of death to last her a lifetime.

  ‘Would you mind if I stay here? I’m kind of jet-lagged and I could use a lie-down.’

  ‘Whatever suits you, dear,’ Clara said mildly. ‘I won’t be too long.’

  Nathalie went to her room and watched out the window until she was certain she was alone. Then, gingerly making her way down the stairs to the sewing room, she returned to the pile of l
etters and picked up the one she’d started earlier. Curling up in a deep armchair, she began to read.

  December 1936

  Dear Master Leibnitz

  Now that the night is drawing in and I am here in my room with only my thoughts for company, I find myself at sixes and sevens. You see, something momentous happened to me today. It was the first time I laid eyes on you. So I am doing what I have always done – committing my thoughts to paper as I dare not utter the things I feel. The things I felt when I looked into your eyes. I would not dare to even address you – you, the master of the house and I a lowly maid – but I am safe here, within these four walls, and this letter is, can only ever be, for my eyes only. Could it be that the whole world turned on its axis today? Or is it simply that I alone am changed for ever by your presence?

  Your mother, Frau Leibnitz, seems stern yet fair. Her piercing blue eyes and teased dark hair make her so sleek and exotic in contrast with my unkempt drabness.

  I have always been a dreamer, Master Leibnitz. Perhaps it has been my way of surviving. I have the ability to take myself out of a situation and drift away to a more favourable setting.

  Using nothing but that same vivid imagination, I have lived through days of pure pleasure. Ones where I am sitting in one of the fine horse-drawn carriages in the park, being waited on hand and foot, while eating warm pastries and drinking rich, sweet hot chocolate.

  Today I kept my mind firmly on the task in hand. I was greatly excited when Frau Leibnitz offered me the servant’s job and showed me to my quarters.

  When I was ordered to clean your music room, I had no idea you were occupying it at the time. The moment you swivelled on the piano stool and met my gaze will stay in my heart for ever.

  You are a gentleman in every sense of the word. You seemed genuinely interested when you asked my name. You apologised for frightening me, when it was I who had disturbed you!

  As you told me about your arranged marriage to the gentle lady Liza, I was flummoxed. Do you believe in love at first sight? I do. It happened to me today. When you raised your eyes from the ivory keys of the piano and looked into mine, I felt the jolt. Those sky-blue eyes were so filled with angst, I wanted to go to you and wrap you in my embrace and hold you until the pain dissolved.