Gathering up the scrapbook and the gifts, she shoved them back into the box and slammed on the lid. She’d half thought about taking them with her when – if – she travelled to see her dad in France, but what was the point? What would he do with them? It was a stupid, childish whim, and she hadn’t been that child for a long time now.
With the box stowed safely back in her wardrobe, she grabbed her phone from her bedside cabinet and dialled her best friend’s number. Dodie always seemed to know the right thing to do and say, and Isla needed some reassurance right now. But the number rang out. It wasn’t unusual, Dodie’s shop – Forget-Me-Not Vintage – was probably busy as it was getting closer to Christmas and Dodie ran it alone so she often couldn’t get to the phone, even after closing time when she had accounts and admin to take care of. Putting her mobile back, Isla glanced across at a teetering pile of books on her desk. There were lecture notes that still needed typing up, but no matter how many times she’d tried to get to them that morning her brain simply wouldn’t stay on the task. She’d have to force herself sooner or later – she hadn’t given up a job and moved back in with her mum to do a university course that she was going to flunk.
Picking up the letter, she read it again. The more she read it, the more she wanted to go to meet her father after all. But she’d promised now, hadn’t she? Did her mum even have the right to ask her to promise such a thing, though? If she wanted to meet her dad again, did her mum have the power to say no? She was an adult now and didn’t need protecting. She hadn’t asked for it and she didn’t want it. What she wanted was the whole picture. Her dad was willing to meet her – did that mean he was sorry for what he’d done? Did it mean he wanted to be her dad again? And did Isla even want that? Did she have forgiveness in her? Glory had spent so many years telling her what a cad he was, she’d successfully transferred all her own mistrust of men onto Isla, who could count on one hand the number of healthy relationships she’d had in her life. Perhaps seeing her dad and finally getting some answers would do a lot more than fill in the gap where her father should have been.
She was going round in circles. She needed to talk and it had to be someone impartial, someone who would give her good, solid advice. She dialled Dodie’s number again. If there was one person who could make the world seem brighter when it was dark, that was Dodie. By her own admission Isla could be difficult and temperamental and those traits had lost her plenty of friends over the years – the people who couldn’t or wouldn’t try to understand her. But not Dodie, never Dodie. Dodie was patient and kind and optimistic enough for them both. She had the biggest heart in Dorset – sometimes Isla would tell her it was a little too big – but as best friends went she was pretty perfect. People mattered to Dodie, and that’s why Isla knew that, even if they had the odd spat, when the chips were down, Dodie would be there for anyone who needed her. Right now, she had no idea just how much Isla needed her.
CHAPTER THREE
It wasn’t like those films you saw where family assembled in the dusty solicitor’s office and gathered around a vast desk to hear the last will and testament of the fabulously wealthy deceased. All it took these days was a simple phone call to the solicitor.
Isla’s heart hammered as she waited for the secretary to put her through. It felt like a tipping point – the point of no return. As soon as this conversation began she would live in a world where her dad existed again, somewhere out there, and she’d have to acknowledge that fact even if she did no more about it.
‘Miss McCoy?’ Grover Rousseau’s voice was rich and full, edged with an Edinburgh accent. For a moment, she was transported back to her father’s voice and a time long ago, the memories as sudden and cold as falling into an icy lake. ‘Thank you for calling me.’
‘I thought I should, though I have to admit that I don’t know what I’m letting myself into,’ Isla said, fighting the quiver in her voice. ‘I understand that my dad wants to meet up with me?’
‘He does. It’s concerning the matter of your grandmother’s death, which I was sorry to hear about.’
‘You knew her?’
‘She’d been a client for many years.’
‘And my dad?’
‘Him too.’
‘Oh.’ What did she say next? She wanted desperately to hear more about her father, but his solicitor was hardly likely to give her any detail that meant anything to her in a personal sense. She didn’t even remember her grandmother and certainly didn’t give a toss about her final wishes, but it was easier to steer clear of that conversation.
She couldn’t deny that she was curious about what she stood to inherit, though she didn’t want to sound like a gold-digger. She didn’t deserve to inherit anything, really, because it wasn’t as if they’d had any kind of relationship at all. Perhaps it was all going to be one enormous practical joke on the part of her grandmother, a last insult from the woman who’d been absent from her life even more than her father had. The joke was on her if it transpired that all she’d left Isla in her will was a flea-bitten old rug or a pile of electricity bills.
‘Your father has a copy of the will and he asked specifically that he impart the contents to you himself. As he is executor that’s entirely reasonable and he wants to do that face to face.’
‘He wants me to go to the Alps?’
‘He’s prepared to pay your expenses from the estate.’
‘He couldn’t come to see me here in England?’
‘It’s not possible without causing significant delay to the administration of the estate.’
‘Right.’
‘I take it you’re amenable to that?’
‘I don’t know. Yes. Maybe.’
‘Which of those responses should I pass on to your father?’ he asked, though there was no impatience or scorn in his voice, only a mild sort of humour. Perhaps he’d made these phone calls many times before and nothing surprised him any longer.
‘Yes,’ Isla replied, though she felt far from happy with her decision. ‘What would happen if I changed my mind?’
‘Then you would be pressed no further on the matter. It really is entirely up to you, Miss McCoy.’
‘So why bother contacting me at all? If he doesn’t desperately need me to go and hear this thing?’
‘That’s not quite the case. I’m not at liberty to discuss the contents of the will as your father would like to do that with you himself, but there are conditions which may not be met should you decide not to travel to France to meet him.’
‘And what does that mean? I don’t get my inheritance? Whatever that is?’
‘Miss McCoy…’ He paused as though about to say something against his better judgement. ‘The fact of the matter is every party who stands to gain from your grandmother’s estate would be affected by your decision not to attend this meeting.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘That’s all I’m willing to say on the matter. I hope you understand that I don’t do this to be obstructive but merely to respect the wishes of your father and your late grandmother. It is my belief that he very much wants to see you regardless of the circumstances and perhaps that is enough to persuade you?’
It wasn’t, and she didn’t know if she believed Mr Rousseau’s assertions anyway, but she simply sighed. ‘So if I don’t go it makes things really difficult for everyone else?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it would make me an unreasonable cow to refuse?’
‘That judgement call is one only you can make. Your refusal would certainly change the nature of things significantly.’
Isla’s gaze went to the window of her bedroom, where she was holed up, keeping the conversation away from her mother’s ears and disapproval. The sky was like dirty dishwater, drizzle spraying against the glass. Something about it felt flat against the monumental turn her life was about to take. At the very least a decision like this demanded thunder and lightning, or a storm whipping up around the parked cars in the street, not a clammy drizzle in a
dull sky.
Because it looked like she was on her way to France.
Isla knew telling her mother wasn’t going to be easy. With lectures at university now over until the start of the new term and in need of a breath of air before what she knew would be an awkward conversation, she’d decided to head into town and make a start on her Christmas shopping. Ordinarily there would still be time – Isla wasn’t someone who panicked and rushed out the moment the trees had dropped their last russet leaf, but if she was going to fly to the Alps before Christmas, she realised that she might have to be a little more organised this year. Not to mention clever with her money with the unexpected extra expenses she might incur for a trip to the snowy Alps. Even if the cost of getting there was covered, her costs for food and other sundries were not. It was safe to say her student loan was taking a bit of a hammering as she trawled Dorchester’s quaint high street.
It wasn’t yet five but already dark, the gently sloping street crowded with bright shopfronts and ropes of Christmas lights that criss-crossed the main road from roof to roof, dripping into the space between like strings of stars. They’d been switched on only the week before but already felt as if they’d been there forever. The scene as Isla looked down the high street held a certain magic, despite the hurried impatience of rush-hour traffic. Snatches of Christmas music filtered out of shop doorways as she paused at various ones, peering into the windows for inspiration. She didn’t have many gifts to buy and most would be silly, token gifts for the many cousins, aunts and uncles on her mother’s side, but there were one or two important ones: Glory’s for a start, Dodie’s too, and then there was her father. She had a box full of childhood gifts for him in her bedroom, but now that the dream of seeing him again was about to become a reality, she didn’t know what to do. She owed him no such consideration, and yet part of her – the part that was still ten years old – wanted more than anything to buy him the perfect gift.
What if she took the gifts from her cupboard to France with her and finally gave them to him? It would mean something to her – the action of passing those years of pain on would be symbolic – but what would it mean to him? Could she take the rejection of seeing his confused face at the sight of a box filled with socks, cheap aftershave and childish hope?
At this point Isla rejected the idea, but it didn’t help her wrap her head round the etiquette of her Christmas visit. There would be a whole new family she didn’t even know the names of yet, what they looked like and sounded like, loved and loathed, what they thought about the idea of the man they knew as father and husband having a life before them. Was she supposed to turn up with gifts, or would that seem strange and forward? What if they’d bought things for her and she turned up with nothing? Perhaps it was one she’d run by Dodie, but then she knew that her friend would always come down on the side of generosity and forgiveness. It was easy for Dodie to be full of optimism and goodwill, though, because Dodie’s family had always been stable and loving. Isla didn’t want to see it that way, and she didn’t for a minute resent her friend’s upbringing, but it was hard not to feel bitter about it on her low days.
With her friend very much on her mind and desperate to push the questions surrounding her dad to the back of it, Isla headed into a shop selling handmade organic toiletries and cosmetics. The window was bright with pastel soaps and bottles, and the fragrance wafting from the front door divine – cinnamon and citrus layered with sweet candy. Dodie loved this shop but it wasn’t often she treated herself to anything from it; since she’d taken on her business venture in Bournemouth most of her spare money had gone into that, leaving only enough for the bare, value-brand essentials. It was ordinarily out of Isla’s price range too, but this was Christmas and if anyone deserved a treat to thank her for another year of loyalty, love and support, it was Dodie. So, Isla pushed aside her doubts and lost herself amongst the divinely fragranced bottles and bath bombs as she sniffed and tested everything to find the perfect gift.
While she was there perhaps she’d pick something up for her mum, too. No Clinique or Estée Lauder for Glory McCoy who, despite taking fierce pride in her appearance, had to make do with supermarket moisturiser – and that was during the weeks when the money was spare. Often, when Isla had needed new school pumps or she’d outgrown her jeans there’d be nothing left for luxuries at all. Nowadays, not much better off but able to fend for herself, Isla often went home with little treats for her mum. Nothing like the luxury she deserved, but a token to show that Isla appreciated all she’d given up. Perhaps there was a spot of guilt now as she picked up a vanilla-scented hand cream and popped it into her basket, because she knew that, as well as delivering this, she would also be delivering news that Glory would find it hard to forgive.
‘You said you weren’t going!’ Glory slapped a slab of fish into the frying pan, the hiss as it hit the fat accentuating the resentment in her tone.
‘I know, Mum, but I’ve had time to think and—’
‘All the years I’ve been father and mother to you… Where was Ian McCoy when you had tonsillitis? On all the nights when you sweated next to me with a fever and I didn’t dare leave you in your bed alone? When you were sitting your GCSEs? When your first boyfriend broke your heart? When I had to go to school because those bullies stuck gum in your hair?’ She sucked in a breath and looked set to start again but Isla placed a gentle hand on each shoulder and pulled her round to face her.
‘Mum… you will always be the most important person in my life but it can’t always be just you and me.’
‘But you said—’
‘I know what I said. I hadn’t had time to process what meeting my dad again might mean, but I’ve realised it might be important. He left us both, Mum, and sometimes I think you forget that. He abandoned me as much as he did you, and if you had a chance for closure now, wouldn’t you take it? If you could sit across from him and listen to him explain it all, wouldn’t you want to do that too? Don’t you think it would help?’
‘No.’ Glory shook herself free of Isla’s grip. ‘I don’t ever want to see that man’s face again.’
Isla paused. Glory didn’t mean that and they both knew it. ‘Well then, wouldn’t you want the chance to tell him how he ruined your life, what his leaving meant for us? Wouldn’t that help to bring closure?’
‘I’d like to swipe this pan across the back of his head,’ Glory said, giving the frying pan a violent swish and sending another hissing cloud of cooking oil into the air. Isla took an involuntary step back and out of range. The mood her mum was in, anything could happen, and she rather liked her fish on the plate and not down the front of her blouse. ‘I don’t need closure; that’s just more of your psychology mumbo-jumbo. I wish you’d stop turning me into one of your subjects.’
Isla’s features hardened. ‘If I wanted a subject to study I’d choose one a lot less predictable than you.’
Glory swung round to face her again. ‘What does that mean?’
‘You’re like a stuck record where Dad is concerned. He broke your heart and everyone knows it, but that was twenty-four years ago and maybe it’s time to move on. I need to move on even if you don’t and seeing him will either kill or cure me. Right now, I don’t care which because it will be movement, and any movement at all is better than living in limbo with you. I want to see him, to work out for myself how I feel.’
Glory threw her hands into the air. ‘Always my fault! I suppose you think it’s my fault he left us!’
‘It doesn’t matter whose fault it is – that doesn’t change the facts. I’m angry, of course I am. I’m hurt that he never bothered to get in touch for all those years. But he’s getting in touch now.’
‘Because there’s money involved.’
‘We don’t know that yet.’
‘There’s a will, isn’t there? His meeting with you is a stipulation of the inheritance. Don’t fool yourself, Isla; you’re too intelligent to let yourself be taken in by any of this. He doesn’t want you; he wants hi
s money.’
‘I’m not stupid – I know that. I’ll have my guard up at all times and I won’t get hurt if that’s what you’re worried about. I just want to see, Mum. I just want answers. You lost your husband, but I lost my dad and it changed me as a person. I just need to get my head around that and I think seeing him will help. Please… can’t you understand what I’m saying?’
Glory flipped the fish over. ‘I don’t see why you have to go to France. Why can’t he come here if he’s so desperate to see you?’
Isla folded her arms tight. ‘Do you really need to ask that question? Look at your reaction to the mere mention of his name. Imagine how much you’d freak out if he came over to England, was even in the same county as you, let alone the same room. You’d be right back where you started when he first left and I don’t want that on my conscience.’
Glory sniffed hard but said nothing.
‘I don’t mind going over there,’ Isla said. ‘He’s paying so if you look on the bright side it’s a free holiday.’
‘Holidays are meant to be enjoyable.’
Isla rubbed at her arms. She couldn’t argue with that but she wasn’t going to say so to her mum. She had to sell this idea to Glory if she was going to leave with them on good terms. She’d made up her mind to go anyway, but she’d rather do it with her mum’s blessing, if that were at all possible.
A Cosy Candlelit Christmas: A wonderfully festive feel good romance (An Unforgettable Christmas Book 2) Page 2
