Molly’s parents, Margaret and Jeff Ramsey, had struggled to conceive Molly’s older brother, Isaac, and after a pregnancy fraught with problems, they’d decided to adopt to complete their family. Molly had always known she was adopted. She couldn’t even remember being told, it was simply a fact she’d grown up with, like knowing the grass was green and the sky was blue. The information had easily blended into her happy childhood with her parents and older brother. But two years ago, Molly’s job as a midwife had piqued her curiosity. Every day she witnessed elated mothers, jubilant fathers, and on the not so good days, she saw pain when the worst happened and babies died before they’d even taken their first breath outside the womb. It was all those moments rolled into one that had set the wheels in motion for Molly to find out what had happened all those years ago.
Via an agency, Molly successfully traced her birth mother and was given an address for her. She kept the address for nearly four weeks before she decided to do anything about it, and then she sent a letter. It was a simple letter stating her name as it was now and the year they’d lost contact – the only information needed to identify herself to this woman but nobody else.
Molly waited, and she waited. The counsellor had told her some birth mothers would struggle with painful memories, so much so, it could either take a very long time to reply, or may deter them from contact at all. Molly tried hard to be patient, but as the weeks and then months went on and the reply still didn’t come, she couldn’t wait any longer. She took matters into her own hands. Feeling she’d waited long enough, Molly visited her birth mother’s home address in a tiny village not far from her own home in Lower Weston, Bath.
One snowy day in January, Molly met her birth mother for the first time and lost her again in the space of five minutes. She wasn’t invited inside the home. She was kept on the doorstep, as though her presence would alter everything if she stepped over the threshold, and her birth mother told her she couldn’t do this. Molly had asked about her birth father but was told nothing, only that the memories were too painful. Her birth mother begged her over and over not to come again until Molly had turned, covered her ears like a small child and run away crying down the street, only stopping when she was so out of breath she couldn’t go on any longer.
And to this day, Molly hadn’t contacted her birth mother again.
Chapter Three
Andrew
Andrew ran a hand through his dark hair that had faded over the years since he’d met Julia Mason. It was flecked with grey now, and he knew one day he’d look exactly like his father, his silver hair masking any trace of the colour it had been before.
He heard laughter coming from downstairs, laughter from Gemma and Louis as though they’d known one another all their lives. It warmed him to hear Gemma happy though, if only for a moment. There hadn’t been much time for that lately, and since Julia’s message half an hour ago in reply to his, all Andrew had been able to do was sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the curtains blowing in the breeze from the open window. He’d shut the computer down and run away from it since the brief exchange over Facebook messenger, as though the machine would spill out more secrets if he didn’t get away from it right now. Their exchange had been short and to the point but no less weighty in its content, and since then he’d shunted between anger, disbelief and sadness. He was so confused. He had no idea how to feel.
How the hell was he going to explain any of this to his wife? Should he tell her? Should he simply ignore it and carry on with his life as though he hadn’t made the shocking discovery?
Thirty-one years ago, two loved-up teenagers had the world at their feet, together, or so they’d thought. And then, all of a sudden, Julia had stopped phoning and she never came to his house again. Julia Mason had ceased all contact with Andrew Bennett and until this day, he’d never understood why. It wasn’t as though Andrew hadn’t moved on, of course he had. He hadn’t thought about Julia in years until he and Gemma had started trying for a baby and the significance of past events plagued his thoughts and his dreams at night.
Andrew heard Gemma’s footsteps as she trotted up the stairs, and he bent down to pull off his socks. When he looked up, Gemma was standing at the door, glass of wine in hand. Her blonde hair and tanned skin captured the beautiful girl he’d fallen in love with from the first moment they met.
‘The chicken pasta bake is cooking,’ she said. ‘Dinner in an hour?’
He held out his hand and she walked over to him. ‘Come here, you.’ His hands on her hips, he pulled her into him gently and rested his head against her chest. She was the anchor in his world right now when everything else, including his feelings, seemed to have been set adrift.
Gemma laughed in an attempt not to spill the red wine all over the cream rug on the bedroom floor. She ran her hand through his hair. He couldn’t help but grin. She’d always liked his hair. ‘Your dad’s downstairs,’ she admonished.
‘I wasn’t suggesting we do anything.’ He reached up and cupped her cheek and looked into baby blue eyes as he ran a thumb across her bottom lip. He was sure his marriage was solid, but right now he didn’t know whether Gemma was strong enough to know the details of Julia’s message. He was still trying to make sense of it himself, and his wife was in a world of hurt from the most recent miscarriage and each one that had come before. He could see it in her eyes, in the way she acted as though everything was fine when it was anything but.
He stood, took Gemma’s hand, and her smile was back as he led her downstairs to join Louis again. An hour later the conversation was flowing along with the red wine, and Andrew refused to let anything ruin the precious moment, at least not tonight. There’d be plenty of time for that later.
Generous serves of pasta bake were scooped out of the glass dish onto plates for Gemma and Andrew, a crisp green salad added to each portion. For Louis, Gemma served lean basil chicken with the salad, following the diet plan given to them by the hospital. Since Andrew’s mother died six years ago, Louis had lived in the annexe. When they’d moved to Magnolia Creek, an annexe had been a prerequisite and the three of them now happily coexisted in Myrtle Close. They often shared meals with one another, spent time together whenever it suited, and it was the perfect solution with Louis’ health a constant concern. It also meant Louis was there to talk business, and some of Andrew’s favourite times were with his father sitting at the kitchen table as they were doing right now, talking over new flavours and variations of chocolates, seasonal trends and customer orders that were helping his business to grow.
‘I’m telling you, toffee would work well with mango,’ Andrew insisted as he topped up his glass of wine, enjoying himself as they waxed lyrical about their joint passion. ‘It’s fresh and fun.’
‘It’d work well, but why not try something different?’ Louis hadn’t eaten much at dinner, but Andrew was pleased to see the colour back in his cheeks when they talked shop.
‘What do you suggest?’
‘What about dark chocolate with a lemon infusion?’ said Louis. ‘Or a variation with cardamom, now we’re coming into autumn.’
Gemma stacked their plates on top of one another and took them over to the sink. ‘I think someone’s missing the chocolatier business,’ she called over her shoulder to Louis.
‘Do you miss it, Dad?’ Andrew ran hot water into the oven dish, added a squirt of washing up liquid and told Gemma he’d let it soak and tackle it later. ‘You know you’re welcome in the chocolaterie anytime.’
‘I know, son. I try not to interfere, but maybe I’ll walk down tomorrow. Sometimes all I need is the intoxicating smell of a kitchen full of chocolate and it’s enough to put a smile on my face. If you set me up with a chair in the corner of the kitchen, I’d be a very happy man.’
Andrew and Gemma exchanged a fond look as Louis lost himself in his memories. Louis was in his early seventies now and although he hadn’t wanted to retire, the job had become too physical for him. Some people romanticised the life of a cho
colatier, but it was hard work and long hours. You had to love it to do it well. Luckily for them, Louis’ love had been passed down a generation to Andrew, who loved nothing more than talking about the chocolaterie with his father, coming up with new flavour ideas, suggesting changes to the range they sold in the shop. Louis’ encouragement went further than anyone could ever realise.
‘Are you okay, Dad?’ Andrew asked as he returned to the table and picked up his wine.
‘I’m a bit tired. I’m old.’
‘Here we go.’ Andrew laughed. ‘Trying for the sympathy vote again?’
Louis grinned at him, the youthful part of his mind held in the sparkle of his eyes.
‘The test results will be in soon,’ Andrew said, all joking aside. ‘I’ll take you to your dialysis next time, give Gemma a break.’
‘You two shouldn’t have to run around after me.’
‘Nonsense.’ Andrew and Gemma laughed when they said the same word at the same time. Louis was forever apologising for being a burden, and as hard as it was to manage sometimes, he really wasn’t.
‘Can the other staff manage the shop?’ Louis asked.
‘Course they can. I’ve learnt to delegate.’
Louis’ laugh was weaker than usual. ‘You always had a problem with letting anyone else do anything for you.’
‘I take after you.’ Andrew’s smile faded. ‘And talking of not letting others do anything for you, I wish you’d reconsider the live transplant.’
Andrew had been tested and found to be a compatible match for a live donation of one of his own kidneys, but Louis was adamant he didn’t want Andrew to take any risk for him. This was his fight, he said. And to be fair, Louis was holding his own so far and every day there was a chance he’d move further up the transplant list.
Louis shook his head. ‘No, son. Let’s wait and see what the doctors say.’
Andrew already had a sneaky suspicion the news wasn’t going to be good and a transplant would be Louis’ only chance. The waiting list was long and a live transplant from a family member was the best option. And although the whole process wasn’t going to be easy on any of them – the operation itself, the recovery time, extra staffing costs, not to mention a business in its infancy that Andrew would worry about the whole time he wasn’t there – he was prepared to do it. He’d do anything for the father who’d been by his side his whole life.
Louis pulled a box from the sideboard near the kitchen table. ‘Enough morbid talk for one night. How about a chocolate?’ He opened the gold packaging to reveal some family favourites from the chocolaterie. ‘Stephanie packages up the rejects for me – poorly shaped chocolates, some whose decorations aren’t quite right – and drops them over each day after her shift. The poor girl doesn’t realise my diet is restricted. I’d hate to be rude and tell her I can’t eat them, but I also hate seeing such beautiful creations go to waste.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ Andrew felt content he had staff he trusted and liked. It would help if his father ever agreed to the operation that would alter his life. He smiled at Gemma as he chose a milk chocolate heart not quite as symmetrical as it should’ve been. When they’d first got together and Gemma stayed with him night after night, he’d leave in the early hours of the morning – he’d be up at least two hours before she’d have to get showered and dressed to head out for her job as a teacher – and every morning he’d leave a chocolate on the pillow next to her. She’d loved it at first, and he’d thought it the most romantic thing in the world until she told him to cut it out, he was making her put on weight by starting the day with a chocolate fix. ‘That’s my job,’ he’d told her, and he’d taken her in his arms and made love to her to ‘burn off those calories’.
Andrew looked at Gemma and at Louis, all smiles around the table despite the setbacks and challenges they were constantly faced with. They were rock-solid, a family who stayed together. He wasn’t about to let his former girlfriend’s lies destroy his marriage.
Somewhere out there in the big, wide world he had a daughter, who’d been a six-pound, seven-ounce baby given up for adoption. She’d grown into a young woman who wanted answers, but he couldn’t let it blow their world apart.
He wouldn’t.
When he and Gemma had suffered the pain of all those miscarriages, Andrew had wondered whether it was the universe and karma having their say. He’d thought karma was punishing him for what he and Julia had done to their baby, karma getting revenge even though he’d been pushed out of the equation. How wrong he had been. He was the fourth side to the triangle, and to try to make sense of the misshapen world he’d suddenly found himself spiralling into was something he simply didn’t know how to do. He was the side that didn’t exist. There was the adoption triangle familiar to many, the naturally occurring three sides of the puzzle: the birth mother, the adoptee and the adoptive mother.
Where the hell did he fit into that?
Chapter Four
Molly
The rain lashed at the windows of the hospital and the thunder rolled for the fourth time in a row.
‘There’s one hell of a storm brewing,’ said Freya. ‘Not sure I can be bothered with the pub tonight. You up for it, Molly?’
Molly’s hand stilled on the paperwork she hadn’t even dealt with, her mind on a completely different birth. ‘Not if all you’re going to talk about is your holiday to Malta.’
‘You know what they say?’
Molly had a feeling she knew where this was heading.
‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.’
‘Now how did I know you were going to have another dig?’ Molly grinned.
‘You’re missing out,’ said Freya. ‘I’ll hold your hand personally, I promise.’
Molly’s fear of flying had meant missing out on this trip to Malta, as well as the previous two trips her girlfriends at the hospital had organised. Last year they’d skied in Andorra, two years ago it’d been a holiday soaking up the sun in Turkey. Molly thought of all the kids born to celebrities who dragged them across the globe right from when they were in nappies. Maybe if she’d been on a plane as a little girl, if it was as regular as catching a bus or a train, she wouldn’t have let stories of pilot error or terrorist attacks fuel her fear.
‘Hopefully I’ll join you next year,’ said Molly.
‘I’ll hold you to that. Are you still in the support group, or whatever it’s called?’
‘It’s a Facebook group.’ She smiled. Up until now she’d missed out on holidaying with friends, but with Isaac getting married in America in July, Molly had even more reason to work through this. Sometimes she swore he’d met and got engaged to Claire, from Connecticut, just so he could force his sister to face her fear.
A couple of months ago, Molly had discovered and signed up to join a Facebook group founded by an Australian guy called Ben. The online group was there for support and advice for anyone who had a fear of flying. Some people on there were time wasters and the admins of the group were pretty sharp at blocking them, others were in a lot deeper than her and couldn’t see their fear ever being conquered. But some members had recently taken their first flight and posted pictures of the places they’d been, and she hoped it wouldn’t be long before she could do the same.
Josie, the senior midwife, answered the phone at the nurses station and warned of a new patient coming in. ‘Could you check on Mrs Antrim, Molly? She’s having trouble breastfeeding.’
‘Sure thing.’ Molly set her paperwork aside. Midwifery wasn’t only about caring for the mother during labour, but also being there afterwards as support. Confident and strong anyway, Molly’s job made her even more so. After all, no mother wanted a midwife who didn’t look or sound like they knew exactly what they were doing. They wanted to know their midwife would take control of a situation. Mind you, there was a balance. During her training she’d heard bolshy midwives say it was nonsense to find breastfeeding a struggle. They’d get the baby, get the boob, shove them together and bam.
As Molly talked to Mrs Antrim, whose baby girl Annabel had, by now, latched on and was suckling at her breast, she wondered what those first few days in the hospital would’ve been like for her own birth mother. Since the day she’d turned up on her birth mother’s doorstep, Molly had checked the post constantly, willing the opening letterbox to drop some kind of hope onto the doormat. But nothing.
The rest of Molly’s day passed in a busy blur, and as visiting hours came to a close and the department quietened, she heard a voice behind her.
‘I need to see her,’ said the man. ‘My girlfriend, I think she’s here. At least, it’s the only place she can be.’
Molly recognised the signs: Anxious Father Syndrome. She came out from behind the desk. ‘Come and sit down.’ She led him to the three chairs lined up opposite the nurses station. ‘Now tell me, what’s her name?’
He seemed relieved to be supported by the plastic chair. ‘Her name’s Sophie and she’s having my baby.’
‘Can you give me her surname?’ Molly wasn’t about to confirm or deny, even though she suspected this was the boyfriend studying to be a doctor.
‘Philpott,’ said the man.
‘And you are?’
‘Allan. She broke up with me. She thinks I can’t handle being a dad, not yet. But I can. I want to.’
Molly pressed her hand on top of his in a reassuring gesture. ‘Let me see if I can find something out for you, see if she’s here.’
The Chocolatier's Secret (Magnolia Creek, Book 2) Page 2
