by Liz Fielding
But the longest journey started with a single step. Tonight they’d made that together.
Tom was using his cellphone when she returned to the bedroom, talking to someone about making the sideshow booths. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement and carried on, while she opened her bag, took out the small folder of notepaper she kept in there and settled at the small escritoire to write her letter. The second most difficult in her life.
It was a deliberate ploy. She wanted him to see her pen gliding across the same heavy cream paper on which she’d written to him. She uncapped her pen and smoothed a hand over her hair, lingering at the damp patch where his tears had soaked in.
And then, pushing all that from her mind, she began.
‘That didn’t take long,’ Tom said, watching as she carefully folded the sheet into four and tucked it into an envelope. Addressed it.
‘No. Sometimes things you think are impossible are nowhere near as difficult as you imagine,’ she said and looked up as he joined her. ‘I just invited Dad and his partner to join the festivities on Sunday. It was as simple as that.’
‘Will it get there in time?’
‘I’ll take it to the post office first thing in the morning and send it express.’
‘You’ll have enough to do,’ he said, holding out his hand for it. ‘Leave it to me.’
‘Thank you,’ she said and placed the envelope in his hands. Would he remember the feel of it? How he’d felt when he’d opened it?
‘I’ve organised a carpenter to build the stalls for the marquee,’ he said. ‘They’ll be here first thing.’
‘Fast work.’ She glanced at her watch. It was barely nine. Still early enough to call some of those people who’d assured her that she could call any time, ask anything.
‘What about the Steam Museum? I imagine you’ll want to sort that out personally?’
‘The sooner the better. I’ll make that call first.’
As she picked up her cellphone Tom headed for the door. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. You can leave this with me.’
He didn’t wait for her to reply but, lifting the letter to indicate what he was referring to, he left her alone.
It was somewhat abrupt but it had been an emotion-charged evening. Maybe he just needed some air.
And she let it go, calling Laura, who knew everyone, and handing her the job of securing the Steam Museum for the photo shoot.
It didn’t open until two on Sunday so they had plenty of time. The church was booked for early afternoon. They could finish off in the marquee in the early evening.
Tom closed the door to Sylvie’s bedroom, leaned back against it for a moment while he caught his breath. While she called Jeremy to enthuse him with her excitement. Got him to call the trustees and ask them for the loan of some of his grandfather’s toys for their big day.
He looked down at the letter he was holding. At least he’d managed to save one man from heartache.
His own would have to wait. He’d made her a promise and he’d keep it. But he’d leave as soon as he was sure everything was just as she wanted it. He didn’t intend to be an onlooker when Jeremy Hillyer arrived to claim his bride.
‘It’s beautiful, Geena.’
The dress, a simple A-line shift in rich cream silk, had been appliquéd to the knees in swirling blocks of lavender, purple and green. And, instead of a veil, she’d created a stunningly beautiful loose thigh-length jacket on which the appliqué was repeated around the edge and on wide fold-back cuffs. Embroidery trailed over the silk and tiny beads caught the light as she moved-beads that matched the small Russian-style tiara Geena had commissioned to go with the gown.
‘I just wish it was for real. I really hoped you were going to bring Mr Hot-and-Sexy along to try on the matching waistcoat,’ she said.
‘Me too,’ Sylvie replied, for once letting her mask slip, her feelings show. Then, ‘I meant, I wish it was for real.’
‘I know what you meant, Sylvie. It was written all over your face. He is your baby’s father, isn’t he?’
Sylvie tried to deny it. Couldn’t. Lifted her hands in a helpless gesture that said it all.
‘I thought so. Men are such fools.’
‘We’re all fools,’ she said, shrugging off the beautiful jacket.
The week had been such a roller coaster of emotions that she was almost reeling from it. Or maybe she was just exhausted.
Tom had been such a tower of strength. Organising carpenters to make the food stalls. Rounding up every set of coloured lights in the county and making sure they were fixed for maximum impact so that inside the marquee was like being inside a funfair. Finding old fairground ride cars and adapting them for seating.
And, in the evenings, he was always there, ready to talk through any problems she’d encountered and offer suggestions.
He had such a clear vision, a way of seeing to the core of things.
He only had one blind spot. There was only one subject he never mentioned. It was almost as if he was so locked into his past, his determination never to be a father, that he’d blanked it out.
It couldn’t go on.
She wouldn’t allow it to go on.
‘Is that the dress?’
Tom was working at the kitchen table as she walked in carrying the box containing the tissue-wrapped dress and he pushed back the chair, standing up to take it from her.
‘Yes. I insisted on bringing it with me, just in case.’
‘In case of what?’
‘In case she has a flat tyre. Or her workroom burns to the ground.’ The principle that whatever can go wrong, will go wrong. ‘Believe me, when you’ve been in this business for as long as I have-’
‘Actually, Sylvie, I’m a bit concerned about the traction engines. I know you said Laura had it all in hand, but shouldn’t they-’
‘You don’t have to worry about them. We’ve got all morning,’ she said. ‘Plenty of time.’ Then, ‘I’ll just take this upstairs, then I want to talk to you, Tom.’
‘Can you leave it for a moment?’ he asked, taking the box from her, putting it on the table. ‘I want you to come and see the marquee.’
‘I thought it was finished.’
‘It is now,’ he said with the kind of smile that had become such a familiar sight over the last few days as they’d worked together. And he held out his hand. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’
She laid her hand over his and he wrapped his fingers over hers. For a moment neither of them moved, then, as if jerking himself back from a dream, he headed for the door. Once they were outside, he paused for her to fall in beside him and they walked together, hand in hand, through the dusk to where the huge marquee had been erected by the hire company to display their wares, decorated at Celebrity’s expense for her fantasy wedding.
‘Wait,’ he said as they approached the entrance. ‘I want you to get the full effect.’ He kept tight hold of her hand as he switched on the generator. The outside was lit up with white lights along every edge-along the roof ridge, cascading from the finials, circling above the drop cloths.
Inside, the lights-smaller, more decorative, a mirror image of those on the outside-were reflecting on the polished floor. The supports were topped with huge knots of brightly coloured ribbons, the same ribbons that were plaited around them to the floor. In the corners were brightly painted stalls, offering a choice of foods. The fairground seating.
Small finishing touches had been added during the afternoon. The candyfloss machine had arrived. Bunches of balloons were straining against their strings.
And then, as she looked around, she saw it.
A fairground organ. The kind that played from printed sheets. He crossed to it, threw a switch and, as if by magic, it began to play, music filling the huge space.
‘Tom! It’s wonderful! The perfect finishing touch.’
Even as Sylvie said the words, she felt her skin rise in goose-bumps. Nothing was ever perfect…
But then Tom said, ‘Would you ca
re to dance, Miss Smith?’ And, before she could protest, he was waltzing her across the floor. And it was. Magic.
About as perfect as it was possible for something to be.
And much too brief. The music stopped. Tom held her for just a moment longer. Then he stepped away.
‘Enough.’
The word had a finality about it but, before she could say anything, he turned away. ‘Go in, Sylvie. It’ll take me a while to shut everything down. Make sure it’s all safe. I’ll leave the lights until last so that you can see your way.’ Then, ‘Take care.’
‘Yes, I will.’
For a moment neither of them moved and then, because the longer she hesitated, the longer it would be before he could join her and she could talk to him about the future, she turned and walked back to the house.
Inside, the hall was now festooned with pink ribbons in preparation for tomorrow’s Fayre. The door to the ballroom stood wide open to reveal the catwalk, the tables with gilt chairs laid out in preparation for the fashion show. Mother of the bride outfits, going-away outfits, honeymoon clothes. Formal hire wear for men, including kilts. Bridesmaids and page-boy outfits. And, finally, Geena’s bridal wear.
The florist had been busy all day putting the finishing touches to her arrangements. Pew-end nosegays that had been hung all along the edge of the catwalk. Table flowers.
In the drawing room all the stalls were laid out like an Aladdin’s cave. Everything sparkling, fresh, lovely.
Laura was right. This was worth it, she thought. Even the weather forecast was good. It was going to be warm and sunny as it had been all week.
So why was she so cold?
She pushed open the library door, eager to get to the fire she knew would be banked up behind the guard.
But the guard was down. The room was not empty. There was someone sitting in Tom’s chair. A man, who stood up as she came to an abrupt halt.
Her father.
Older, with a little less hair, a little thicker around the waist-line. Deeply tanned. Still unbelievably good-looking.
Waiting. Uncertain.
She took a step towards him. He took one towards her and then she reached out, took his hand and carried it to her waist. ‘You’re going to be a grandfather,’ she said.
‘I read about it in Celebrity. When I saw the photograph I thought for one awful moment you were back with that piece of…’ he stopped ‘…Jeremy Hillyer. I thought you were back with him.’
‘It’s not Jeremy’s baby.’ She covered his hand with her own. ‘It’s Tom’s baby.’ Then, ‘He knew you were here, didn’t he? That’s why he sent me on ahead of him.’
‘He said he thought we might need some time on our own.’ Then, ‘I’d given up hope. When I read about the baby and you still didn’t get in touch, I knew it would never happen.’
‘I’m sorry. So sorry…’
‘Hush. You’re my little girl, Sylvie. You don’t ever have to say you’re sorry.’ And he put out his arms and gathered her in.
Later-after they’d both cried as they’d talked about her mother, as they’d discovered they could laugh too-she said, ‘Did you bring Michael with you?’
‘We’re staying in Melchester. He’ll come tomorrow. Thank you for asking him.’
‘You love him. He’s part of our lives.’
‘And Tom? Is he going to be part of yours?’
‘I…I don’t know. Just when I think that maybe it’s going to be all right, I realise it isn’t.’ And she shivered again.
‘Maybe you should go and find him, Sylvie. We can talk some more tomorrow.’
‘Tom?’
She’d watched her father’s tail-lights disappear over the brow of the hill and then walked through the house looking for Tom. Not just to thank him, but determined now, as never before, to make him see reason about the baby.
Mrs Kennedy was in the kitchen making a sandwich. ‘Tom asked me to make sure you had something to eat.’
‘I had some soup.’
‘Hours ago. Did you have a visitor?’
‘My father. He’s coming for the Fayre tomorrow. He hopes to see you.’
‘I should think so.’ And she smiled. ‘I’m glad you’ve made up.’
‘Yes. Me too.’ Then, ‘Where is Tom?’
‘As to that, I couldn’t say,’ she said, wiping her hands and reaching up behind a plate on the dresser to take down an envelope. ‘But he called in to the cottage on his way out and asked me to come over in an hour or two and make sure you had something to eat. He said to tell you he left something upstairs for you. In your room.’
‘On his way out? When?’
‘A while back. Just after he turned out the lights in the marquee.’
She checked her watch. Nearer two hours. She’d thought Tom was just staying out of the way, giving them time to talk.
But she remembered the way she’d shivered. The finality in the way he’d said, ‘Enough’. That he’d left something upstairs for her. Something he hadn’t wanted her to find before he’d left…
She bolted up the stairs, flung open her bedroom door and saw the clown teddy propped up on her bed, just where Tom had been lying a few days ago. Looking for all the world as if he belonged there.
Because he had.
She picked up the bear, knowing that Tom had taken it from the trunk, carried it down to her room, placed it there. She buried her face in it, hoping to catch something of his scent. Trying to feel him, understand what had been going through his mind as he’d been putting things right for her. For her family.
Just as, all week, he’d been making things work for her fantasy wedding. Coming up with neat little ideas to part the visitors to the Wedding Fayre from their money. All little extras for the Pink Ribbon Club.
Then, as she looked up, she saw the letter that had been lying beneath the bear and she ripped open the flap, took out the single folded sheet of paper, then sat down before she opened it, knowing it wouldn’t be good.
My dearest Sylvie
Tomorrow will be your very special day and, now you have your father to support you, I know I can leave you in his safe hands.
I’m going away for a while-but not running this time. I need to find something new to do with my life. Something bigger. Something real. My first decision is not to convert the house into a conference centre. It’s a real home and I hope it will remain as such. Whatever happens, you needn’t worry about Mr and Mrs Kennedy. I’ve made arrangements to ensure they’ll never have to leave their home.
I’ve also asked Mrs Kennedy to see that all the clothes in the attic are donated to Melchester Museum. Everything else of value in the trunks is to be given to the Pink Ribbon Club for fund-raising purposes. The bear, however, is yours. Something belonging to your family that you can pass on to your own baby.
Finally, I want to reassure you that you can rely on my discretion. What happened between us will always remain a very special, a very private memory.
I hope the sun shines for you tomorrow and wish you and Jeremy a long and happy life together.
Yours
Tom
Sylvie read the note. Maybe she was tired; she was certainly emotionally drained, but none of it made sense.
She’d seen him just a couple of hours ago. And what the heck did he mean about her having a long and happy life with Jeremy?
She read the letter again, then went back down to the kitchen.
‘What does Tom mean about you never having to leave your home, Mrs Kennedy?’
She smiled. ‘Bless the man, he gave it to us. Said that’s what Lady Annika would have done if she’d been able to and anyway it wouldn’t be missed from the estate when it was sold.’
Sylvie sat down.
He’d given it to them. Just because she’d said…‘And the clothes? You’re to send them to the Museum?’
‘I believe he spoke to someone there just yesterday. He said to tell you that if there’s anything you want, you should take it.’
She shook her head. ‘No…’
He’d been planning this? Why hadn’t he said anything?
She re-read the last paragraph again:
“…I hope the sun shines for you tomorrow, and wish you and Jeremy a long and happy life together.”
Jeremy?
He was always bringing up Jeremy. Had even mentioned seeing them in Celebrity together. Had the entire world seen that? Even her father had said…
Oh, good grief. No. He couldn’t possibly think that all this wedding stuff was real. Could he?
Did he really believe that she was marrying Jeremy while she was carrying his baby? While she had been practically swooning in his arms in the attics? Was that why he’d pulled back from that kiss over the kitchen table?
“…you can rely on my discretion…”
Was that what he thought she’d wanted to talk to him about? To plead for his discretion?
‘Oh, no, Tom McFarlane, you don’t…’
She had his cellphone number programmed into her phone and she hit fast dial but his phone was turned off and all she got was some anonymous voice inviting her to leave a message.
‘Tom? Don’t you dare do another disappearing act on me-not until you’ve spoken to me! Ring me, do you hear? Ring me now!’
But what if he didn’t?
What if he decided to head straight for the airport, put as much distance between them as possible? It was what he’d done when Candy had let him down.
She froze. Was it possible that he’d only just come back? That he’d never received her letter?
No. That wasn’t possible. Despite her promise to him-to herself-she’d cracked, had asked him if he’d got it. She’d never forget his dismissive nod. And a long time later, “I’m sorry…”
None of this made sense. She had to talk to him. She dialled Enquiries for the number of his London apartment, but inevitably, it was unlisted. And there was no point in calling his office on a Saturday night. But she did that too. If he was there he didn’t pick up.
