“Right. I’ll find you a sweater.” He pushed back his chair and nodded at the half-full french press on the kitchen table. “The coffee’s fresh. Or I have tea if you’d rather.” He threw out an easy smile. “Back in a jiffy.”
The table was set for two with a small cut-glass vase of lavender in the middle. She leaned forward to inhale before looking around. Everything was laid out by the cooktop with military precision: plates, frying pan, wooden spoon, whisk, a Pyrex dish lined with paper towels, eggs, and a small stack of Tupperware. A loaf of whole wheat bread sat on the wooden breadboard, already sliced by the large steel knife. She touched the scars on her left wrist and focused on the cluster of jars: two different jams, marmalade, and Marmite. Gabriel wasn’t taking chances with her choice of condiments.
He returned with a sweater that matched his eyes. “Cashmere, I believe. A Christmas present from Mum and a casualty of my lack of expertise with the washing. Mrs. Tandy, you might remember her—?” Marianne shook her head. “These days she’s my cleaner. Anyway, she told me off for putting it in the dryer, but what do I want with an expensive sweater that needs a gentle spin cycle and air-dry?”
“Thank you.” Marianne pulled it on. “I love cashmere.”
“Consider it yours. I was going to take it to the charity shop, but it never moved out of my pile of good intentions. Scrambled eggs and bacon before we head to the cemetery?”
Marianne forced back a scream of Let’s go now. “Sure.”
Traffic hummed in the distance, and down the lane a car backfired.
“I don’t remember the constant buzz of traffic.”
“Heavier than it used to be. The A428 has been de-trunked, but it makes no difference. Satnavs still send lorries through when the M1’s closed. We’ve given up hope of a bypass.”
“Satnavs?” And what the hell did de-trunked mean?
“A navigation device that still recognizes the road as a major one, even though it’s been downgraded to a common or garden A-road. I think you call it a GPS?” Gabriel moved about the kitchen in a slow dance. One by one he cracked eggs into a white porcelain bowl and dropped the shells into a tin container labeled “Compost.” Would he whistle while he worked?
“I thought a full English breakfast might be just the ticket. I’ve warmed up a few sausages from last night, too.” He removed a plate from the microwave and put it on the table. “Chipolatas from the butcher’s. Your mother used to love them, if memory serves. How is she?”
“She died of breast cancer ten years ago. I miss her every day.” And that was the most honest statement she’d made in a long time.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I remember her Victoria sponge fondly. And her treacle tarts.”
“I see your sweet tooth hasn’t changed.” She paused. “Len’s still in the village?”
“Indeed. Although I suspect we may lose the butcher’s shop when he retires. His son has no interest in keeping the family business going.”
“That’s a shame.” What would Simon have made of this perfectly normal conversation? “Shouldn’t you be out doing something meaningful like saving souls?” Might be an idea to establish how much time she had to talk him into what Baldrick on Blackadder, once her favorite TV show, would have called a cunning plan.
“I am doing something meaningful. Or I was.” He pointed at the pile of Church Times. “Catching up on my reading.” He separated out slices of bacon, laying them carefully on the paper towels, not slapping them down as she would have done.
“What about tending your flock?” she said.
He hit the timer on the microwave. “I need to lock myself away after breakfast for morning prayer, and then I have a wedding at two, but other than that, I’m at your disposal this weekend. I do have a meeting tomorrow night for the organ fund-raiser, but Donald, a retired non-stipendiary priest, has already agreed to cover tomorrow’s service. Fortunately only the one, but since it’s the monthly benefice service, I prefer not to hand it over to one of my lay band. I called earlier and explained a long-lost family member had turned up unexpectedly, and Donald was more than happy to oblige. His wife’s visiting her family and I suspect he’s bored silly. Eggs slightly runny?”
Marianne nodded, her mind caught on one thought: After everything I’ve done to him, I’m family?
“Did you sleep well?” He kept his back to her.
“Few hours. Sleep’s not my thing.” Once upon a time he’d known that. “And how about you? Find the floor comfy?”
“Ah.” He turned with a grin. All dimples and coyness, as he’d been when he was the Artful Dodger. “You noticed.”
“Hard not to. I nearly broke my neck tripping over you in the middle of the night. Gabriel, you don’t need to guard my door.”
The microwave bleeped while Gabriel put a plate of eggs in front of her. Lovely peppery eggs. She pulled the silver napkin ring off her blue linen napkin and twirled it around and around on the pine table.
“I like the lavender,” she said.
“I picked it half an hour ago.”
“You’ve been busy.” Something else that hadn’t changed. His energy levels never matched hers, but Gabriel hadn’t been one to sit still.
The toaster popped, and he slotted toast into the silver toast rack in front of her. Then he put four strips of bacon on her plate, one by one, using a pair of tongs. A slow memory returned of what those hands used to do. She shook it away.
“And your father? How’s he doing?” Gabriel said.
“In a retirement home with a caregiver. Some days I think he’s fading, others I think he’ll live to be a hundred. He still has a sharp mind, but he falls easily. I wanted him to come and live with us, but I would never have been able to cope, and then my husband”—easier to not speak his name—“would have tried to mother-hen both of us and failed. Jade and I take Dad to Sunday brunch every week. Eating out with him isn’t a barrel of fun, but he loves his shrimp and grits. Jade laughs it off when he spits food or splatters his meal down his shirt; I want to cry. Tough watching a human body fail. I put them through hell, you know, my parents.”
He appeared to be watching her plate, so she speared a sausage, cut a small bite-sized piece, and made appreciative noises. He smiled.
Marianne swallowed. “But they always stood by me.” As I’m hoping you will.
Gabriel nodded. “Good people, your parents. I had the utmost respect for your father.”
Food had tasted of nothing for so long. Rich and slightly spicy, the sausage was full of childhood memories—a happy time in her life despite the mood swings that caught everyone, including her, by surprise.
“Will someone check on your father while you’re here?”
Such a Gabriel comment. “Are you going to insist I call home like E.T.?”
“It’s not my place to tell you what to do, but I would like to extend an open invitation. Stay as long as you need.”
“Thank you.” Her objective, all shiny and new, simmered away. How long before the meds were flushed from her system? “That would be great.” Another bite of sausage. “And yes, Jade will check on Dad. She’s constantly plugging in the holes I create.”
“She sounds special, this Jade. Who is she?”
“My baby girl. Well, she’s about to turn thirty, so I guess I need a new nickname. She was living on the streets when I took her in, and now she’s my chief sound engineer, but that doesn’t begin to describe our relationship. Dad introduces her as his granddaughter—even paid for her college. She’s my almost-daughter.”
Gabriel grinned as if releasing something that had been causing him stress.
“When did you learn to cook?”
“At uni,” Gabriel said. “You studied music?”
“Majored in music performance at Carolina. But it took a while. Kept dropping out for vacays in the psych ward.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, I guess we both are. And your parents?” His dad, the military guy, had been eccentric and fun
ny; his mom had been distant. Had either of them forgiven her?
“On the cusp of a major life change, I suspect. I found them a small house outside Milton Keynes a few years back, new with all mod cons. Mum fakes it, but they can’t really cope.”
“Medical problems?”
“Dad, yes. Truthfully Mum’s gone a bit barmy.”
“Alzheimer’s?”
“No, but some form of dementia. It’s almost as if she’s had a personality transplant. And not for the better.”
“Have you considered calling in a geriatric psychologist?”
“Such things exist?”
“Welcome to the twenty-first century. Psychology has evolved since Freud’s day.”
He smiled his sweet smile again. Why had life—and death—not battered that out of him?
“Is there anything I should know about your illness?” He hesitated. “Stuff I can do to help while you’re here? I’d like to be prepared if my houseguest is going to sharpen the kitchen knives at the stroke of midnight.”
She noticed he’d hidden the bread knife in the sink before joining her with his loaded plate of eggs and bacon.
“I’m unpredictable, irrational, impulsive, and sometimes a tad psychotic.” Might as well throw in that last point and see if he reached for his holy water.
“Right,” he said, passing the test without knowing. “And how’s your creative life? Do you still sing? Pen those beautiful poems?”
“No. The studio takes up all my energy and focus. I learned a long time ago I have to manage my time carefully, otherwise I get a bit too enthusiastic. I took up knitting, though.”
“We have a popular yarn shop ten minutes away. Or so Mrs. Tandy tells me.”
“I don’t have the focus right now. Plus my doc upped the lithium and it makes my hand shake.” She held out her hand, but it barely moved. Interesting. Soon the sharp edges would return.
“Gabriel. If I asked you to follow me into hell, would you?”
“Is this hypothetical?” he said.
“That depends on your answer.”
He stared hard, his pale eyes unblinking, and she tried to remember why she’d strayed to Simon.
“I’ll do whatever you ask,” he said, “provided it’s legal and doesn’t include petty thievery. But I need a promise in return.”
EIGHT
GABRIEL
Gabriel had questions, and despite a troubled night of tossing through different scenarios, he doubted Marianne could provide trustworthy answers. Embellishment had always hung from her like brightly colored costume jewelry.
“Would you mind if we said grace first?” It seemed utterly pointless, given that she’d eaten at least a bird’s portion of her meal, but the talk of visiting hell with a suicide survivor had unnerved him. He tried to focus on the word survivor.
Slowly, she raised her pale face and nodded.
When he’d finished, he said, “Bon appétit,” and turned his attention to his food. Chewing gave him time to think.
Marianne cut another small piece of sausage, then laid down her knife and transferred the fork to her right hand. He should have expected her to eat American style, but still, it struck him as alien. She never used to have an American accent, either. A jarring example of the different paths their lives had taken. And yet he had welcomed her back into his life, and promised what?
She scooped up a small portion of egg. Good, that was two mouthfuls in addition to several small bites of sausage. He would drop a hint to Mrs. Tandy about fattening up his houseguest. Hopefully this would lead to plenty of Mrs. Tandy’s specialty: chocolate and caramel millionaires.
“How long ago was this second car crash?” he said.
“Coming up on six months.”
“That’s a hard anniversary.”
“I suppose grief’s a sideline for you.”
He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“I can’t do pleasantries right now. Sorry.”
“Then don’t. We can discuss the weather if you’d prefer.” With Marianne there was always subtext. The trick, if he remembered correctly, was to keep her talking.
“And after that?”
“Entirely up to you.” He cut into a sausage and kept eating. Testing him used to be her favorite game, and he’d fallen for it every time. “You’re welcome to treat my house as a B and B while you find whatever you’re looking for. Our paths have crossed again after thirty years. I have to believe there’s a reason.”
“You mean your boss”—she nodded heavenward—“has a grand plan?”
“Marianne. My brother cared deeply for you.” Did she not remember Simon screaming I love you, using it as a weapon against him? “And throughout childhood and adolescence I . . . Our relationship mattered a great deal to me.” Maybe it still does.
Marianne glanced up. “It mattered to me, too. More than you knew.”
There was a knock at the door. Marianne’s fork clattered to her plate.
“No cause for alarm.” Gabriel patted his mouth with his blue napkin. “That’ll be Colin, the local tramp. We have breakfast together when he’s passing through on the weekends. Don’t worry”—he stood and grabbed the meal-to-go he’d packed earlier, a ham sandwich and a bottle of ginger beer—“I won’t invite him in.”
Gabriel opened the front door and tried not to recoil from the smell. He kept one hand on the door and handed Colin the brown bag. “I’m afraid it’s a bad time, my friend. I’ve got a bit of company. Same time next week?”
Colin nodded, mumbled his thanks, and shuffled off. Gabriel returned to the kitchen to find Marianne huddled in the corner.
“The rectory’s a bit of a train station,” Gabriel said. “But I’ll do my best to keep people away while you’re staying. And I won’t push you to explain anything you’re not comfortable with. I will only say that you’re welcome to use the phone or computer if you need to contact your husband. Or Jade.”
“No.” Marianne shook her head repeatedly. “No. They can’t know where I am.”
He gestured for her to sit. Guiding Marianne through marital problems appeared to be another divine test. What if she’d been unfaithful to her husband? Monogamy hadn’t been her strong suit. What if she set her sights on him again? Simple, he would resist. He was no longer a teenager guided by hormones . . . and he had his confessor, the mother superior, on speed dial.
“Let’s enjoy our meal.”
With another glance at the kitchen door, Marianne returned to picking at her food.
When she pushed her plate away, he decided to tiptoe back into the conversation. “Can we return to the one thing I need from you?” Would he fall at the first hurdle and have to text Jade before eleven p.m. to admit his failure?
“I don’t do promises anymore,” she said.
“Not even for old times’ sake?”
“Is this going to be your standard knee-jerk response?”
“Possibly.” A memory cartwheeled: singing “Auld Lang Syne” on the stroke of midnight, his arms around Marianne.
The phone rang.
“Don’t you need to get that?” Marianne said.
He shook his head. “I’ve been getting prank calls this morning. Someone keeps dialing the rectory and hanging up.” He brought his knife and fork together in the middle of his empty plate. “I need you to promise that you won’t harm yourself. Because if anything happens on my watch, you’ll doom me to eternal fire and brimstone.”
“You don’t believe in the devil.”
She remembered? “I don’t. But evil can prevail in man’s inhumanity to man. And I believe we each have the power to create our own private hell”—he patted his heart—“in here. Which is where I’ll be if you kill yourself.” Was that too blunt?
“And heaven and the afterlife—do you still believe in them?”
Like Marianne, he preferred not to discuss certain things. “Modern scientific proof makes it hard to believe in life after death. I guess I would say my mind objects but
my heart hopes.”
“You always were far too hopeful.”
“Is that possible?”
“Yes. Because false hope is as destructive as no hope.”
He’d forgotten how he loved these cat-and-mouse conversations with Marianne: her pushing him to the edge of his beliefs, him pushing back.
“I see from your taste in artwork that you believe in angels,” she said.
“I guess we all have a weakness.”
“Even you, Gabriel?”
In the field opposite, a pheasant coughed.
“Especially me,” he said quietly.
She stood. “What time can we go to the cemetery?”
“How about you shower first?” He stood too.
“That bad, huh? Do I smell?”
“I don’t care if you wear the same clothes for a week, but a shower can work wonders for jet lag.”
She turned to the sink. “I’m sorry, I seem to have forgotten my manners. Go do your prayer thing. Cleanup’s on me.”
“Absolutely not. I have a house rule that guests can’t help.” He followed her gaze to the bread knife.
“Let’s drop the pretense, Gabriel.” Her eyes stayed on the knife. “We both know I don’t fit any of your neatly checked boxes.”
And then she left the room. As her footsteps moved around above him, he piled the dishes in the sink—on top of the knife—and retreated to his study. Before anything else he would call Hugh and ask how to implement a suicide watch, because once again, Marianne had promised him nothing.
NINE
DARIUS
Darius tossed his phone to the floor and stared at the green goo sliding up and down the inside of Jade’s lava lamp. Four in the morning, and he was acting worse than the Media Rage bass player who had faked his own concussion. Even a moron couldn’t brain himself on a boom arm. And the moment Jade suggested calling 911, the bassist made a miraculous recovery. Still. On the off chance SPIN’s new darling wasn’t faking it, Darius had typed his cell number into the guy’s phone and told him to call if he felt a brain hemorrhage coming on.
The idiot had clearly been trying to cover up the fact that he was too much of a dumb fuck to watch where he was going. Something they might have in common. Dumb and Dumber. Calling Newton Rushford rectory and then hanging up—more than once—hardly smacked of sensible behavior. What it did smack of? Some really stupid shit he’d pulled in his first marriage. Yup, if the bassist was Dumb, Darius Montgomery was Dumber.
Echoes of Family Page 8
