by Eleanor Ray
“Amy!” From nowhere, Charles came hurtling towards her. “I’m playing hide-and-seek with Daniel,” he said. “It’s a little kids’ game, and I’m too grown-up for it really, but my dad said if we play outside, he has to watch to make sure that Daniel doesn’t hide anywhere dangerous while I have my eyes closed.”
Amy smiled at Richard. That’s what he was doing.
Charles lowered his voice to an exaggerated whisper. “We can all see Daniel behind that pot,” he said, pointing to the back of Daniel’s clearly visible head. “But I’m pretending to look for him anyway.”
“That is kind of you,” said Amy.
“I know,” replied Charles with a smile, before asking, “How’s your clear-out going? Is there room for us to play in your house now? We could bring Mickey over for a visit.”
“Not yet,” said Richard, getting up and putting a hand on Amy’s shoulder. “I told you it takes time.”
“I get it,” said Charles. “I wouldn’t want to get rid of any of my diggers. Or my fire engines.”
“You’ll grow out of them one day,” said Richard.
“Never,” declared Charles. “When I’m big enough, I’ll be a digger driver and a firefighter and play with big machines all day long.” He peered back into Amy’s house, then looked up at her. “Maybe then I wouldn’t need to keep all the toys,” he said. “Because I could drive them in real life.”
Amy nodded. Real life needed space to grow.
“I need to get back to work,” she said.
Amy went back into her house and through to the kitchen. The towers of mugs loomed tall. Their colors were beautiful, but did she really need so many? She wouldn’t be drinking tea in just her own house anymore. She had friends she’d visit.
Slowly, Amy started to deconstruct one of the towers. One by one, she put the mugs in an empty box and firmly stuck on a yellow sticker for the charity shop. She’d keep a few, she decided. Six.
Maybe ten.
But no more.
She took hold of the yellow mug that she’d rescued when Nina and Richard had moved in. She ran her finger down the crack. Not even the charity shop would want this, she realized. Perhaps she didn’t either. Amy peeled a red sticker from her sheet. She had to let go of the broken things in her life. Some of them, at least. Gently, she affixed the sticker to the mug.
Going back into the living room, she was struck by the scale of what she still had to accomplish. Box after box after box.
She had to start somewhere. With a sigh, Amy pulled a box down from one of the piles and opened it. Ashtrays. She hesitated. She wasn’t a smoker, but Chantel was. She’d need one when she visited. Amy’s hands hovered over the box. She could keep one ashtray, she decided. But which? They were all so lovely. Perhaps she might take up smoking one day, she thought. Then she’d be justified in keeping the lighters too. Her mind went back to the only time she’d tried a cigarette, leaning out of Chantel’s bedroom window. She’d coughed so much she was almost sick.
Maybe she wouldn’t take up smoking, she decided. But once the house was clear she was planning to invite people to visit her again. Simon perhaps. What if he was there at the same time as Chantel and they were sitting far away from each other? She’d need to choose another ashtray to keep.
Or did she? Amy had always hated people smoking in her house. She thought again of Charles. She wanted him, his brother, and his father to visit more than anyone, and of course they didn’t need ashtrays. Quickly, Amy peeled a yellow sticker from the paper and stuck it to the box. The whole lot could go to the charity shop.
Amy took a deep breath and pulled down the next box.
It revealed her mantelpiece, long hidden. Amy looked at it and smiled. She would put a single clock up there, she decided. One that worked. Perhaps a new painting. And one vase, for fresh flowers.
She opened the box and an array of bubble-wrapped vases peered back. Amy opened the top one, unable to resist the satisfaction of popping a bubble in the process. The vase was iridescent glass, probably Bohemian. The color of a sunrise. She had to keep that one.
The next was a sturdier construction, terra-cotta with a deep-purple glaze. Gorgeous. The following vase was Waterford crystal. She could still remember her joy at discovering it in a charity shop.
Amy took her last green sticker and placed it on the box of vases, then turned her attention to another box full of clocks.
She heard a soft knocking sound on the living room door, and Richard poked his head around.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“I’ve run out of green stickers,” said Amy. “There’s a lot I don’t want to let go of.”
“I know,” said Richard. “In fact, I thought you might be feeling the house was a bit empty.” He smiled. “So I brought you something.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” said Amy. “More stuff is the last thing I need.”
“Don’t worry,” he replied. “I got you something you can’t keep.”
“You’d be surprised what I can hold on to,” said Amy. But she laughed a little, already feeling lighter.
He produced a bouquet of flowers from behind his back. Bright, messy, and wild. Daisies and buddleia and long trails of ivy. And honeysuckle. Lots of it.
Amy gasped.
“It’s nothing fancy,” said Richard. “The boys helped me pick it from the garden. Mrs. Hill had quite the green fingers, didn’t she?”
“Honeysuckle,” said Amy, disbelieving.
“We used lots of that,” said Richard. “I know you like it.”
“I do,” said Amy. “Very much.” She smiled back at him. “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll put them in water.” She walked over to her vases, selected the iridescent one that reminded her of a sunrise, and took it to the kitchen to fill with water. She put the flowers inside and breathed in deeply.
She needed to make room for people. For a new man who brought her flowers. For little boys who understood her better than she did herself and threaded sticky little fingers through her own.
Amy went back to the living room and put the flowers on the mantelpiece. Then she unpeeled the green sticker from the box of vases, crumpled it up into a tiny ball, and put it in her pocket. She placed a yellow sticker in its place. The rest of the vases could go to the charity shop and find new homes.
“There,” she said. “One less box.”
Amy tried to smile, already feeling the loss. But she could feel the gain as well. She looked at the honeysuckle, the creamy flowers with their sweet scent and memories of the past. Then she looked at the daisies with brilliant white petals soft as a blanket, and the buddleia, tiny, modest blossoms coming together en masse to create something quite spectacular. Honeysuckle, yes, but so much more besides.
Amy looked to Richard. “You’ve done brilliantly today, Amy,” he said. “You’ve let go of so much.” He paused. “Perhaps…” He hesitated. “Perhaps there’s more space now,” he added. “In your life.”
“Yes,” said Amy. She hesitated too. “There is.”
“I thought…” continued Richard. “That maybe you’ll have room for us. For me and the boys, I mean.”
“I hope so,” she replied. And she did. She now knew the truth of what had happened. It was time to look to the future.
“And for me, especially?”
It seemed the most natural thing in the world to kiss him.
She did.
The kiss was warm and wonderful, scented of a summer’s garden.
Amy broke away. “Are you sure? I still come with boxes of clocks, more cookbooks than I’ll ever use, and flocks of china birds.”
“I’ll take you with or without the china birds, Amy Ashton,” he said, reaching for her hand. Amy felt his skin against her own. Warm and soft. “No one travels lightly through life anymore.”
Acknowledgments
Just as Amy collects bottles, I have collected an array of wonderful people who have helped with this novel.
My
mother, Susan, who has read this book so many times and has given brilliant ideas and valuable feedback with each read. She’s amazing.
Philippa Pride, my insightful and kind mentor, and the members of the Next Chapter writing group. Thanks for the feedback and friendship.
Thank you to my agent, Euan Thorneycroft, and the team at A. M. Heath for the guidance, support, and belief, and for finding the book such perfect homes.
I’m so grateful to the fantastic team at Piatkus, with special thanks to my talented editors Emma Beswetherick, Anna Boatman, Amanda Keats, and Penny Isaac; their enthusiasm for Amy and her story has blown me away. Thank you to my publishers abroad: Cordelia Borchardt at Krüger, Kate Dresser at Simon & Schuster, and more I’ve yet to meet.
Special thanks to my baby daughter, Violet, for sleeping sweetly through the sound of keys tapping. And to my son, Teddy, for the treasures he collects and the diggers he loves.
More in Fiction
Still Alice
Then She Was Gone
Maybe in Another Life
The Wife
The Year We Turned Forty
Slightly South of Simple
About the Author
Eleanor Ray has a master’s degree in English literature from the University of Edinburgh, Scotland. Born to an American mother and a British father, she lives in London with her husband and two young children. She is currently working on her next novel.
Eleanor was inspired to write The Missing Treasures of Amy Ashton by the objects her toddler collects and treasures—twigs, empty water bottles, and wilting daisies.
FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR:
SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Eleanor-Ray
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Gallery Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Eleanor Ray
Originally published in Great Britain in 2021 by Little, Brown Book Group
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First Gallery Books hardcover edition June 2021
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Interior design by Jaime Putorti
Illustrations by Laura Levatino
Jacket design by Laywan Kwan
Author photograph by Charlie Hopkinson
Animal and object illustrations © Shutterstock
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
ISBN 978-1-9821-6352-5
ISBN 978-1-9821-6354-9 (ebook)
