Aidan puts his arm around her shoulder.
‘She will. We all will. We don’t have any choice.’
‘I don’t know what to say to her. What can we possibly say?’
‘That we still love her and we’ll stand by her, that we’ll always be there for her. Because we have to be there for her. Time will go by, you know, and she’ll survive. We’ve all got to keep looking forward, to the day that she comes home.’
Epilogue
Three weeks before Christmas, Eamon picks up the mail from the mat by the front door, and as he sorts through the bills and the catalogues, finds a card with unknown handwriting and a US postmark.
‘Do we know anyone in America?’ he asks, as Steph opens the flap.
The note inside the card begins Dear Grandma and Grandpa. There’s news of a job in Albany, New York and a serious girlfriend, a phone number, an email address and a WhatsApp handle.
I’m coming back to the UK for Christmas, and I was wondering if you’d like to meet up. No pressure – I know it’s been a long time – but I’d love to see you and for Mallory to meet you.
Hope to hear from you.
Love,
Your grandson Bailey
Steph reads the note twice, and hands it to Eamon.
‘We won’t recognise him,’ she says. ‘And he’ll think we’ve got so old.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ says Eamon. ‘He wants to see us, and that’s the best Christmas present we could have.’
The party at Fairview – on the first anniversary of Tristan’s death – is a modest gathering: no press, no publicity. Izzy and Flora are there, along with Steph and Eamon, Martina, Rachel who will manage the place, a trio of local councillors and four women and their children who will be the first to move in.
The toasts are made in sparkling elderflower cordial, and there are balloons and a bouncy castle for the kids.
The plaque outside the front door is simply engraved with Tristan’s name, and the years of his birth and death.
Rachel leads a tour of the facilities: a communal lounge, laundry and kitchen; large, airy family bedrooms; a garden with swings and a climbing frame, and a summer house designated as a quiet space. The garden is surrounded by a high fence, and there are iron gates across the driveway, with keypad entry.
Fairview is safe and secure.
In the breeze, Flora’s unicorn balloon bobs above her head as she proudly holds the string. Izzy’s getting ready to leave, and Martina comes to say goodbye.
‘We couldn’t have done it without your help,’ she says. ‘If you’d pulled the plug, I’d have understood. I know we’re not your problem.’
‘Tris might have been part of the problem, though, and he knew it.’
‘You turned him from that path, Izzy. He wanted to be a better man for your sake. He loved you and Flora so much, and this is his legacy, a place of healing, a springboard for moving on. You should be very proud of him.’
‘I am.’
‘You won’t be a stranger, will you?’
‘We’ll come whenever we can. Thanks for all you’re doing too.’
‘My absolute pleasure,’ says Martina, and she gives Izzy a hug.
At home, Izzy finds Flora in the garden, trying to tie a piece of paper to the string of her balloon.
‘I drew a picture for Daddy,’ says Flora. ‘I drew flowers and me and you, so he’ll know it’s from us. Can you help me tie it on tight?’
Izzy secures the knot, and holds Flora’s hand as she leads them to the centre of the lawn.
Flora looks up into the summer-blue sky.
‘It’s very high up there,’ she says. ‘Do you think it will find him?’
‘I know it will,’ says Izzy.
Flora lets go of the string. The unicorn balloon floats up and up, shimmering and turning as it rises over the garden, then beyond the treetops and away.
In silence, Izzy and Flora watch, until the speck the balloon has become vanishes from sight.
Foxcote Lodge is sold.
In the empty bedroom, Izzy’s vain hope is that she’ll find a last, faint whisper of Tris. Everything that was part of his life with her – his clothes, his razor and cologne, his favourite books, the bed they used to share – is gone, and the van has driven away, taking only Izzy and Flora’s things to their new home.
She’ll be sad to leave. They had such happy times.
Standing at the window she looks out, remembering the last time that he was here, how he brought her flowers, and kissed her neck. She misses him so badly.
It’s time to hand over the keys. Outside, she locks the door for the last time, and rests her hand a moment on the planks of the old door, saying goodbye.
At her feet, the forget-me-nots are blooming. As she bends to pick a sprig for a memento, a white butterfly settles by her hand.
Acknowledgements
My grateful thanks to everyone who’s played a part in bringing this book into the light: my insightful, inspiring editor, Toby Jones; my always-supportive agent, Christopher Little, alongside Emma and Jules; ex-Det Sgt Terry Parry, who’ll answer any police procedural question, even from half-way up a mountain; Ken Fishwick, whose forensic eye for a glitch in the narrative is second to none; my early readers, Lorraine, Phil and Vivienne; and always for Andy’s unwavering faith.
Thank you all.
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Innocent Page 31
