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“Who is she?” I eagerly demand.
“She’s not from around here. Fenella Carrington,” he says. “She’s—”
“You’re marrying Fenella Carrington!” Abigail’s voice rises above the clatter of the shop. “Fenella Carrington, the influencer?She’s a model, too. Do you remember that ad for a purse a few years ago?” she asks me.
“I know who she is,” I say. “I don’t follow her, but I know who she is. Wow.” I widen my eyes. “Congratulations. When’s the big day?”
“Not until the fall, to give her time to plan.”
“That’ll be a good wedding.”
“If you’re here, you’re both invited.”
Abigail nudges me. “There’s incentive to stay.”
Silas passes us our cups. “On the house, as a welcome home to Battle Harbour. Hope to see more of you.”
Abigail takes Tema’s hot chocolate. “As long as we’re here, we’ll be back. I told Hettie I’ve been dreaming of your coffee.” She takes a sip and closes her eyes. “Just like I remembered.”
“Enjoy. And think about coming tonight. Thursday nights are fun.”
“Definitely,” Abigail agrees before I can say anything. “See you tonight.”
We gather Tema where she’s still darting back and forth in front of the fish to make it flop, and head back to the waiting SUV. Abigail is taking Tema to her parents’ while I go see my sister. “Are you sure you don’t want to take her to meet Mabel?” Abigail asks in a low voice as Tema climbs into the car.
I shake my head. “Next time.”
“I can’t say I’m not glad. She’s the only grandchild they’re going to get for a while,” she says ruefully. “Not that she’s mine…”
“She’s yours,” I tell her. “In every way that matters. I couldn’t have handled the last eight years without you.”
“You would have handled it just fine, regardless of whether I was there or not. But I wasn’t letting you have all the fun by yourself.” And she winks as she climbs in after Tema.
I wave as they drive away before walking across the square to The King’s Hat.
28
Bo
Dad sets the therapistup in one of the unused offices on the second floor. This one was supposed to be used by Gunnar and me—as if it were possible for Gunnar to share a room with anyone.
He would take it over with framed pictures of himself with famous women and evidence of his racing exploits. Although, seeing him at dinner last night with Stella suggests she would be front and centre of pictures he’d want to show off now.
I like them together. But I wouldn’t want them to be staring me in the face all day because then I’d have to think about what I’m missing.
Hettie.
I wipe my hands on my jeans and finally look at the therapist. I’ve been looking at everything else in the room, and there’s not much here. There’s not even a window from where I can plot my escape.
The second floor isn’t that high and there’s still snowdrifts to break my fall.
Dr. Louise Patel is a woman in her thirties with a faint English accent. Which is surprising because I never would have expected the British to put much faith in therapy.
I’m not sure I do, but Dad suggested it. And Hettie is on board, so I really don’t have a choice. She didn’t say that there’s no second chance with us if I don’t do this, but I got that vibe.
What am I supposed to say to this doctor?
It’s been five minutes since I came in and shook Dr. Patel’s hand, taking the uncomfortable wing chair across from her.