Page 47

Jack

I hung my head back and groaned in mock frustration. My older sisters, Ruth and Josie, were taking the opportunity of having a new guest in Willow. They were recalling the time four-year-old Jack was desperate to be a beekeeper that he slept, ate, and went to school in a bee-keeping suit.

“It wasn’t fucking six months, it was three,” I muttered through the cackles of my family.

“Jackie! Mind your language!” my mother chastised. Somehow, no matter your age, your mother telling you off for swearing always left you sweating.

“It absolutely was six months,” my father interrupted, jerking his beer bottle at me whilst choking on his laughter. “It was impossible to get you out of that bastard hood.”

“ John! Mind your language! We have a guest!” My mother’s attempts to silence the bad language of her family always fell short, we always continued with our foul mouths.

“We had to unzip the hood anytime we wanted to feed you, and don’t get me fucking started on trying to wash you.” He looked to Willow sitting next to me at the wooden table. “He fucking stank for three months.”

“How did you get him out of the suit?” Willow asked with a smirk, stifling a laugh. She caught me looking at her, and I narrowed my eyes at her.

“Don’t encourage them,” I muttered as my mother back-handed my father in the stomach, silently admonishing him, but he forged on.

“Aileen managed to get him out for a bath, then we put it in the incinerator so it couldn’t haunt us ever again.”

I snapped my head to him, eyes wide open.

“You told me it tore in the washing machine!” My sisters cackled at my horror.

“We had to tell you something. Anyway,” he returned to Willow, “within the week he forgot about beekeeping and moved on to farming.”

Laughter died down to breathy chuckles. Ruth wiped her eyes of tears and Josie sipped her third glass of red wine, placing it on the coaster by her empty dessert plate .

My father had made my mother’s famous steak and ale pie, and bread and butter pudding for dessert, a killer combo. As her Multiple Sclerosis took hold, she was unable to manage the cooking and cleaning, so she spent her time training him up so the family recipes wouldn’t fall by the wayside.

Taking the silence as the end of the meal, my father started to collect the plates and clean up. Ruth stood to help.

“Jackie,” my mother drew my attention, “I was going to ask while you’re here if you’d mind clearing the outhouse. We had a skip delivered, but your dad’s back is playing up.”

“Of course, I’ll start tomorrow.”

“I’ll help,” Willow’s soft voice piped up beside me. I offered her an appreciative smile and nod.

I wasn’t sure why I was surprised at Willow’s gesture to help my parents.

At work she was the first to offer her hand to any project, order the conference lunches or office stationery and take on the planning for every gala or promotional event.

It was always off her own back, without being asked.

But that was the thing about Willow, she was the most beautiful, unselfishly altruistic human I’d ever met.

She’d had my back on more occasions than I could count, and that was the reason I’d opened my house and life to her, because if she could look after me without question, then so could I.

An hour later, I was in the kitchen making a round of teas and coffees.

After dinner, we moved into the living room, which held an oversized fireplace with a stone mantel and hearth, a temporary fire guard in place to keep the dogs from setting fire to themselves – something I couldn’t put past Dickens.

My mother showed Willow pictures of little Jack – which I begrudged – and baby Frannie.

Bragging about my only child was my favourite hobby.

Whether it was to recall how quickly she picked up her six-times-table at the age of seven or the daddy-daughter dance after her primary school graduation.

She was my pride and joy. If Harrie and I had been able to have more children, I’d have done it ten times over.

Raising Frannie had been – and still was – the best job I’d ever had.

Willow fawned over every photo. It was the first time she’d seen pictures of Harrie, since I’d limited pictures in the house to allow us to rebuild on our future.

It was refreshing to see Harrie smiling with her chocolate-coloured pixie cut, her soft smile which would always reach her eyes, and the freckle by her right eye I always made sure to kiss before bed.

As I watched Willow gleam down at my once-family, I felt a sharp pain somewhere in the depths of my soul.

A concoction of emotions began to tumble through my mind.

I couldn’t guarantee what was going on between me and Willow, but I had suspicions something might be rumbling beneath the surface.

I would never have been able to have that, or even a slither of hope of that, if Harrie hadn’t died.

The sudden realisation had me struggling to catch my breath, leaping up from the sofa by Willow, offering everyone a drink.

So here I was, palms on the kitchen counter to ease my grief as I waited for the teapot and cafetière to brew.

It seemed I couldn’t escape my thoughts, because opposite the kitchen island, was an old family photo from Ruth’s fortieth birthday party, a few years before Harrie’s death.

I smiled at the memory of Harrie stuffing cake in my face when I least expected it.

I’d chased her around the garden, until I caught my wife in a vice-like grip and kissed her, transferring the mushed icing and cake into her skin as we did.

I shook my head, the memory seeping into my skin and linger for a little longer. I never wanted to forget our life together, whether I lived for my future or not, what we had as a trio had always been special.

“Are you waiting for the drinks to make themselves?” My mother’s soft Scottish accent broke the silence in the kitchen.

I turned to find her in the doorway and smiled.

“You’d think with all the technology available, someone would have figured it out by now,” I joked, looking back at the mugs in front of me. She drove closer to me, until she was next to me at the counter.

“Everything okay, Jackie?”

There was no point in lying or pretending my mind was elsewhere. My mother could see straight through me, just like I could with Frannie, like any good parent could. John and Aileen Lambert ensured we always had a safe space for our emotions at home, if nowhere else. I sighed before speaking.

“It’s just a lot, you know? I love coming here to see you all, but the memories are just— ”

“Painful?” she interrupted. Being her only daughter-in-law, she was positively obsessed with Harrie, too. I sighed again, but it only offered a temporary relief.

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

I returned my attention to the drinks. The amount of time I’d spent staring at them, I was sure they’d put hairs on the back of necks .

“Grief isn’t linear, Jackie. There’s no such thing as moving on. It tends to rear its head at mighty inconvenient times. Like when you’re introducing your new lady to your family and otherwise having a lovely time.”

I snapped my head to hers, nearly spilling coffee over the counter when my wrist jolted.

“My new what?”

“Your new girlfriend. Isn’t that what this is about? Are you worried about moving on from Harriet?”

Bollocks . I thought I’d been so careful with my subtle looks and internal musings when it came to Willow, especially since we’d arrived in Lommor. Apparently, not subtle or internal enough.

“I don’t know what you mean. Me and Willow aren’t a thing. We’re just friends.”

She narrowed her eyes at me, seeing through my bullshit.

I continued to pour the coffees, picking up the teapot and pouring teas for only me and Willow.

Despite falling into a pit of longing for my late wife, I couldn’t deny it to myself any longer – I was head over heels in love with Willow.

If I couldn’t admit it to the woman herself, I wouldn’t be able to with my family.

“Whatever you say, dear. She’s a lovely girl, we all love her. But I’m sure you know that since we only call the office to talk to her.”

“Oh, cheers.”

She chuckled. “You’re grieving and that’s to be expected, especially when the memories follow you around. But you’re allowed to move on.”

She spun her chair and broke into an out-of-tune song, “I believe in love after loss—”

“Isn’t it life after love?” I mused, smirking as she wheeled herself out the room.

“It is what you make of it, Jackie.”

She was right. I’d been sitting on my hands for six years, silently lusting over my assistant. Willow had been through a horrendous ordeal and opening my home to her had only caused me to fall that much harder. It was time to open my heart to her, too.

I resolved that night I would take the bull by the horns, grow the fuck up, and put my heart in Willow’s hands.