‘Art?’ she gasped. ‘I thought you were in Argentina.’
I looked again at the man. So this was Art, India’s father and Astrid’s lost love. I started to edge towards the sitting room door, feeling very much like a third wheel.
‘I was,’ he said. ‘I wanted to surprise India, but Astrid… it is you I have been longing to see for too many years.’
I could barely tear my eyes away from the scene unfolding in front of me as I groped half-heartedly for the door handle. Art stepped forward hesitantly and lifted his arms. Astrid stepped into his embrace, laying her head on his shoulder as tearsstreamed down her face and into his wool overcoat. Finally, I opened the door and stepped into the room.
‘So, that’s nine mulled wines, three hot apple juices, two coffees and a tea,’ Angela was saying. ‘Ah, Laura, what would you like?’
‘Mulled wine, please,’ I said, then lowering my voice, told her what was happening in the hallway outside. Her face was suffused with happiness and her eyes glistened.
‘A Christmas miracle,’ she said. ‘India, love, come and help me, would you? We’ll go through the garden – I’ll explain on the way.’
As they left through the French windows, I went to sit with Nick and Marilise.
‘What was all that about?’ she asked, her sharp eyes having missed nothing.
‘India’s father was one of the carol singers,’ I said. ‘He and Astrid are catching up.’
She smiled and nodded, as if the fates had obeyed a command of hers.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Things do work out as they should, you know, no matter how much time passes or how much water flows under the bridge.’
Hearing the same expression he had used in the car, I glanced up at Nick. His eyes held my gaze.
‘To every thing there is a season,’ he said softly.
Marilise grasped for our hands.
‘That’s right,’ she said, then continued the passage. ‘A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance. And I think now is the time for laughing and dancing, is it not?’
As Astrid and Art entered the room, Angela and India with them, beaming with happiness as they handed round drinks to the assembled company, I couldn’t have agreed more.
TWENTY-SIX
Steph’s extravaganza would have put the royal family to shame, had they been there. I’m not entirely sure that they hadn’t been invited, actually, for the coup of the century, but in the end, she had to make do with the likes of me. I had arrived, as directed, at my parents’ house at practically daybreak on the morning of the wedding. Nick dropped me off, grinning.
‘Will I recognise you next time I see you, or will you have had a Steph-over?’
I grimaced.
‘Probably. But I’m going to go with the flow. At least Minty will be there, too; we can compare our dresses and hairdos and remind each other to behave.’
Blowing me a kiss, he drove back home; he would be at the church later but for now I was on my own.
Flinging the front door open, Steph, resplendent in a long ivory satin bathrobe, feathery mules and her hair in rollers, gawped at me.
‘Was that Nick?’
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t that all off?’
‘I don’t know what or who gave you that idea, but no, of course not.’
‘But Dorothea said it was. What about me?’
What about you?And why are we talking about this on your wedding day?But I knew the answers. It was, and always had been, all about Steph, and that wouldn’t change.
