Sebastian came over and grabbed the coffee in the thermos Belle must have made for him earlier. He didn’t miss the opportunity to give his better half a peck on the lips. ‘Great guy, hope he pops in here.’
‘Is he…?’ Belle asked Morgan when Sebastian left them to it and she finished making the mixture. She wiped her hands on her apron, giving her friend the full force of her attention. She’d met Ronan, said she liked him, but the mischievous glint in her eyes now suggested she might be lining up for some gossip.
‘I went to school with him, actually,’ said Morgan, nodding at the suggestion of lemon and sugar as Belle found the appropriate additions to Morgan’s order.
‘Oh, no…’ Belle scrunched up her nose. ‘Was he a total tool, one of those people you hope never to bump into again?’
Morgan chuckled. ‘Not at all. He was a couple of years above, he was popular with the girls in his year.’
‘And in your year?’ She deftly sliced the lemon into wedges, unable to keep the amusement from her voice.
‘I shouldn’t have mentioned bumping into him.’
‘And yet you did. The plot thickens.’
‘It does not. I thought you might know of him, that’s all. He seems to be worried about his dad being on his own.’
‘Trevor?’ Belle got a frying pan ready to make the pancakes and added a little bit of oil to its surface. ‘Nothing to worry about there; he’s got friends around, he’s happy. Although I get where he’s coming from.’
‘Me too.’
Belle smiled at her kindly. ‘It’s good that he cares. Sounds like a nice guy to me.’ She added, ‘Don’t worry, I know you’re taken.’ But she whispered, ‘Nothing wrong with looking at the menu, though.’
‘Belle Nightingale,’ Morgan giggled. ‘What are you like?’
‘She’s terrible,’ Sebastian called over, ‘and I heard every word.’
‘Oops.’ Belle pulled a face at Morgan. ‘I thought he was at the front of the shop.’ Instead, he’d been neatening up the books on the table closest to them but slightly out of sight. ‘Love you,’ she called out to him, slipping into her more professional persona when a customer came in through the front door.
As Morgan waited for her pancakes and coffee, she couldn’t help but let her thoughts slip to Nate, the stranger she’d met on the top of the small, humpback bridge. They might not have had long together, but even in the dark, she’d recognised his expression – one of concern, worry – because she’d been feeling the same emotions herself, like rolling waves that built up and crashed down whenever they felt like it.
At least it appeared Nate and his dad got on well enough. Trevor had never said anything to the contrary. Morgan felt sure they’d sort it out between them, but she knew that much like her mother didn’t want to leave Little Woodville – she could’ve asked her to do so until she was blue in the face and she never would’ve backed down – Trevor was the same. Morgan wondered whether it was like that no matter where you lived; you wanted the familiar, especially when you were at your most vulnerable. Or did Little Woodville work a certain magic and make anyone who came here never want to leave?
This wasn’t where Morgan had lived as a little girl, but her mother had moved here when her marriage ended and her daughters were already teenagers. Since Morgan left home, her visits back here had been scant. She was working hard in her career as a journalist and then as a freelance writer, building up contacts and delivering pieces on time. And with a boyfriend who had work demands of his own in his corporate role as a financial advisor, life was busy. She and Ronan often spent their weekends heading off to the country for a break or going into London for fancy dinners. But Morgan and Elaina kept in touch over the phone often when that was all they could manage.
Shortly after she and Ronan got engaged, Ronan had moved into Morgan’s flat that she owned. He’d rented out his three-bed townhouse so they could make a good income and give them more towards a deposit for a joint property purchase up in Scotland, something they’d only so far managed to look for online. They’d visited Elaina once to tell her the news they were getting married and she’d congratulated them, hugged each of them in turn, but every time Ronan talked about Scotland, Morgan had seen her mum trying to disguise something. She wasn’t sure whether disapproval was the right word. It might have been fear of the unknown, worry perhaps that her daughter wanted to go so far away. But in her phone calls home since that day, Morgan had been sure to let Elaina know, indirectly, that this move wasn’t about getting away from her mother the way it might have been when she left for university. This was about new jobs and possibilities, excitement, a new life and a marriage.
It was when Elaina phoned three times in one week that Morgan began to suspect something might be up besides wanting to talk to her daughter.
‘Mum, you’ve called me already this morning.’ Morgan set her pen down on top of her notebook next to her laptop. ‘Did you forget?’ She pretended to be amused but she wasn’t; she was worried.
Elaina’s voice wasn’t the usual upbeat tone when she blurted out, ‘I need help.’
‘Mum…’ Morgan’s voice wobbled. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m sorry, love. I’ve panicked you,’ Elaina said gently. She’d been stoic when the girls were younger; she’d rarely showed much emotion, being a single mother whose job was to deal with the practicalities, leaving little room for much else.
‘You have panicked me. Tell me, Mum.’ As Morgan probed, Ronan turned to look at her quizzically from his place beside the stove, where he was stirring a splash of red wine into the beef stew. Ronan had taken on the cooking as he loved being in the kitchen and with her flat being small, the kitchen was also the dining room and her place of work. Life simply carried on around her.
‘I have weak bones,’ her mother offered. ‘Osteoporosis.’
She knew what it was in basic terms but not much else. But as her mum began to talk about her diagnosis, what had been going on over the last year or more, Morgan realised she’d missed it. The clues had been there. She’d assumed her mother was a little clumsy, fracturing her left wrist a few months ago, then her right one, then the hip pain that she often mentioned but dismissed as nothing much to worry about. She’d looked fine when she and Ronan had been to give her the news that they were engaged, but again the signs had been there – the insistence that she hated the Le Creuset dish she’d always adored, instead serving a casserole in a much lighter Pyrex dish she had Ronan take out the oven for her, the takeaway pizza she’d insisted on getting for dinner the evening Morgan visited on her own. Since when had her mother ever got takeaway anything? Never, that was when. Her mother had been covering up what was going on, from her and she expected from Tegan.
‘Morgan, are you there?’ Elaina must have taken a break from explaining and waited for a response that hadn’t come.
‘I’m still here, Mum. I’m just a bit… well, I didn’t know.’
‘Neither did I, how could you?’
