Were there? Had the bad memories overwhelmed any good ones? “I don’t know,” Juliet admitted shakily. “I can’t remember. But, Peter, I don’t think I can forgive her.”
“Of course you can’t,” he said with a nod. “Not now. Not yet. But one day, for your sake as much as hers, I hope you can.”
Juliet searched his face, seeing only acceptance in his eyes. “You’re a good man, Peter Lanford.”
He smiled at that. “No more than any other, I reckon.”
“I don’t know if I’m as good as you.”
“Then I’m glad this isn’t a competition.” He pulled her gently towards her feet, and then put his arms around her. She pressed her cheek against the rough wool of his jumper, felt the steady thud of his heart. “Give yourself time, Juliet. You’re as hard on yourself as you are on your mother.”
“So you think I’m hard on her.”
He laughed softly, a rasping sound. “I don’t care about your mother. I care about you.” And then he touched a finger to her chin and tilted her face up so he could kiss her, a whisper across her mouth, and Juliet felt the tightness inside her loosen, just a little.
It was a start, she realized, and kissed Peter back. It was a start.
Chapter thirty-one
Lucy
Lucy had been sitting on her bed, her hands clasped tightly together, listening to Juliet’s and Fiona’s voices rise and fall below her in the kitchen. She’d closed her eyes and willed a silent, formless prayer heavenwards. She wanted their relationship to work. She wanted their reconciliation.
At least they were talking for a while. She unclasped her hands because the bones in her fingers had started to ache. She could still hear their voices: low murmurs, and then a sudden rise and fall. And then, after a few more minutes, the sound of her mother coming up the stairs and the distant slamming of the front door.
Not good sounds. Not healing, life-affirming, everyone’s-okay-now sounds.
Cautiously she tiptoed from her bedroom and down the upstairs hallway. The house was eerily quiet; Lucy could hear the ticking of the hall clock. She stood at the top of the stairs, not sure what she should do, and her mother opened one of the bedroom doors.
“Mum . . . ?”
Fiona stiffened, her chin rising a notch. “I’m afraid that didn’t go very well.”
“Where’s Juliet?”
“She left.” Fiona gestured towards the downstairs. “She stormed off. I don’t know where.”
Lucy sagged against the wall. “What happened?”
“Oh, Lucy.” Fiona’s mouth tightened in that old, familiar way. “Did you think we were going to make up just like that? Because I can assure you, too much has happened for that.”
“Did you . . . did you tell Juliet why . . . ?” Lucy ventured.
“Yes.”
And it obviously wasn’t any of her business. “But she’s still angry.”
Fiona lifted one thin shoulder in a shrug. “Like I said, too much has happened. I think she’ll always be angry.”
Her mother’s tone sounded almost . . . indifferent. “I hope,” Lucy said, “for Juliet’s sake, she’s not.”
Fiona considered this for a moment before nodding slowly. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose I hope that too.”
“Yousuppose?” Lucy stared at her mother, at the weary yet determined lines of her face, and she knew that nothing had actually changed. She was still living in her absurd little bubble of optimism; her mother was still her mother, self-obsessed, determined, arrogant, impossible. She loved her, Lucy knew; she couldn’t help it. But she wasn’t actually sure if her mother loved her back. “Why did you come here, Mum?” she asked quietly, and Fiona looked startled.
“Because . . . because I wanted to make amends. Explain things. Facing death does that to a person.”
“But what about Juliet?”
