She forced her lips into some semblance of a smile. “Hello, Peter.”
“What—”
“Your sheep got into my garden,” she hurried to explain, her voice, in her nervousness, coming out more tersely than she meant it to. “I got it back into the field, but I noticed you have a hole in your fence, and I thought I’d tell you.” She gestured to the door. “You didn’t hear my knock.” Peter still just stood there, the bowl of soapy water in his hands, and Juliet muttered a final, “Sorry.” She took a step towards the door.
“No, don’t go, now that you’re here.” Peter walked over to the sink and dumped the water down the drain. “Let me just get Dad settled first.”
“Okay,” Juliet said, but she took another step towards the door. She couldn’t fathom why Peter would like her to stay, and she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to or not.
He went back into the sitting room, and Juliet tried to simultaneously listen and not listen to him talking to his father. After a few minutes she heard the creak of both the chair and old joints, and then the shuffling step of slippered feet up the stairs.Still she stayed by the door; when Peter returned a few minutes later, she had one hand on the knob.
He glanced at her, his steady gaze seeming to take everything in, or at least more than Juliet would like. She dropped her hand from the door and just stood there, smiling awkwardly. At least she hoped she was smiling.
“Whiskey?” Peter asked, and took a bottle of Glenfiddich from the cupboard above the sink.
“Oh . . . all right, then.” Juliet couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a whiskey; maybe a few Christmases ago, when she’d had a retired couple booked in for the holidays. They’d invited her to sit with them in front of the fire, and Juliet had cradled a glass of whiskey between her hands, feeling strangely like a guest and more at home in her own house than she had in a long while.
Peter poured them both healthy measures and handed her a glass. He glanced ruefully around the kitchen before turning back to her. “Sorry, I’m not much in the housekeeping department.”
“You’re busy.” He nodded and Juliet felt compelled to mention his father, although she wasn’t sure why. “Your dad . . .”
“He’s not very well.” Peter took a long swallow of whiskey. “Dementia,” he clarified quietly. “It’s got a bit worse in the last few months. He can’t do much by himself these days, but he likes a good shave, same as any other man.”
“Oh, Peter.” Juliet shook her head helplessly. “I’m sorry.”
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It happens.”
“Yes.” His stoic acceptance of what life had to offer matched her own, although since Lucy’s arrival, Juliet realized, she’d been feeling a lot more bitterness. A lot more everything. She took another sip of whiskey.
“So how are things with your sister?” Peter asked. “Lucy, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Juliet’s hand tightened on her glass. She shouldn’t have come here. She should have known Peter would make small talk, although the man had been virtually monosyllabic before; Juliet had no idea why he was so chatty now. Not that a single question actually constituted chatty. “Things are . . .” She was about to say “good,” but her throat closed around the word. Things with Lucy weren’t good. They weren’t remotely good. “It’s kind of hard, actually,” she shocked herself by saying. “Having her here.” She drained her glass then, and Peter nodded, seeming unsurprised.
“Bound to be. Family’s hard.”
“Is it? I thought family was meant to be easy because it’s, you know, family.”
Peter let out a rusty laugh. “I don’t know what your family’s like, but mine hasn’t been like that.”
“No?” She nodded towards the sitting room. “You get along with your dad, though.”
“Aye.” Peter’s face closed up a bit at that, and Juliet decided not to press.
“Do you have sisters or brothers?” she asked, thinking this was something she should have known.
“A brother, David. He lives up Carlisle way. Runs one of those hobby farms.” He spoke without inflection, but Juliet still sensed hurt behind the words.
“Hobby farm?”
“You know, one of those places where you feed the animals and ride toy tractors and that. He does well with it.”
“I suppose loads of farmers have to do the same, just to keep the farm going,” Juliet said. She tried to picture toy tractors and a petting zoo at Bega Farm and failed. As if Peter sensed her thoughts, he offered a crooked smile.
“Not going to happen here, though.”
“No.”
He finished his whiskey in one long swallow. “So what is it that’s hard?” he asked, and Juliet realized he was talking about Lucy.
