Juliet shook her head. “I can’t do that, either. I don’t have the strength anymore and anyway, the last time I tried, five years ago, she hung up on me.”
“Why?I mean, why does she . . .”
“Hate me? I have no idea. Maybe she hated my father. Maybe she feels guilty for the way she’s treated me.”
“I’m sorry, Juliet.”
“Not your fault,” she answered briskly, and started chopping carrots again.
“I know, but . . .” Lucy shook her head. “I feel like I should have known. I should have reached out more to you, when I was younger.”
“Wouldn’t have worked.” Juliet dumped the chopped carrots into the pot on top of the Aga. “I resented you even when you were a baby. You used to toddle after me and I’d just ignore you. Close my bedroom door in your face. I couldn’t stand you, actually, and it had nothing to do with you.”
“Oh.” Not exactly words to warm the heart.
Juliet cracked a small smile. “But I am glad you’re here now, Lucy, and I hope we can make up for lost time.”
“I think we are. . . .”
“Then come here and give me a hug,” Juliet said, and held out her arms. Lucy stared at her, amazed that her prickly sister could actually be requesting physical affection.
“I’d love to,” she said, “but, Juliet? You’re still holding a knife.”
Juliet glanced at the large butcher’s knife she held in one hand and with a laugh she tossed it into the sink. Then she walked towards Lucy with her arms outstretched and gave her a hug.
It was an awkward, clumsy hug, and it was over in about two seconds, but still. They were both grinning as they stepped back.
A week slipped by, a week of Lucy wondering what she was going to do even as she felt herself creeping towards a decision. She stopped by the post office, and to her shock Dan Trenton—who had started chatting to her a little each time she went in—slipped her a bag of chocolate buttons.
“For that lad,” he said gruffly, not meeting her eye. Lucy grinned.
“Thank you, Dan,” she said, and then because she couldn’t resist, “You really are a big old softy.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” Dan answered without cracking a smile. “Can’t ruin my reputation.”
One Saturday Lucy took Milly and Molly down to the beach and after they’d had a decent run, she tied them up outside the café and went to talk to Abby. The café was nearly empty and Abby made them both coffees as they sat at a table in the corner and Noah played with a couple of battered toys at their feet.
“Juliet gave me the idea,” Lucy said, “of maybe exhibiting some of my paintings here, to sell. You could take a percentage of the profits, and it might brighten up the place a bit, to have artwork on the walls. . . .”
Abby’s expression, normally so pinched and serious, lightened as she smiled. “I love that idea.” She glanced round at the rickety chairs and the peeling Formica. “I’ve been wanting to spruce this place up, to tell you the truth. It looks like I’m going to be here for a while.”
“Is Mary . . . ?”
“She’s okay,” Abby said, her glance on Noah, who was now scooting around on all fours and making tractor noises. “But she can’t be on her feet all day the way she used to. She needs me here.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re staying,” Lucy said, and Abby gave her a shy smile.
“What about you? Are you staying, then?”
Lucy took a deep breath. “I think so,” she said. Admitting that much still made her stomach flip, the way it did when you drove over a hill too fast. “I think so,” she said again.
The last week in November Lucy decided to be ambitious and cook everyone Thanksgiving dinner. “Proper American Thanksgiving,” she told Juliet. “I’m talking about green bean casserole and stuffing and cranberry sauce and sweet potatoes with marshmallow fluff.”
Juliet made a face. “That last one sounds revolting.”
“It’s delicious,” Lucy assured her. “I’ll have to find canned pumpkin somewhere for the pie. . . .”
“You could,” Juliet suggested, “use a real pumpkin.”
