Andrew came around the corner from the kitchen, and Claire gaped, feeling as if she’d conjured him from her mind. “Andrew... what are you doing here?”
“How about ‘welcome home’?” he responded wryly, and Claire moved forward to hug him. Awkwardly, because her family didn’t really do hugs.
“Sorry. Welcome home. But I didn’t know you were coming. Last time we talked you were in Minneapolis.”
“That job finished.” Andrew’s arms had closed around her for one brief, tight hug before he stepped back. Claire hadn’t actually seen her brother in more than two years; with her in Portugal and Andrew in America, their holiday times hadn’t crossed. Or maybe they just hadn’t wanted to come home for a West Family Christmas, with all the awful, excessive trimmings.
“You didn’t say anything . . .” Claire began.
“Actually, I texted you. Do you ever check your phone?”
“Oh. No, not really.” She moved past him into the kitchen, and Andrew followed.
“Why not?”
“Because there’s no one I want to talk to on it.”
“Ouch.”
“Sorry,” she said as she turned around, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I didn’t think you’d call. You usually don’t.”
She hadn’t meant it as an accusation, but Andrew must have taken it as one because he answered, “I know I should be in better touch.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. But why are you here, Andrew? It’s not like you to come back to Cumbria. You were rubbishing Hartley-by-the-Sea to me a few days ago.” She gazed at him, trying to see something in his expression, but as ever, Andrew was blank-faced, unsmiling, his dark hair a little damp from the rain.
“I have a couple days before my next project, which happens to be near Manchester,” he said. “So I decided to come back for a bit.”
“How long?”
“Four days.”
She nodded, taking a deep breath before voicing her fear. “Are you checking up on me?”
“Would that be such a bad thing?”
“I’m not a baby.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
Claire expelled a frustrated breath. This was how conversations with Andrew always went. He won everything, even Monopoly. “I don’t need anyone being worried about me.”
“Sorry, but that’s not your choice.”
“I’m fine—”
“Really, Claire?” The words were a challenge, but his voice was gentle.
Claire’s strength to stand up to her brother evaporated. “I wish you hadn’t come,” she mumbled.
“Do you want me to leave?”
She didn’t know if the question was genuine—when did Andrew ever do what she wanted?—but she pretended it was. “No, not now that you’re here.” She realized she meant it, stupidly perhaps. Four Gables was huge, but it was going to feelvery small with Andrew watching her all the time, measuring how much vodka and whiskey was in their dad’s dusty bottles, thinking she was on the brink of toppling into alcoholism. She hadn’t even been tempted to have a drink in the four weeks of rehab. She’d barely drunk anything during university; hard liquor had made her sick. But Andrew wasn’t going to listen to her feeble protests. No one was.
“You don’t sound convinced,” he remarked, and she sighed.
“I’m not. But like I said, you’re here.” Her earlier euphoria about landing a job had started to trickle away. It was such a small, silly thing. “What are you doing in Manchester, anyway?”
“Working on some repairs to the Ridgegate Reservoir near Macclesfield.”
