Lucy huffed, staring past her at the kitchen as if a miracle might occur there. ‘God give me strength.’
Jen gave a short laugh. ‘You’re sounding like Mum now.’
‘Because I now understand how she felt when all of us lot were mithering her.’
Jen’s humour faded. She stepped closer, voice gentler. ‘Lucy… you were there for me when I needed you. Let me return the compliment. I can’t leave you like this.’
Lucy gave one last attempt at hiding her feelings and tried for a tight smile but, from the shake of Jen’s head, she knew Jen wasn’t fooled. ‘Jen, please,’ was all she could say. Any more and her voice would crack.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t leave this.’ She put an arm around Lucy’s shoulders and steered her out through the back and into the garden. They walked to the end, where the arbour threw shade across the bench.
Lucy’s stomach clenched at the memory of sitting here with Oliver. Her feelings then had been quite different — engaged, combative, alive with interest. Now the fight had been replaced by something heavier, an ache that threatened to overwhelm her.
Jen waited until they were seated. ‘Sam’s been asking around about Oliver.’
Lucy jerked back. ‘He’s been what?’
‘Not here. In Australia. Old contacts.’ Jen watched her carefully. ‘He wanted to know why Oliver pulled the handbrake on everything.’
Lucy jumped up. ‘Sam had no right. I can handle it.’ If it hadn’t been for Jen’s hand over her arm, gentle but insistent, she’d have walked away.
‘Maybe,’ Jen said quietly. ‘But a little bit of help doesn’t hurt. I should know.’
The reference to Jen’s own recent traumatic past was enough to sit Lucy back down again.
‘Of course. I know. And I love that you’re offering, but really I don’t see there’s anything that anyone can do.’
‘Sam found something.’
Lucy went still.
‘Sam spoke to one of his mates — someone who lived near the Perry-Warnes family in Khandallah. Oliver’s father was violent. To him and his mother. My mate’s father tried to intervene once and got thrown out. He would’ve called social services, but not long after, Oliver’s mum left — apparently she died a few years later — and Oliver was sent away to boarding school.’ Jen’s eyes softened. ‘He was about seven.’
Lucy stared at the climbing roses as if they might rearrange themselves into something she could bear.
It was worse than she’d imagined after hearing what Augi had discovered, and she hadn’t imagined anything very good. A hard childhood didn’t excuse what Oliver had done. But it explained the armour. It explained the reflexive need to win first, strike first, control the narrative before anyone else could.
And it explained — uncomfortably — why she’d seen something behind his eyes as he’d stood in the shallows, letting the waves lap around his feet.
She swallowed and forced the thought back behind a wall. ‘Not all people who grow up like that become… like him.’
Jen frowned. ‘That’s a bit tough, Luce.’
Lucy shrugged, but couldn’t find the words to defend herself. She didn’t want to feel sympathy for him. She didn’t want her anger diluted by understanding.
Jen squeezed her hand. ‘I’m not saying forgive him. I’m saying… talk to him. Not to fix him. Not to rescue him. Just to know what’s true. Otherwise you’ll spend your whole life wondering.’
Lucy’s mouth twisted. One part of her wanted to agree. Another part clung to betrayal like it was a life raft.
‘He’s renovating the hotel now,’ Lucy said, trying to make it sound like a conclusion. ‘We’ve won. He’s doing what the village wanted.’
Jen’s gaze held hers. ‘And why is he doing that?’
‘He said the reason was “commercially sensitive”.’ Lucy did air quotes with two fingers, as if that would make it less ridiculous.
Jen snorted. ‘Drop the “commercially” and he’d be closer to the truth.’
Lucy shook her head. ‘Why are you insisting he’s secretly some emotionally sensitive empath? He’s not.’
