One does not love a place the less for having suffered in it.
~Jane Austen
Of any makeup, Holly hated applying mascara the most. Ever since she first attempted it at age fifteen, she’d never been able to master it. She didn’t quite understand the whole “wand” aspect. And this lack of understanding often created globs that stuck to her lashes, or produced black splotches under her eyes when she blinked at the wrong time.
This morning, she paused at the mirror, having applied what could possibly be the most perfect coat of mascara of her life, when a thunderous “crash!” made her blink, leaving black dots, as if a miniature caterpillar had walked underneath her eyes after inking its little feet…
“Blast,” she grumbled and forced the wand back into the tube. As she found her eye makeup remover, unscrewed the lid, and pulled out a moist disc, she suddenly got curious about the crash. It was only 7:30 in the morning. There shouldn’t be any crashes at this hour. There should only be birds tweeting or leaves shushing.
From outside her bedroom window, she could see the corner of Hideaway Cottage—and three, no, four men standing around it with tools. One of them took something in his hand and bashed it up against the side. Her beloved cottage!
Alarmed, Holly threw on a robe and wiped her eyelids with the disc as she flew down the stairs, her heart pumping fast.
Rounding the corner, she nearly smacked right into her father, who steadied her with his hands. He should’ve been on the road to London by now, she remembered.
“Dad!” she said, out of breath. “What are those men doing to my cottage?” She pointed toward the back door.
“Honey, calm down.” He squeezed her shoulders reassuringly. “I asked them to come.”
“You asked them to come? They’re destroying it!”
“No, no…” He chuckled. “It’s the ‘compromise’ I told you I’d find. I’m not destroying the cottage. I’m renovating it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m adding on a bedroom and bath. And a mini-kitchen. You can choose all the colors and tile—whatever you want. I’ve got the men working ‘round the clock. It should be ready in time for the wedding.”
“Oh, Dad…”
“You can stay as long as you like, now. No awkwardness. Problem solved.”
When the shock wore off, she warmed to the idea instantly, even knowing it wasn’t a permanent solution. Her cottage. She could stay there, at least for the near future. No enormous rush, no drastic life change until she was fully ready. Until she knew what that next step even was. This was possibly the sweetest, grandest gesture anyone had made for her. Usually when her father took a bull by the horns without anyone’s consent, she felt nothing but aggravation. But this time, she flung her arms around his neck in a tight squeeze.
“You’re the best, you know that?”
Her father shrugged in mock modesty.
She backed away and gripped his shoulders. “As much as I appreciate this, you must admit—it is a bit underhanded.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you do this incredible thing, spend all this money, all without telling me. Of course I’m going to want to stay now.”
“That’s all that matters, isn’t it?” He pecked her cheek and took a step toward the front door. “I’m late. See you tonight.”
She gathered the belt around her robe and tied it then walked back toward the garden, where the banging and crashing and thudding ensued. She saw Mac pointing fingers to the men, describing something to them. She should’ve known he would be involved. He tipped his cap when he saw her.
For a moment, she went forward in her mind, visualized their finished work. Hideaway Cottage, a real cottage. Even if it were temporary, even if she only used it for a few months, this gave her a place to be. All her own. Finally.
The last layer of freshly whipped cream resembled a white layer of new-fallen snow. Holly spread it gingerly on top, creating even ridges across. A bottom layer of graham cracker crust, then cream cheese, then chocolate pudding, then whipped cream. Her mother’s special recipe for the ultimate comfort food—Chocolate Layered Delight.
Holly hadn’t made this dessert in ages but had gotten a craving for it today. She deserved something special—she’d finished her summer course last night, submitted the final paper.
An odd sensation, ending a semester. Even a brief one. The exhilaration of finishing was clouded by the disbelief that it was really over. No more textbooks or study groups, no more papers or online quizzes. At least not until the fall, when she hoped to finish up her online coursework and graduate in December.
As Holly set down the spatula and reached for the glass pan, she thought about texting Fletcher—seeing if he was free to celebrate later tonight. They’d hardly spoken in the couple of weeks since the hot air balloon ride but not for lack of trying. He’d been put to work on the set, rewriting three scenes at a moment’s notice, and she’d worked extra shifts at Joe’s and at the gallery, in between writing her paper.
She paused with the glass pan, hearing steps in the hallway, then a muffled thud. Rascal bounded into the room, tail wagging, tongue hanging out. Holly expected Abbey right behind him, but no one was there. Abbey and Rascal had been playing in the garden on this peerless Saturday afternoon, while their father had taken the twins out to the cinema in Bath—a film Abbey was still too young to see.
“Abbey?” Holly called, an odd concern nagging at her.
She set down the pan, scooped Rascal up and placed him gently into the laundry room, then walked around the corner. There stood Abbey, empty hands dangling at her side. Tears rolled down both cheeks, splashing onto the wood floor, where two peaches lay.
“What happened? Are you hurt?” Holly raced to kneel at Abbey’s side, examining her arms, her legs, looking for any sign of bleeding or injury. She saw a couple of minor scratches on Abbey’s knees, but that was all. Nothing to explain the tears. Except the peaches.
At Holly’s touch, Abbey heaved with sobs, her eyes now shut tight.
“Abbey, please. Talk to me,” Holly begged, her hands on Abbey’s waist, wishing her father was here. She wasn’t quite certain what to do, as many times as she’d pictured this moment in her mind.
Eyes still closed, Abbey pointed down at the peaches on the floor, confirming what Holly already knew. Abbey had remembered.
Holly racked her brain for all that information she’d looked up online when she realized Abbey had blocked out the memory of her mother dying in front of her. What to do in case the memory flooded back.
“Mummy,” Abbey said through a trembling lower lip, sounding six years old again.
“It’s okay, Abbey,” Holly whispered. “I’m right here.”
“Mummy fell down.”
Holly watched Abbey’s closed eyes flicker, move erratically behind her lids. She seemed to be watching that day like a motion picture in her mind, minute by minute, frame by horrifying frame.
“I’m here. You’re safe.”
“Don’t leave. Mummy, please! Don’t leave me.”
Holly’s own eyes brimmed with tears, wishing she could enter that world too, that horrible memory, and scoop Abbey up, whisk her away.
Eventually, Abbey’s sobs calmed, and the tears weakened. She leaned into Holly’s embrace and went limp, like a rag doll, grasping the fabric of Holly’s shirt with tight fingers.
“I’m right here.” Holly rubbed her sister’s back. “Right here.”
Holly stayed firm, letting Abbey quietly sob, even through the burn that began in her thigh muscles as her sister clung to her. Abbey’s grasp loosened, and she started to back away. Holly’s knees ached from the hard floor, but she didn’t stand. She wanted to remain face-to-face. When she saw Abbey’s gaze, she knew Abbey had come back to her. Though red and watery, Abbey’s eyes were clear, coherent.
“Are you okay?” whispered Holly.
Abbey nodded and rubbed at her eyes with her fist.
“You wanna talk about it? What happened outside? We don’t have to.”
“I saw a perfect peach,” Abbey said, “up on a high branch. I jumped and tried to touch it, but I couldn’t reach. So, I climbed the tree and leaned closer and grabbed it. And then, all of the sudden, I saw Mum in my head—like a memory. She was reaching for a peach, too, standing on tiptoes. Then she fell down on the ground. I guess I fell, too.” She looked down at her scraped knees.
“I’m so sorry, love…” Holly moved a strand of hair that had clumped into an S on Abbey’s moist cheek.
“That’s why you kept peaches away from me, isn’t it?” she asked. “Because of the tree.”
“That’s why. We wanted to protect you.”
Abbey suddenly seemed very grown-up as she said, “She died right in front of me.”
“I know.” Holly’s voice cracked as she willed more tears away. She had to be the strong one.
“I watched her fall, but then she was still. She looked asleep. Then… I think Mac rushed over.”
“Yes. He tried to save her.”
“But it didn’t work. And then he took me into the house, to get me away. But later, I snuck my head out the door and watched some men cover her face with a sheet. They took her away.”
“Yes.” Holly stroked her sister’s hair as she spoke, hoping this was the right thing to do, letting her talk about it. But Abbey seemed so calm, so detached now.
“Why did she have to die?” Abbey asked, looking directly at Holly for the answer. “Why was she taken away?”
“I don’t know.” And it was the truth. Of the thousands of times she’d asked that question, the answer had never come. “All I can say is that she’s not totally gone. I feel her all the time—remember things she said, the way her perfume smelled, or how she hummed ‘Fiddler on the Roof’ when she washed the dishes.”
“I remember that!” Abbey smiled.
“See? She’s still here with us. She’s in this house, inside all our memories.”
“I miss her,” Abbey said, barely audible, her eyes downcast again.
“I miss her, too.”
Abbey fell asleep on the couch minutes later, and Holly took the opportunity to sneak away upstairs and track down Mrs. Harrison, the school counselor, for some advice. On the phone, Holly explained the situation, the peach tree, the flood of memories.
Mrs. Harrison listened patiently then said, “You’ve done the right thing. Each person is different with repression and how they handle coming out of it. You were patient, to let her work through it on her own. Talking about it was good.”
“What do I do now? I mean, do I bring it up again, or leave it alone? I’m so afraid she’s going to be traumatized. That I’ll do something wrong.”
“Actually,” Mrs. Harrison said, “she’s been more traumatized the last few years, during the repression. It was her mind’s response to the horror she experienced. Her mind must think she’s old enough to handle the memory, for it to come on so suddenly. I think it’s the beginning of healing and closure for her.”
“Do you think she needs some counseling?”
“It certainly wouldn’t hurt. I have an opening Monday.”
Holly agreed then thanked her and hung up, taking a moment to breathe.
In a sense, Holly’s own mind had been protecting her, too, all these years. Anytime Holly thought of her mother for more than a minute or two, the moment she experienced that ache of missing her too much, Holly would nudge the memory away, if it ever threatened to come too close. She had always managed to distract herself from the details in the nick of time. But recalling details through Abbey’s eyes, Holly felt the anguish all over again of losing her mother. And now, in private, Holly let it come—watched the casket being lowered into the warm earth that unbelievable day. Groaned as they all walked away from the gravesite, abandoning her mother, leaving her there, alone in the ground. Holly remembered the helplessness then. Nothing could bring her mother back. The ultimate loss of control.
She heard a door slam downstairs and knew her father and the twins were home. Somehow, Holly snapped back to the moment, remembered the situation, and made this about Abbey again. She wiped the tears she hadn’t felt falling and reached for a tissue.
The pub was the last place Holly wanted to be right now. Too boisterous and merry for her frame of mind, but her father had insisted. When he’d seen her puffy face and tired eyes, when she’d told him everything that had happened with Abbey, he ordered her to get out of the house. He would take over now—feed the girls, get them to bed.
She had nothing left to give, anyway. Drained, she’d shut the front door of Foxglove to walk down the stone path. It was suppertime, and though she didn’t have much of an appetite, she knew she needed something. The pub seemed the most logical choice. The easiest choice.
She also didn’t want to relay the entire story to Fletcher all over again, but she craved his company. Almost as much as Abbey had needed her, she needed Fletcher now. He would know what to say. His kind eyes, warm smile, strong embrace—all good medicine.
Minutes later, making her way around Joe’s mahogany bar, she weaved through the dense crowd around the dartboard, and made her way up the stairs to Fletcher’s room. She hadn’t even bothered to powder her nose, hide the red patches on her cheeks from crying too hard. Fletcher wouldn’t care.
She knocked twice before he finally opened the door.
“Oh,” he said when he saw her.
Not exactly the reaction she was hoping for.
“Wow. You look fancy.” She walked past him and sat on the edge of the bed. He was buttoning his Oxford shirt. He wore shiny loafers and creased tan slacks. His hair had even been jazzed up with some sort of mousse.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” he said, flustered. “Did you text me?”
“Oh. No. Sorry. I just wanted to see you. Hope you don’t mind.”
He patted at his hair self-consciously. “No, I don’t mind…”
“You have other plans, don’t you?” Here she was, assuming he was completely free on a Saturday night, at her beck and call. Clearly, he was going out. With someone else. Cindy, she suspected. Still, for some reason, it came as a jolt, a shock.
“Well, sort of. Yeah. I do.”
Holly rose and moved toward the door. Before she reached for the knob, she said, “It’s a date, isn’t it?”
Fletcher paused. “Sort of, yeah.”
“Okay, well, have fun. I’ll text you later.”
Fletcher stepped in front of her before she could open the door. “Are things okay?”
The awkwardness subsided, and Holly recognized the warmth in his voice.
“I mean, you look a little frazzled,” he explained.
“It’s nothing that can’t wait. I wanted a chat. That’s all.”
“Holly, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”
“What? That you’re going on a date? Good on you! We can talk later. Wasn’t important, anyway.”
She nudged her way around him before he had a chance to stop her, not turning around to see if he would even try, the faint scent of his musky aftershave staying with her as she walked away.