The sun shone brightly down on the walled garden, the grass a velvety stretch of green, thanks to Joss’s ministrations. The flower beds burst with life, a riot of colour that Rebecca and Marin had chosen together.
The little building in the centre of the garden had been turned into a summer house, with a table and chairs; Joss had even put a skylight in the roof to let in more sunshine.
And today was a day of sunshine, of spring breezes and warmth and hope. Marin and Rebecca had invited friends over for a picnic: the Hattons and other families from the village and school, people they’d got to know in the year they’d been living in Goswell.
It hadn’t always been easy. In fact, Marin thought, none of it had been easy. There had been uncomfortable, awkward conversations with Rebecca as they both came to terms with the grief they felt at the loss of their parents, and the sorrow for the relationships they’d never had with them. There had been more tears in the night, more sullen silences, but there had always been more steps – tiny, tottering ones, like learning how to walk – towards each other.
Marin spread a blanket out on the grass as Joss came into the garden with a picnic basket. Things hadn’t been easy there, either, but they’d been good. More steps, learning to forgive, to let go, to move on. They’d been dating for a year and Jane had started asking veiled and then not-so-veiled questions about whether a proposal was in the offing. Marin didn’t know, but she didn’t mind, either. She could wait. She could enjoy what she had, accept what life had given her. And it was good.
She sat on the blanket as Joss started unpacking the picnic things and more people arrived, spreading their own blankets. Ben Hatton started kicking a ball around, and the other kids joined in. Marin leaned back and closed her eyes, let the sun bathe her face in warmth.
Then she felt a tap on her shoulder. “Look,” Joss whispered, and she opened her eyes, blinking in the bright sunshine.
A butterfly had flown into the garden, and was resting on an open bud of honeysuckle, its pale-blue wings outstretched.
“A Common Blue,” Joss said. “They’re usually seen on the coast.”
“I knew they’d come if we planted the right flowers,” Marin said, her voice a hushed whisper. “I knew they’d come if we waited.” And smiling, she reached out with one hand to touch it.