‘Oh, thank God!’ I burst into tears, racked with relief and guilt.
‘She’s going to stay here tonight, and I’ll bring her home in the morning.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘She’s upset. Doesn’t think it’s right that you’re marrying Patrick so quickly. Having said that, she’s on board with you moving house.’ Cassie lowers her voice. ‘She says the house is haunted by Adam’s ghost, and she thinks there are evil spirits in the garden. Have you done anything about Mia talking to a grief counsellor?’
‘She refuses. Can I speak to her?’
‘She doesn’t want to talk to you at the moment. She’s getting ready for bed. I’m sure after a good night’s sleep she’ll be fine. Don’t worry, Lydia.’
‘Please tell her I love her and that everything will be ok.’
The doorbell rings at 8.30 a.m. the next morning.
I open the front door to Cassie and Mia and feel such relief at seeing my daughter, I have to swallow hard to stop the tears. Cassie is standing behind Mia and she shakes her head at me and puts a finger to her lips. I let Mia charge past me and up the stairs.
‘I suggest I spend the day with you all, and I’ll try to explain to her that you’re not replacing her father but seeking to live a normal life.’
‘Thanks, Cassie.’
‘Perhaps stay out of Mia’s way for a few hours.’
‘Ok,’ I say reluctantly as Cassie walks past me and strides to the kitchen. ‘Thank you,’ I repeat, thinking about how Cassie is my savior time and time again. ‘Can I make you a cup of coffee?’
Half an hour later, I hear footsteps coming down the stairs.
‘Best if you make yourself scarce,’ Cassie says.
I sigh. ‘I still haven’t cleared out Adam’s study. I’ll make a start on it.’
‘Good idea,’ she says, blowing me a kiss.
As I’m walking along the hall towards the study, Patrick calls me.
‘Can’t wait to see you this evening,’ he says.
‘Slight problem. Mia freaked out about us getting married. She ran away to Cassie’s last night.’
‘That’s a bit childish for a fifteen-year-old, isn’t it?’
‘No. The thing is, Patrick, I think she’s right. I want to marry you, but perhaps it is too soon. We should let things settle down a bit. What do you think?’
He is silent for a long while, and I wonder if he’s still on the line. Eventually, he says, ‘Why don’t I have a word with Mia? How did Oliver react?’
‘He likes you. So long as he doesn’t have to call you Dad, he’s on board.’
‘I think me and Mia need some bonding time. Let me go on the charm offensive and I’ll get her onside. I can lay on the charm when I need to. Never failed yet.’
If anything, that makes me feel worse. Is Patrick saying he can get any woman he wants? If so, what is he doing with me? Am I really that special?
‘Love you,’ he says before hanging up, but it sounds like an afterthought.
I find myself standing in the doorway to Adam’s study. This is the one room I haven’t tackled properly since his death. Yes, I’ve dealt with all of the urgent paperwork. I’ve paid the bills and closed down his Facebook account and the bank accounts that were in his name only. But I have only given the filing cabinet a cursory glance, and I haven’t touched his bookshelves. If I want Patrick to move in, I need to tackle this space.
Sighing, I pull open the filing cabinet. It has one long, deep drawer. I take all the hanging files out and dump them on the desk. The first few folders are related to this house: correspondence with the solicitors when we bought it, utility bills, and his car insurance, which he paid for personally rather than putting it through the business. I find some National Savings certificates and ISAs I didn’t know he had, and some he set up in the names of the children.
And then I find a folder full of handwritten letters, mainly ones from me in the early days of our relationship. I smile as I read through them. I really loved Adam back then. The rest of the files include certificates from the various accountancy exams he took, paperwork from cars long sold, and receipts. It isn’t until I open the final folder that I find a large sealed envelope. I say a silent prayer of forgiveness, rueful that I have to open something that I know instinctively that Adam wouldn’t want me to see.
Inside there is a pile of letters, some handwritten, some typed. The letters are dated and go back to Adam’s childhood. He would have been in his early teens, the ages that Mia and Oliver are now. They are letters that he wrote to his parents from school, and their responses back to him. I select one at random.
Dearest Adam,
Please, my boy, don’t get involved in things you can’t begin to understand. Just know that I love your father as I love you. Do well in your exams. See you at Easter.
Love,
Mummy
What was she referring to? The letters are all dated, so I select one written by Adam in the month before.
Dear Daddy,
I know what you’ve done and it disgusts me. I will protect Mummy and care for her even if you don’t. If you write to me, I will burn your letter.
Adam
Good heavens! What was he referring to? I flick through the earlier letters, but they all seem perfectly normal, mundane even; letters from a young boy, fairly miserable at boarding school, writing to his parents, telling them about his classes and the grades he got in tests. Their missives back to him, mainly written by his mother, detail what they were doing week by week: his father’s business meetings and his magisterial duties, his mother’s sewing assignments and baking for charity events. There is nothing in any of the letters that explains what Adam’s father supposedly did. And now they are all dead, and I suppose I will never know. Was that the start of the deterioration of his relationship with his father?
I am just about to put everything back in the envelope when I notice I’ve missed something. It’s a compliment slip printed with his parents’ address, handwritten by his father.
‘The will is sorted. Watertight. Nothing for you to worry about. Dad’
Why would Adam have been worried about his father’s will? He never said anything to me, either before his father died or afterwards. It makes no sense.
I only realise I have whiled away the whole morning when Oliver puts his head around the door and announces that Cassie has made lunch.
Mia is in the kitchen. ‘Mum, I want to say something,’ she says before I have the chance to sit down.
‘Of course, darling.’
‘I don’t want you to get married again. I don’t like Patrick much, but as Cassie said, it’s your life and I mustn’t stop you. I was just upset, that’s all.’
I fling my arms around her, although she stays quite rigid. ‘Of course you are upset. It’s perfectly understandable.’ I speak softly, my lips grazing her hair.
‘Right! Sit down, everyone! Grub’s up.’ Cassie places a large bowl of steaming risotto in the centre of the table.
I had wanted a winter wedding the first time around, but Adam thought that was a stupid idea, so we got married in June. Although I won’t have the long white wedding dress and all the extravaganza, I can still fulfil that old dream. The decision whether to go ahead was one of the hardest decisions I have ever had to make. The last thing I want to do is alienate my daughter or cause her more grief than she’s already suffering, but at the same time I want to grab this chance of happiness. I vacillated so much Patrick started to get annoyed. ‘Either you want to marry me or you don’t,’ he snapped one evening. ‘We’re not exactly in the first flush of youth, Lydia, and I don’t want to waste any more time.’