“Oh, aye, ye braw wee bairn,” they’d bray nonsensically. On Chris’s first day at Regent Street, they dubbed him Oour Wullie, after the comic strip character. He’d smile, pretending to go along with the joke, but Susan could tell it bothered him. When they all gathered for drinks, and Greg really got going, Chris would clasp his hands under the table and clench them rhythmically. Susan guessed he was imagining he had a good grip on Greg’s throat as he did it.
His accent and cheap clothes hadn’t played any better at the Napier home. Susan’s mother, of course, was warm and kept him engaged with food talk, but Julia and her father sat by, keeping out of the conversation and oozing contempt and disapproval.
“Jesus, Susan,” Julia hissed once Chris was gone. “A line cook? Are you kidding me? Why not the dishwasher while you’re at it? Why not a plumber?”
Even Susan’s mother sighed and said, “He seems like a very nice boy, Suze, but beware of anyone in the restaurant business. Their hours are … not always conducive to a healthy relationship.”
What about someone who does nothing? Susan thought sourly. Is that the recipe for a happy marriage?
But she bit her tongue. Her mother was already so frail.
* * *
Meg emerges from the house, a blue sunhat in one hand and Andrew close behind, dribbling a football. He gives it a good kick as soon as he’s clear of the door, and it sails past Ayden, who’s briefly distracted from his caterpillar.
“Mind your brother!” Meg hollers after her eldest, who leaps down from the patio and goes after the ball. He pauses long enough to pat his baby brother on the head as he passes. Meg sighs and good-naturedly shakes her head as she bends and jams the hat onto Ayden. He squeals in protest and then begins to wail as she smears him with sunscreen.
“I know, I know, love, but you’ll thank me for it, believe me,” Meg soothes. “A big red bus, a big red bus …” she sings in a bell-clear soprano.
“Aunt Susan, what’siss?”
Susan turns and sees that Alisdair has dragged her overnight bag to the door, rummaged through it, and found the photo album, which Susan had brought so Meg could see the old family pictures. Susan’s clothes and underwear are strewn about the floor at his feet.
“Oh, Ali, don’t go through Aunt Susan’s things. That’s not nice, is it?” says Meg, now massaging sunscreen into Ayden’s arms. “Say you’re sorry and tidy up.”
Instead, he repeats, “What’siss?” and holds the photo album aloft.
“It’s pictures, darling.” Susan joins him, shoving her things back into the bag. She pauses long enough to open the album to a picture of herself, Julia, and Meg when they were small. “That’s me, your Auntie Julia, and your mummy,” she explains, pointing to them each in turn.
He looks skeptical. “No, it’s not,” he says, wrinkling his nose, grinning, and vigorously shaking his head. “That’s Mummy,” he adds, pointing to his mother.
Susan smiles. “Yes, it is,” she agrees, patting him on the arm. He drops the album on the floor and joins Andrew. Susan reaches for her last pair of scattered panties just as her brother-in-law, William, comes in.
“Hiya, Suze,” he greets her, quickly looking away from the underwear in her hand.
She shoves the pants into her bag and rises to hug him. “Hi, William, how’re things?”
“Oh, you know.” He shrugs, grins, gestures to his family. “Is she still on about the neck lump?” he asks sotto voice.
“I think we may have moved on.” Susan pats him on the arm.
He shakes his head. “I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re all coming up here. Especially you. Good to have some sense around.” He strips off his suit jacket and tie, tossing both over a nearby chair, and unbuttons his collar.
“Is she getting worse, do you think?” Susan asks, nodding toward her sister.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Maybe she’s just frazzled. It’s a lot with the three. We have a nanny, but she’s only part time. And Dad’s talking about standing in the next National Election, which he’s pretty sure is going to be called soon, so he and Mum have been busier than usual. And work’s been a bit mental because of all the upheaval in the Asian markets, but never mind all that.” He grins again, this time at Susan. “It’ll be fine—it always is. And having all of you nearby’ll help, right?” Without waiting for an answer, he walks out onto the terrace. “Take the shot, Ali—you’ve got him!” he calls.
“Dad!” Andrew and Alisdair shriek, abandoning the football and barreling toward their father, who squats down to embrace them both.
“You’re home early,” Meg notes, gathering up the baby and going to greet her husband. He stands and kisses her, then takes Ayden and swings him in the air. “Had a meeting cancel,” he explains between Ayden’s joyful screams. “Thought I’d come home and enjoy some of the beautiful day with my family.”
“Mm-hmm,” Meg murmurs, glancing Susan’s way.
Susan wonders if Meg knows about that Christmas five years ago, when William (very drunkenly) confessed to Susan that he wished he’d met her first.
“It all coulda been very different,” he’d slurred, swirling whisky around a glass.
“William, why don’t I make you some coffee?” she’d suggested.
He’d never mentioned the conversation again, which made her suspect he didn’t remember it.
Susan considers slipping away to allow the family their time together. But then William turns and gestures for her to join them.
“Suze, come on.”
Susan smiles and heads toward them, pausing only to jam the album back into her bag and kick the whole thing under the kitchen table.
Chapter Five
Family Dinner
By the time Julia and Bernard arrive on Thursday, the movers have been swarming for over an hour, and Moray Place is an Ideal Home obstacle course of chairs you’re not really meant to sit on and mirrors too decorative to use. Susan hovers at the foot of the staircase, afraid that if she moves, she’ll knock over a lamp worth thousands of pounds.
“Ugh, you did the right thing, flying,” Julia declares, shimmying past four boxes marked “layering china.” “If you ever find yourself considering a drive from London to Edinburgh, Susan, then slap yourself. Hard. Here, I’ve got your … uncle, or whatever.” She thrusts a jar of beige goop toward her sister, holding it only by the very tips of her fingernails.
“The mother,” Susan corrects, snatching the jar and cradling it. This is precious stuff: the sourdough starter, or “mother,” that her grandfather began the year he opened Elliot’s Edinburgh. He kept it going for decades, regularly feeding it flour and water, and after he died, Susan took it on. It makes the most amazing bread: dense and moist, with a crisp crust.
“Hallo, Susan, dear,” Bernard greets her, leaning over a low bookshelf for a kiss. “Shame about all the chaos. But it’s all right, this, isn’t it?” He stands back and looks up through the wrap-around staircase to the skylight three floors up, which keeps the hall from feeling gloomy. “We’ll do all right here, don’t you think?”