‘You didn’t,’ she said, hands on her hips as she watched the paper crumple into ashes. ‘That picture encapsulates one of my saddest, loneliest moments. What possible good would it do for you to have that? You could hardly frame it, hang it in your motorhome.’
I shrugged, my embarrassment lessening thanks to her kind smile. ‘I don’t know. I guess I could relate to it. Maybe I’d find it therapeutic to look at.’
‘Oh, no, no, no.’ Hattie began walking towards the kitchen, gesturing for me to follow. ‘That’s not how it works. You can’t hijack my therapy for your wounds. You’ll need to do your own work. Don’t worry, though.’ She beamed, opening the fridge with a flourish. ‘We’ve plenty of time. All that pain and regret will be well and truly arted out before we’re done here.’
Not if I had anything to do with it, it wouldn’t.
* * *
After cobbling together some pesto pasta, we ate at the kitchen table and then, sensing Hattie was still tired, I politely declined her invitation to watch a film and took Muffin upstairs with me to read in what I already thought of as my tartan chair. We’d agreed to meet up for Sunday lunch and then resume work in the afternoon. Hattie had apologised for working me on weekends but explained that she had therapy sessions spread throughout the week, and so I’d easily be able to take a couple of days off then. I didn’t mind at all. It wasn’t as though I had any other plans, and often found that clients needed to fit around their jobs.
I had another lazy morning with my book, and Hattie wasn’t around when I went downstairs for breakfast, or an hour later for Muffin’s walk. The sky was a sheet of slate-grey hanging low above our heads as we set off but as always, this did nothing to dampen my dog’s enthusiasm. Once I’d skirted past the rose garden, we spent a blustery hour exploring the wider grounds, eventually curving back towards the river, where we finally found a bridge leading over to the forest.
‘Yes, it looks very exciting, and full of fascinating smells,’ I agreed, when Muffin padded halfway across the bridge before stopping to look back at me with a pleading expression. ‘But can you see that horrible black cloud? If we don’t turn back now, we’re going to end up soaked.’
Reluctantly, she joined me on the path that followed the river, the first few raindrops starting to fall. As we hurried along – or rather, I hurried, then stopped to call Muffin, who’d found yet another irresistible clump of leaves to sniff – the sprinkle soon became a downpour, the winter rain whipping into our faces.
We battled on until, just when I’d accepted that for the second time since arriving at Riverbend, I would be ending a walk in soggy underwear, we rounded another curve and spotted the chapel up ahead. Muffin immediately headed for it, as fast as her little legs could fight against what was rapidly intensifying into a storm.
Hurrying after her, I came to a stop in the porch, Muffin looking up at me with her head cocked to the side, wondering what on earth I was waiting for. ‘Porch’ was a little generous. It was an overhang about two feet wide, and no match against the icy darts coming at us from all angles.
Holding one hand up in a ‘wait’ signal, I tentatively pushed open the door, not expecting to find a Sunday morning service going on, but still cautious about entering without asking permission. The faint creak of hinges was easily masked by the wail of the wind, the whole room cast in gloom thanks to the stormy clouds. It was only once we’d slipped inside and Flapjack padded down the centre aisle to greet us that I spotted Hattie, kneeling in the second pew from the front, her clasped hands resting on the back of the seat in front of her, head bowed. I would have coughed, maybe said her name or waited for Muffin to nudge her knee in hello, except that her shoulders were heaving, and in a momentary lull of the wind I heard her gasping, desperate sob.
‘I don’t know if I can do this. Please… please help me. Give me the strength to face it. Please…’
I grabbed Muffin’s collar and slunk back outside before I could hear any more.
8
When I found Hattie in the kitchen a couple of hours later, there was no trace of the distress she’d displayed in the chapel. She’d added a soft grey cardigan to her pale-blue top, and her make-up-free face was clear and bright as she bopped along to ABBA while chopping up tomatoes for a salad.
‘Sophie, good morning!’ She beamed. ‘Or is it good afternoon already?’
‘It’s one, like we agreed. Good lunchtime?’
‘Oh, it will be!’ She winked before turning back around to start on a cucumber.
‘Can I help at all?’
‘There’s not much to do, really. A farm-shop lasagne in the oven, fresh bread ready to warm and wine in the cooler. Oh – you could see if the table’s all set?’
The table was covered in yesterday’s newspaper, a pile of drawings and an empty milk carton.
‘No, not that one. We’re eating in the dining room. Oh, could you check how the lasagne’s doing?’
After seeing the size of the lasagne, I wasn’t surprised to find the plates and cutlery laid out for more than two people. My first thought was Gideon and Agnes, but there were five settings, so that left one unknown, unless Lizzie was eating here on her day off. Before I had a chance to decide how I felt about more time with Gideon, the doorbell rang, sending both dogs into a flurry.
‘Can you grab that, please?’ Hattie called. ‘Just make sure Flapjack doesn’t jump up at Kalani – she loathes dog hairs on her clothes.’
I opened the door to find three women squashed together under one umbrella, before they burst into the hallway like those joke snakes-in-a-can.
‘You must be the historian,’ one of them said, while simultaneously shrugging out of a dark-red, leather jacket and shaking the rain from her black bob.
‘I thought she was an author?’ another asked, unwinding what seemed like an endless scarf from her neck, the end that was visible sporting two googly eyes and a forked tongue.
‘Well, yes, if you want to be picky,’ the first woman replied, rolling her eyes as she offered me the jacket. ‘A historical author. I am sorry, though, the Middlebeck grapevine didn’t pass on your name.’
‘Sophie.’ I decided to leave the proper introductions for Hattie, instead waiting while a navy cagoule, a yellow mackintosh covered in pink elephants, the scarf and a hat knitted in the shape of a frog completed the pile in my arms, turning to put them in the boot room just as Hattie appeared.
