Her Sister’s Secret. E. V. Seymour
Читать онлайн книгу.
shop as he had in earning a living. I read it as his cue for establishing that my time with him was up and gave a bland reply. Zach reciprocated with one of his own.
“Saw Chancer last week.”
Chancer or Tristram Chancellor was Zach’s oldest friend. They’d been at school together. Unlike the rest of Zach’s mates, Chancer had stayed in touch, I suspected to keep a benevolent eye on my brother to ensure that he stayed on the straight and narrow. Weird really because Chancer was the opposite of my brother in every respect: successful, moneyed and happily married. The thought made me curdle inside. Long ago, I’d been smart enough to recognise that Chancer was way out of my league.
“He and Edie are having problems,” Zach continued.
As surprised as I was, I couldn’t give a damn. Exasperated, frustrated, I wished I could grab my brother and shake a normal emotional response out of him.
“Think the marriage is on the rocks, to be honest,” Zach said. “Needy Edie certainly seems to think so.”
“Don’t be horrible.” Edie was Chancer’s wife. She wasn’t simply in Chancer’s league; she sat astride it. The daughter of a wealthy investment banker, she came from a stocks and shares, Ascot, Wimbo and a jet-setting lifestyle. “What about the kids?”
Zach pulled a face and shrugged. I drained my glass and stood up.
Zach stood too. I read everything in his expression: Off the hook. She’s going. Thank Christ.
I could have asked him to reconsider his decision, to change his mind and come back with me right now, this minute, but knew it would only make us both angry. I had to face it. Even an event as momentous and monstrous as the sudden death of our sister was not going to drag Zach home, or turn him into the prodigal son.
He slung an arm around my shoulder, clumsily drew me close and kissed the top of my head and walked me to the van. “Give my love to Mum and Dad.”
I gave it one last shot. “Think about coming home, Zach.”
He looked down, scuffed the dry ground with a bare heel, kicking up dust. Not a chance in hell, I thought, climbing into the Transit and bumping back along the drive.
Dispirited, I turned onto the main road and, after a few miles, pulled over into a lay-by from where I called Nate. My brother-in-law and me had always got on.
“Nate, I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing you can say. I can’t believe it. I mean what the fuck? Straight road. Glorious day.” There was a long pause. “Jesus,” he said with a hollow laugh that battered the metal walls of the van, “me an atheist and I actually prayed and pleaded for her to pull through.”
“I’m so terribly sorry.”
He didn’t speak for a moment. When he did his voice was all twisted up. “But Molly, how are you doing?”
To be fair, I didn’t have the words to adequately and accurately answer his question. Most of me was in denial. I mumbled clichés about expecting this kind of thing to happen to other people. “Is there anything I can do for you, Nate, anything at all?”
“Be good to see you.”
“What about your parents? I don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes.”
“They’ll go home. Mum, well, you know, her intentions are good, but what with the police updating me every five seconds, I need time to think and process and—” Nate broke off. At first, I thought he was crying, then realised that something was up. “Actually, I really need to talk. In confidence.”
“How about I drive over after I’ve finished up here? About sixish?”
“That would be good. I’ll see you then.”
I strained every sinew to focus on the road. What did Nate want to tell me in confidence? Was he going to reveal how upset Scarlet had seemed a few days ago? Was he going to ask me why? A fresh wave of shame flamed my cheeks.
I reached Lenny a little over an hour later. Single-handedly, she’d shifted all the furniture from upstairs. Stacked. Packed. Ready to roll. Red-faced and done in, she stood with her back to the wall.
As I slid down from the van, she walked towards me, solemn faced, with open arms. “Your dad phoned. I’m so sorry, hon.”
Solid, dependable, anarchic Lenny enveloped me in a sweaty embrace. A tight dry sob I’d bottled for hours escaped from the back of my throat.
I clung on, loss excavating a hole through my heart. I’d never dealt with this kind of news before. Scarlet gone. Scarlet dead. A moment longer and I’d start bawling and never stop. To head it off, I said, all business, “Could you run me home, then bring the van back to load up and take it to Flotsam?” This was my shop in Malvern Link. “I’ll pay you extra, of course.”
“No way,” she said, as we clambered into the van. “And don’t worry about the shop this week. I can handle it.”
A day ago, it would be unthinkable for me to consider relinquishing control. Now it didn’t matter.
I stared out of the window, remembering me and my big sister at my first pop concert; both of us poring over wedding dresses; a pub lunch when I’d shaken the ketchup and the top hadn’t been screwed on properly and sauce flew all over Mum and we’d cackled with laughter until we were nearly sick. Happy days. Light days. Would I ever feel that carefree again? As stuffy and hot as the day was, I suddenly felt as cold as winter. Lost, I could make no sense of anything.
We pulled up outside my house. “Any particular jobs that need to be done this week?” Lenny said.
I shrugged my shoulders. I still had Mr Noble to contact, I vaguely remembered. He’d have to wait. I had one concern only and it wasn’t to clear my conscience. I needed to understand what the hell happened on that road this morning.
Glad to reach home, I escaped inside and closed the door on a world that I no longer recognised. Ugly. Dysfunctional. Desolate.
A wave of hunger grabbed my stomach and I realised I hadn’t eaten all day. Not really fussed, I browned a thick slice of bread in the toaster, smothered it with peanut butter and ate standing up, mindlessly viewing my accrued possessions. A sucker for old things, the interior was really an extension of the contents of the shop. Most people didn’t have a vaulting horse planted in their living room.
All set, my mobile rang from a number I didn’t recognise. Normally, I’d reject calls like this, but these were strange times and I answered it.
“Molly Napier?”
“Yes?”
“Rocco Noble.”
Rocco? The only other Rocco I’d heard of was Madonna and Guy Ritchie’s son. Noble, oh yeah, the client I should have phoned. Scrabbling, I said, “I owe you a huge apology. I should have got back sooner, but I’ve been overtaken by events.” I winced, mortified. What would Scarlet think if she knew I’d referred to her death as an ‘event’?
“All good, I hope,” he said cheerily. He had a nice voice, rich and low. I pegged him about my age, maybe a bit older.
“Actually, not. My sister was killed in a road accident this morning.” I cringed. How could I be so indiscreet and reveal something this personal to a stranger, in a business call, no less?
Judging by the stunned silence that followed, Mr Noble appeared to agree.
“Hello, you still there?” I said.
The