How To Keep A Secret. Sarah MorganЧитать онлайн книгу.
of years Lauren had been studying for an interior design qualification, but study was a bed of roses compared with hauling yourself out of bed every day to deal with a bunch of kids with runny noses.
Her sister’s life seemed effortless.
“Mack has big exams this summer.”
“She’ll fly through them, as Lauren did.”
“I guess she will.” Did her sister have to be so perfect? Much as she loved Lauren, there were days when Jenna could happily kill her. And then she felt guilty feeling that way because as well as being perfect at everything else, Lauren was the perfect sister and always had been.
It wasn’t Lauren’s fault that her sister couldn’t get pregnant.
Feeling empty, Jenna reached for the tin on the table. The book group wasn’t going to miss one cake, were they?
She fought an internal battle between want and willpower.
Willpower might have won, but as she went to pull her hand back her mother frowned.
“Are you sure you need that?”
No, she didn’t need it. But she wanted it. And dammit if she wanted it, she was going to have it. She was thirty-two years old. She didn’t need her mother’s permission to eat.
She took a cake from the tin, so annoyed she took a bigger bite than she intended to. Too big. Damn. Her teeth were jammed together so now she couldn’t even speak. Instead she chewed slowly, feeling like a python that had swallowed its prey whole.
Her mother went back to sorting papers. “Mack is doing well. Like Lauren, she is very disciplined.”
The implication being that she, Jenna, showed no self-discipline at all.
She swallowed.
Finally. In the battle of woman against cupcake she was the victor.
“Good to know.”
“Lauren is lucky Mack hasn’t turned out to be a wild child like—” her mother waved her hand vaguely “—some people.”
“You mean me.” Jenna kept her tone light. “Thanks, Mom.”
“You have to admit you didn’t sit round waiting for trouble to find you. You went out looking for it and you dragged your poor sister into it with you. You, Jenna Elizabeth Stewart, were enough to give any mother gray hairs.”
“I’ve been Sullivan for more than a decade, Mom.”
“I know.” Nancy’s expression softened. “And you are lucky to have that man.”
Annoyed: irritated or displeased.
“He’s lucky to have me, too.”
“I know. But let’s be honest—you stopped getting into trouble the day you married Greg.” She glanced at the clock. “It will be dark soon. You should probably leave.”
“I can drive in the dark, Mom. There’s this amazing invention called headlights.”
“I don’t like you driving in the dark. Remember when you drove the car into the ditch?”
She did remember, but even smashing her head against the windshield hadn’t been as uncomfortable as this stroll down memory lane. “I was twenty-one. My driving has improved since then.” Jenna stood up. “But you’re right. I should go. I need to stop at the store to pick up some things for dinner. Take care, Mom. Enjoy your book group.”
“I will. Thanks for dropping by.”
As if she was a stranger, not family.
There were days when Jenna wondered whether the only way to get closer to her mother was to join the book group.
Nancy
Secret: a fact that is known by only a small number of people, and is not told to anyone else
AS SOON AS the door slammed behind her daughter, Nancy grabbed her coat.
She’d been so desperate for Jenna to leave, she’d almost bundled her out of the house.
Pushing her arms into the sleeves, she stepped into the garden.
At this time of year it looked sad and tired. Maintaining a coastal garden was always a challenge, and this one was particularly exposed.
The narrow strip of windswept land was all that separated The Captain’s House from the sea. She’d seen this view in every season and every mood. Today the surface of the water was smooth, almost glass-like, but she knew it could change in a moment from deceptive calm to boiling anger. Her seafaring ancestors would have told her that you should never trust the sea.
Like humans, she thought. You shouldn’t trust them either.
It was trust that had led her to this moment. The moment she’d been dreading.
She’d let everyone down.
She could refuse to answer the door of course. Pretend not to be home. But what would that achieve? It would only postpone the inevitable. And she’d been the one to call him, so not opening the door would be ridiculous.
She’d been terrified he might arrive while Jenna was here, but fortunately she hadn’t stayed long and hadn’t seemed to notice that Nancy was almost urging her out of the house.
It was one of the few occasions she’d been relieved not to have a particularly close relationship with her daughters.
Nancy would have to tell her the truth eventually, of course, but not yet.
The worse part was the waiting, and yet the ability to wait should have been in her genes. Her great-great-grandmother might have stood in this exact same spot two centuries before while waiting for her husband to return home after two long years at sea. What must she have imagined, thinking of the tall square-rigged ships out there facing mountainous seas and Arctic ice? And how must the captain himself have felt finally returning home after years of battling the elements?
He would have seen the house he’d built and felt pride.
Nancy’s cheeks were ice-cold and she realized she was crying. When had she last cried? She couldn’t remember. It was as if the relentless wind blowing off the sea had eroded her tough outer layer and exposed all her vulnerabilities. She was crumbling and she wasn’t sure she had the strength to handle what was coming next.
At some point over the past sixty-seven years she was supposed to have accumulated knowledge and wisdom, but right now she felt like a small child, lost and alone. Dread was a lurch in the pit of your stomach, a cold chill on your skin. It was the ground shifting beneath your feet like the deck of a ship in a squall until you wanted to cling to something to steady yourself.
She closed her hand round the wood of the Adirondack chair that had been a birthday gift from her daughters. In the spring and summer months she sat out here with her morning coffee, watching the boats, the gulls and the swell of the tide.
Now, on a cold January afternoon with the dark closing in, it was too cold for sitting. Already her hands were chilled, the tips of her fingers numb. She should have worn gloves but she’d only intended to step outside for a moment. One breath of air to hopefully trigger a burst of inspiration that had so far eluded her.
She desperately wanted someone to tell her what to do. Someone to hold her and tell her everything was going to be all right.
Pathetic.
There was no one. The responsibility was hers.
“Nancy!”
Nancy saw her neighbor Alice easing her bulk through the garden gate. Two bad hips and a love of doughnuts had