Falling for You

by Jill Mansell

  Touched, Estelle said, “Hopefully we’ll get to know each other even better now. I’ve never had any nephews or nieces. Maybe I can be a kind of informal auntie.”

  “He’d love that. We’d all love that.” Juliet smiled automatically as the doors of the pediatric unit swung open, spitting out a doctor she recognized.

  “Ah!” Having headed past her up the corridor, the doctor did an abrupt about-turn and said, “Tiff’s blood test results came through. All clear. The consultant wants to see him at the ward tomorrow, then if everything’s OK, you can take him home after that. Take Tiff home,” the doctor amended. “Not the consultant.”

  “Tomorrow?” Juliet’s dark eyes glinted with tears. “Are you sure?”

  “Unless you want to leave him here,” the doctor said with a grin, before turning and rushing off.

  “Here.” Estelle pushed a clean tissue into Juliet’s hand.

  “Oh, thanks. I can’t believe he’s actually going home. Wait till Jake and Sophie hear this.”

  “It’s brilliant news,” said Estelle, happier than ever that she’d come along to the hospital. Giving Juliet’s arm a reassuring squeeze, she said, “Now you can really celebrate.”

  * * *

  Kate was in her bedroom getting ready to go to work on Friday morning when she heard the doorbell ringing downstairs. Norris, who was lying on his side, recovering from the exertions of their latest walk, lifted his head and cocked an inquisitive ear as the front door was opened and they were just able to make out the sound of a female voice.

  Two female voices, in fact, Estelle being the one who had gone to answer the door. Putting the finishing touches on her lipstick and giving her hair a last hasty swoosh of hair spray, Kate said, “Who’s that then, hey? Shall we go find out?”

  Wagging his stumpy tail, Norris trotted downstairs at her heels. Whoever had rung the doorbell was now in the kitchen with Estelle. Kate could hear the mystery voice chattering away in there.

  When she saw who it was, she was none the wiser. A tall, gangly woman in her midfifties was sitting at the kitchen table with a pile of photo envelopes. Her lipstick was a garish shade of orange, her eye shadow was electric-green and she was waving a photo at Estelle, of herself standing in front of—oh God—the Sydney Harbor bridge.

  Looking up, the woman’s eyes widened. “And here he is!” she exclaimed, bending in two like a marionette whose strings have been cut and flinging her arms wide. “Norris, baby! Ooh, look how thin you are. Have you missed us terribly?” Peering up at Estelle, she said, “Hasn’t he been eating? Hang on, I’ve got some chocolate here in my bag.”

  “Darling, this is Barbara Kendall, Norris’s owner,” said Estelle, just in case Kate thought their visitor was a stray Jehovah’s Witness. “Barbara, this is my daughter, Kate.”

  “Hello, dear, nice to meet you.” Barbara nodded pleasantly. “How are you getting on with your face?”

  Feeling sick, Kate said, “Excuse me?”

  “You know, settling back here in Ashcombe, letting other people get used to the sight of you. It doesn’t do to hide yourself away, you know. After a while they’ll hardly even notice. It’s like when my daughter had that terrible acne. I told her she was making a fuss over nothing; you just have to get out and get on with it, and it’s not as if acne lasts forever. Although I suppose it’s different for you…”

  “Have you come for Norris?” Maybe this was a daft question, but Kate was struggling to stay calm. Was this scrawny, garrulous woman seriously expecting to just roll up here and take Norris away from them?

  “Of course! Why else would I be here?” As if Kate were mentally subnormal, Barbara explained slowly and clearly, “I said we’d be in Australia for six weeks. It’s been six weeks. And now we’re back!”

  She might be back, but she wasn’t making much of a fuss of Norris. Having patted him on the head and looked askance at his reduced bulk, she returned with far more enthusiasm to her vacation photos. Similarly, having lost interest in his owner, Norris had wandered back to sit beside Kate, his head leaning against her leg.

  “Oh, and here we are on the steps of the Opera House.” Barbara proudly held the relevant photograph out to Estelle. “Look at Bernard’s socks with kangaroos on the sides! Aren’t they a scream?”

  Kate definitely wanted to scream. “We didn’t know you were coming today.”

  “Well, you know how it is.” Distractedly, Barbara shuffled through the photos. “I was going to give you a ring, then I couldn’t find your number—anyway, I’m here now! Poor old Norris, he looks so thin. Has he behaved himself? Hey, Norris, over here—have you been a good boy?”

  “He’s been fantastic.” Terrified that she was about to cry, Kate said, “He was overweight before. We’ve put him on a diet, taken him for loads of walks—his breathing’s so much better now. We-we’re going to miss him d-dreadfully.”

  “Really?” Barbara looked incredulously across at Norris. “Well, that’s marvelous news! Maybe you’ll end up getting one of your own. OK, let’s get a move on. Bernard’s expecting us back.” Since no one was showing her photos the degree of interest she felt they deserved, Barbara gathered them together and slid them back into their bags. “Norris, come along. We’re going home.”

  Kate gazed beseechingly at her mother. Estelle, clearly distraught, could only shake her head. With a quizzical look at Barbara, Norris rose obediently to his feet.

  “Say thank you very much for looking after me,” Barbara prompted, causing Norris to wag his tail in a bemused fashion.

  “If you wanted him to stay here, we’d love to keep him,” Kate blurted out, causing Barbara to look at her even more oddly.

  “But he’s ours, dear. Not yours. Right, off we go.”

  Crouching down, Kate put her arms around Norris and felt him rest his paws on her knees. Oh God, how could she ever have thought him ugly? Hot tears dripped down her chin as she kissed the top of his broad head. In return, Norris licked her wrist. It was hard trying to say a meaningful good-bye to someone who didn’t understand what was going on.

  “Bye, Norris,” mumbled Kate as Barbara clapped her hands.

  “Right, let’s get a wiggle on! Say good-bye to Estelle now,” Barbara ordered bossily.

  Unable to watch Norris leaving the house for good, Kate stumbled to her feet and left the kitchen. It was time to go to work, for all the good she’d be. No more Norris—it just didn’t bear thinking about.

  “Estelle! I forgot to tell you about our visit to the crocodile farm,” she heard Barbara trill behind her.

  Bloody Barbara Kendall, thought Kate. How she’d love to feed her to the crocodiles.

  Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, feeling as if her heart had just been squeezed by a giant fist, Kate slammed out of the house.

  * * *

  Marcella couldn’t quite believe she was here at Dartington House nursing home, in the same room as Pauline McKinnon. She especially couldn’t grasp what she was hearing.

  Feeling light-headed but far too agitated to sit down, Marcella stared at the wizened, yellow-tinged face of Den McKinnon’s mother.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said flatly. “It’s not true. No mother would ask her son to take the blame for something like that.”

  “I did.” Pauline McKinnon plucked at the pale blue bedspread.

  “I think you’re just lying to protect him. You don’t have long left to live, so you’re trying to persuade me he was innocent all along.”

  “Why would I? I didn’t want to tell you the truth. I’m only doing it now to prove to Den how sorry I am.”

  Marcella took a deep breath. Pauline McKinnon didn’t sound as if she were lying. And if Den had spent the last nine years in Australia, why would he need his mother to make up a story like this?

  “Is this to do with Kerr?” Marcella was still struggling to take
it in. “Was this his idea? Does he think I’ll change my mind about him and Maddy?”

  “Maddy who? Your daughter?” Bemused, Pauline McKinnon asked, “What’s she got to do with Kerr?”

  This time it was blindingly obvious that she had no idea what Marcella was talking about.

  “How did Kerr feel about seeing his brother go to prison for something he didn’t do?” Marcella was having trouble keeping her voice steady.

  “He didn’t know. He only found out this week.”

  “Does he despise you?” asked Marcella.

  “He hasn’t said so”—Pauline McKinnon shrugged—“but I’m sure he does. Same as Den. I don’t blame them,” she added. “I despise myself.”

  “You were drunk. You killed our daughter.” Marcella’s voice began to rise, because she had no doubt now that Pauline McKinnon was telling the truth. “You forced your own son to take the blame.”

  “And I’ve suffered every single day since then.”

  “Good,” Marcella hissed, her eyes blazing. “You don’t know how happy that makes me. I hope you rot in hell for what you’ve done to us and to him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And it’s taken you eleven years to say that!”

  “I was going to. I swear I was.” Pauline McKinnon swallowed with difficulty. “Before the trial, we weren’t allowed to. Afterward, Kerr came over to your cottage one day and tried to apologize. You were out. Your husband was there, but he didn’t want to hear it. He refused to listen and yelled at Kerr to leave. After a reaction like that, how could I risk trying to do the same? I couldn’t face either of you. You hated us enough as it was, without even knowing what I’d really done. It was easier to blot it all out,” she concluded wearily, “and have another drink instead.”

  “Look at me,” Marcella ordered, because Pauline McKinnon was avoiding her eyes. “Can you understand how much we loved April?”

  Forcing her head up, Pauline nodded without speaking.

  “Actually, I don’t suppose you can”—Marcella’s voice was cold—“but let me tell you this anyway. She was every bit as precious to us as our other children. I would give everything I own for the chance to hold her again. The fact that April had cerebral palsy wasn’t her fault and didn’t make an ounce of difference to how we felt about her. Yet you seemed to think we had no right to be distraught because it wasn’t as if she was normal.”

  “I didn’t say that,” croaked Pauline McKinnon. “I swear.”

  “We were told you’d said it.” Marcella was defiant.

  “Outside the court? I remember. I heard someone else saying those words, but it wasn’t me. I’ve been truthful with you all afternoon,” Pauline went on. “After everything else, why would I bother to start lying to you now? With a bit of luck, by the end of next week I’ll be dead. What’s the matter with you, anyway?” Her clouded eyes had dropped to Marcella’s front. Marcella realized that without even being aware of it, she had been gently rubbing her stomach.

  “Nothing.” It was the truth. There was no pain or discomfort. Her family would have a fit if they knew she’d run the risk of coming here to confront Pauline McKinnon, but she had come through it without mishap. Some inner instinct reassured Marcella that her baby was just fine.

  “I’m tired,” Pauline McKinnon said tetchily.

  “I’m not going to forgive you, if that’s why you wanted to see me.”

  “I didn’t want to see you. This was all Den’s idea, not mine.”

  Marcella looked at her, experiencing a mixture of hatred, revulsion, and disgust. And pity too. But not for Pauline McKinnon.

  As she turned to leave the room, Marcella said, “My daughter, April, was worth five hundred of you.”

  Chapter 58

  Outside, Marcella took lungfuls of much-needed fresh air. A warm, dry breeze rippled the front of her loose, dark blue shirt. The manicured grounds were deserted apart from a solitary figure sitting on a bench some distance away, beneath a spreading cedar tree. From here, it was impossible to tell whether the figure was male or female. All Marcella could make out was longish dark hair, sunglasses, a white shirt, and faded jeans.

  But she knew at once who it was. Without hesitating, she descended the stone steps and made her way across the freshly mown grass.

  He took off his dark glasses as she approached, and Marcella saw the eleven years of strain etched on his face. Here was someone who had suffered almost as much as she had. It beggared belief that any son could have a mother like that.

  Her heart went out to him. She had spent all these years blaming him for something he hadn’t done. He may be a McKinnon, but he was innocent.

  “Do you believe her?” Den searched her face, his voice taut with uncertainty.

  Nodding, Marcella said, “I do.”

  “It’s the truth.” Den nodded too and she saw that he was shaking. “I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me, I swear.”

  Marcella held out her arms and drew him to her, making soothing noises and patting his back as he sobbed on her shoulder like a small boy.

  “God, I can’t believe it. I haven’t cried for years,” Den said finally, using his sleeve to wipe his eyes. “Not since I came out of prison.”

  “You’ve been bottling it up. Don’t worry.” Marcella stroked his face. “It’s all over now.”

  “I didn’t know she was drunk—that’s the stupidest thing.” Den cleared his throat, determined to say it. “I could have driven that day. If she had only let me drive, it never would have happened. But she didn’t want me to know how much she’d had to drink, so she made out she was fine. I should have taken the keys off her—”

  “Shhh, stop it.” Her earlier words to Den’s mother came back to Marcella now: it hadn’t been April’s fault she was born handicapped. Well, it wasn’t Den’s fault either that he had been handicapped by the fact that Pauline McKinnon was his mother.

  Marcella briefly closed her eyes, remembering those dark, desperate days after the accident. Her grief had been so overwhelming that directing her hatred at only one person hadn’t been enough. She’d needed to encompass the whole family. And that had been wrong—she could see that now.

  “Is this what I think it is?” Being hugged by Marcella had brought the curvature of her stomach to Den’s attention. Pulling away, he gazed down at the small bump.

  “Always one of those embarrassing moments,” said Marcella, “when you really hope I’m not just fat. And no,” she went on, “I’m not just fat.”

  Den shook his head. “Congratulations. That’s fantastic.”

  It was also interesting, Marcella felt, that he clearly hadn’t been expecting it, which meant that Kerr McKinnon hadn’t warned him.

  “Shall I tell you something stupid?” Den was smiling now, crookedly. “Before the accident, I used to wish you were my mother. I’d seen the way you were with your kids. I really envied them. I thought you were fantastic.”

  Overcome, Marcella hugged him tightly. “Thank you. I hope I’ll carry on being fantastic. Now, let’s talk about your brother.”

  “Kerr?” Den gave her a blank look. “What d’you want to know?”

  He didn’t have a clue.

  “Kerr and Maddy,” said Marcella.

  Den gave her a doubtful look. “Your Maddy? Why, does she like him?”

  “Just a bit.” Amused, Marcella realized that he was picturing Maddy as she had been eleven years ago with her metal braces, bony knees, and those funny National Health Service specs. All in all, an unlikely contender for his brother’s attention.

  “Kerr hasn’t told you.” As they turned and began to walk across the grass, Marcella tucked her arm companionably through Den’s. “Know where he is?”

  “What, right now? At work.” Den looked surprised. “He’s lent me his car.”

  “Excellent. Posh one?”

&nb
sp; “Very posh,” said Den.

  “Even more excellent. So,” Marcella said brightly as another thought struck her, “does he know about me coming here today?”

  Den shook his head. “I didn’t tell him. This was what I wanted to happen. He might have tried to talk me out of it.”

  Almost certainly, Marcella thought with secret amusement.

  As they headed for the parking lot—she really hoped Kerr’s was the gleaming midnight-blue Mercedes—Marcella said, “Why don’t we go pay your brother a little visit?”

  “Now?”

  She gave Den’s arm a complicit squeeze. “Right now. Come on, it’ll be a laugh.”

  Realizing what she was planning, Den said, “He’ll be scared witless when you walk in.”

  “But we’ll find it hilarious.” Marcella broke into a dazzling, ear-to-ear grin. “Anyway, if your big brother’s serious about my darling daughter, he’s just going to have to get used to it.”

  * * *

  Blowing up several dozen balloons had taken it out of Maddy. She was exhausted, but the backyard of Snow Cottage was looking sensational enough for it all to be worthwhile. There were balloons at the front of the cottage too, along with a huge, handmade welcome-home banner and enough curly streamers to tie up an entire herd of wildebeest—should a herd of wildebeest choose to stampede through Ashcombe.

  “Looking good,” said Nuala, carrying out a pile of rugs and cushions.

  “Thanks.” Maddy smiled.

  “Not you. You look appalling. I was talking about the yard,” said Nuala. “Poor Tiff’s going to take one look at you and have a relapse. Go put some makeup on or something, before everyone gets here.”

  As if moving house and organizing the party wasn’t enough, Maddy thought, she was expected to get creative with mascara too. And where was everyone else, anyway? Tiff was coming home from the hospital at three o’clock. Jake had driven into Bath to pick up Tiff and Juliet. Marcella had disappeared hours ago, blithely claiming that she needed to buy maternity underwear and promising faithfully to be back before three. Similarly, Kate and Dexter wouldn’t be over until after the pub was shut for the afternoon. Sophie had spent hours coloring in the welcome-home banner. Bean had leaped about like a mini Tigger-on-springs, doing her best to burst the balloons as fast as they were inflated. Quite a few other people from Ashcombe were coming along to the party, but none of them had seen fit to offer anything in the way of practical help, evidently more than happy to leave all the boring hard work to her and Nuala.