The Vacation

by T. M. Logan

  Sean was in the kitchen when I got back, unloading bags of baguettes, croissants, macaroons, and pastries from three bulging shopping bags. Jennifer stood next to him, busying herself with the coffee machine. She looked cool and composed in white culottes and a pale pink vest top, straw hat still on her head.

  I was acutely aware that I was soaked in sweat and red faced from the heat.

  “Oh,” I said. “You’re here. How did you get back?”

  They were the first words I’d spoken to him since our confrontation at the gorge yesterday afternoon. It seemed like an age ago.

  Sean shrugged.

  “We walked back from the village.”

  I shook my head.

  “I just ran that way. Didn’t see you.”

  “There’s a little path up the hill, a shortcut. Quite steep, though.”

  “I tried calling your phone.”

  “Left it here. Sorry.”

  “You were gone a long time.”

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the village.

  “There was a street market and Jen wanted to have a look. They had some lovely arts-and-crafty stuff.”

  “I ran through the square. I didn’t see a market.”

  He didn’t reply and wouldn’t meet my eye, using the excuse of unloading the shopping to keep his back to me.

  I opened a paper bag of pastries, the smell of freshly baked croissants filling my nose. It should have made me hungry, but my appetite had almost completely disappeared these last few days.

  “I’ll heat some croissants up for the kids. Do you want one?”

  “In a bit. Just going to grab a quick shower.”

  “Oh.”

  A shower, I thought. To wash her smell off him.

  He gave me his best grin.

  “Absolutely scorching out there already.”

  Daniel wandered into the kitchen and looked me up and down.

  “Did you find any proper milk, Mummy?”

  35

  Izzy

  Izzy followed the sound of the grand piano, the notes swelling and sweeping in perfect rhythm through the villa’s ground floor and out onto the balcony. The music rose and fell, heavy with emotion, a flawless rendition of a complicated sonata. She climbed the staircase up from the pool, crossed the balcony into the living room, and perched on the arm of a sofa to watch Lucy as she played.

  Perhaps when she settled down, bought a place of her own, she’d have a piano again. She had played as a girl, though not to Lucy’s level, but a decent standard nonetheless. It was one of the things she missed the most about not having a home to come back to. While her three friends had spent the past couple of decades accumulating more and more belongings, Izzy had gone in the opposite direction and probably had fewer possessions now—fewer clothes, fewer books, fewer gadgets, less stuff, full stop—than she had when she was twenty-one. The furniture from her late parents’ house had mostly been sold off or given to charity, apart from a few items put into storage for their sentimental value. Most of what she owned she could carry on her back, in the same tattered seventy-liter rucksack she’d had since leaving Ireland fifteen years before. But maybe the time had come now to retire her beloved Berghaus.

  It was only supposed to have been for a year or two in the beginning. But the longer she was away, the weaker the ties became. She’d honestly thought the opposite would be the case, that the desire for home would grow with each month, homesickness accumulating like interest on a debt as the years passed. But in fact, the longer she was away, the easier it became. A year became two, and then five, then ten. And now here she was.

  Mostly when she was home she spent the time thinking about when she would be able to leave again. The ties that bound her to her homeland, her hometown, the streets where she’d grown up, became weaker as each November 2nd came and went.

  Each time the anniversary of Mark’s death approached, she dreaded it, hoping that the pain would retreat a little, at the same time hating herself for wanting to forget.

  Because that felt like selfishness: it was up to her to keep the memory alive, to keep his memory alive. It was the right thing to do, simple as that. But the memory meant pain—and she’d been carrying the pain for so long now that perhaps it was finally time to ease it off her shoulders and set it down by the side of the road. It didn’t mean she would forget—she would never forget—just that it was time to move on.

  She’d not wanted to come back before, because there’d been no reason to. Both her parents were gone and her brother had moved to Canada. Was it strange that they had both moved so far away from home, left Ireland behind them? That they had wanted to get away from Limerick in search of something better? Maybe it was a natural instinct.

  But now she had a reason to come back.

  Izzy took her phone from her pocket, looking at the string of messages again, scrolling down to the most recent. It made her smile when she thought of their time together—and then she’d catch herself and look around quickly to see if anyone was watching, wondering why she was grinning like a fool. She typed a quick reply and pressed Send.

  She was glad that her traveling days were over. It was time to return to the fold. Not quite home, but close enough to it. Because now she had a reason, the best one of all. The only reason that ever made sense, when all was said and done.

  It was time to settle down. For good.

  She would swap her rucksack for a piano, in her new place. She would learn to play again, as part of her new start, and maybe one day she might be as good as Lucy.

  She moved nearer to watch the teenager’s delicate hands flying over the keys.

  Lucy turned, startled, brushing tears from her cheeks.

  “Sorry, don’t stop,” Izzy said. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. I could listen to you play all day.”

  “No, it’s fine, I was almost finished anyway. Really.”

  Izzy smiled, but she knew straightaway that something was off. One of the many lovely things about Lucy was that she didn’t lie well. She didn’t hide her emotions well, either.

  Just like her father.

  Izzy lowered her voice.

  “Are you all right, Lucy?”

  “Yes, of course.” Lucy took a deep, shuddering breath, using the sleeve of her top to wipe hastily at her cheeks until all traces of the tears were gone. “I just get a bit emotional sometimes, playing that piece.”

  “You have a wonderful talent.”

  “Thanks. I’m supposed to practice every day.”

  “It sounds familiar but I can’t quite place it.”

  “Kinderszenen, by Schumann. It means—”

  “Scenes from Childhood.”

  Lucy smiled. “How many languages do you speak, exactly?”

  “My fiancé used to play. He wasn’t quite as good as you, though.”

  Izzy thought she saw a shadow flit momentarily across Lucy’s face, then it was gone.

  “I did this piece for my last exam,” the teenager said. “Some of it, anyway.”

  “So what’s next for you? A-levels, right?”

  Lucy nodded. “Assuming I get the GCSE grades I need.”

  “Still got your heart set on medical school?”

  “Yes.”

  “If anyone can do it, you can. You’ll make a brilliant doctor.”

  Lucy smiled, shyly. “Long way to go, yet.”

  Izzy pulled a chair over and sat down next to Lucy at the grand piano, leaning in close. She had known this child since she was born, first held her when she was a week old, a perfect tiny new person with a full head of startlingly white-blond hair. She had seen her grow up and every time she had returned from working abroad Lucy had been a little bit smarter, a little bit taller. She had reached Izzy’s height—five feet two in her bare feet—at the age of twelve and had grown much taller since then. She’d known this girl all her life, and she felt a strong urge to reconnect with her properly now she was back. To reestablish their relationship.


  She wanted to be close to her and Daniel again, to be part of their inner circle.

  “Are you really all right, Lucy?”

  “Hmm.”

  “You know you can talk to me about anything, right? I’m a neutral.” Izzy smiled. “I’m like Switzerland, not on anyone’s side. If you can’t talk to your mum or dad about it, you can talk to me instead. I can just listen and it doesn’t have to go any further.”

  Lucy tucked a strand of her long blond hair behind her ear.

  “It’s just … I don’t know, it’s probably nothing.”

  “If it’s getting you down, it’s not nothing. Not if it’s ruining your vacation, bothering you that much. Don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I don’t like seeing you unhappy, Lucy.”

  She let this hang there for a moment, knowing that the teenager would fill the silence. And a moment later, she did.

  “Mum and Dad are … Something weird is going on between them.”

  Izzy sat up straighter, frowning.

  “Weird how, exactly?”

  It was a disturbing echo of Kate’s comments at the Gorges D’Héric the day before, her concerns about Sean. There were messages.

  “I don’t know,” Lucy said quietly. “They’re being strange around each other. I’ve never seen them like this before. Dad reckons I don’t notice anything, but I do. I pick up on a lot of stuff. You must have noticed it, too?”

  “Yes.” Izzy nodded. “I have.”

  “So what do you think’s going on?”

  Izzy considered her options, searching for the one that was least painful. Tell Lucy about her father messaging another woman? About her mother’s suspicions? Her doubts about Sean? Tell her the truth?

  But is it really my place to do that?

  “Honestly? I’ve no idea, Lucy.” She patted the teenager’s arm. “But whatever it is, I’m sure they’ll work it out soon. One way or another.”

  36

  Sean and I spent a wordless morning, circling each other like wounded animals, the memory of yesterday’s confrontation still raw. The silence between us stretched out, broken by Izzy announcing that lunch was ready.

  Outside on the balcony, the long table was laid with enough to feed a small army, every inch of the checked tablecloth covered with food and drink. A wooden board filled with a dozen cheeses took pride of place in the center of the table, next to bowls of tomatoes and olives, apples and grapes, and the cutting board was piled high with sliced baguette and fresh pastries. There was honey and dark jam from the village market, a slab of golden butter, thick cuts of pink ham and roasted chicken breast. Jugs of apple juice, stubby green bottles of beer, and two bottles of white wine were out, too.

  “Twelve of us,” said Alistair, standing at the head of the table looking pleased with himself. “We’ve got the wine and the bread: all we need is a bag with thirty pieces of silver.”

  “And a Judas,” Russ added, uncorking a bottle of St.-Chinian with a soft pop.

  “How’s that?” Jennifer said.

  “You know,” Alistair said, spreading his hands expansively, “da Vinci’s Last Supper.”

  Everyone busied themselves filling their plates. All except Odette, who wrinkled her nose and began pointing out all the things she didn’t like.

  “Don’t like them, or them, or that. Definitely not that. Have we got any normal proper slicey bread?”

  Rowan put some baguette and ham onto her daughter’s plate, and began slicing an apple into small wedges.

  I looked up to see Sean and Jennifer, on opposite sides of the long wooden table, reach for one of the bottles of wine at the same moment.

  Sean’s hand brushed against hers—seeming to linger for a second as their eyes met—but she reacted as if she’d touched a live wire, almost dropping the bottle in her haste. As if they were mirror images of each other, they both smiled and looked embarrassed, gestured to the other to go first.

  “Go on,” Sean said.

  “No,” Jennifer said. “You go ahead.”

  He smiled and filled her glass first, then Russ’s, before his own.

  Jennifer shot a furtive glance at me, a half turn of her head before her eyes dropped back to the table.

  Checking to see whether I noticed that?

  Yes. I did notice. What was it?

  What, precisely, was it?

  I willed her to make eye contact again, for a chance to read her expression, find out what was written there.

  Does it feel awkward to touch my husband’s hand in front of everyone? Is that it?

  She took a sip of wine but wouldn’t meet my eye again.

  My mind jumping and sparking with fresh accusations, I looked away in time to see Alistair filling Lucy’s wineglass from the other bottle of St.-Chinian.

  “Actually,” I said to Alistair, “if you don’t mind, I’d prefer it if Lucy didn’t have wine at lunch.”

  Lucy looked as if I’d just slapped her. Alistair just smiled and moved on to Jake’s glass.

  “Oh? Thought you’d be all right with it.”

  “What with the children going in the pool, and the heat and dehydration it’s better if they stick to Orangina.” And the fact that you’re checking out her Instagram account. “Isn’t that right, Sean?”

  “Yeah,” he said halfheartedly.

  Lucy crossed her arms, her cheeks reddening.

  “Daisy Marshall has had wine at home since she was like thirteen. Her parents don’t make a massive deal out of it.”

  “That’s their choice. But until you’re a little bit older, we decide what’s best for you.”

  “What about my choice?”

  I paused long enough to take a breath, biting back my instinctive reply.

  “You get a choice when you’re an adult. Then you can do as you please.”

  “Can’t believe you sometimes.” She scowled at me with murder in her eyes. “The white is barely even ten percent, not even strong.”

  “Une gorgée de vin pour les enfants,” Alistair said, gesturing with his free hand. “A sip of wine for the children. It’s very much the done thing here in France, you know.”

  “So is eating sheep’s bollocks,” Russ muttered.

  Alistair seemed not to have heard him.

  “What we do, Kate, is we always try to encourage our children to test boundaries. Exploring boundaries can be a really powerful way to reduce conflict, improve communication, and build trust in the relationship with your—”

  Lucy cut him off.

  “When did you first have a drink, Mum?”

  “In my teens.” I shrugged. “But that was different.”

  “How?”

  “It wasn’t with my parents.”

  “You’re such a hypocrite!” she said and pointed at me. “So it’s OK for me to have a bit of wine as long as you don’t find out?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “We’re on vacation! In the middle of a bloody vineyard! And you’re drinking every day!”

  “Stop shouting, Lucy.”

  She stood up and grabbed her glass. “Stop treating me like a kid!”

  She pushed her chair back and stalked off, the angry slap, slap of her flip-flops receding as she descended the stone stairs to the pool.

  I stood up to follow.

  “Leave her,” Sean said quietly. “Let her calm down a bit first.”

  “She needs to eat something.”

  “Just give her a minute.”

  He was right, of course. Lucy and I were too much alike, in too many ways, and once we got entrenched in an argument I rarely knew how to dig my way out. I was too judgmental, too black and white, too quick to switch into analytical mode—my work brain, as Sean called it—for parenting issues that required a softer approach.

  I sat back down and noticed for the first time that all eyes at the table were on me. Except Jennifer’s—she was studiously buttering slices of baguette, eyes on her task.

  �
��Is it me,” Alistair said breezily, spearing a large slice of ham with his fork, “or is it getting hotter every day?”

  37

  Lucy

  Lucy marched over to the shaded stone bench at the far corner of the garden and sat down heavily, the heat of anger burning her cheeks. She liked this bench: it was away from the house but still just about in range of the Wi-Fi. She unlocked her phone and began scrolling furiously through her Instagram feed.

  It was so unfair. All she wanted was a bit of wine to take her mind off things, to take the edge off her feelings, but no, it always had to be some big drama with her mum, some load of crap about the legal drinking age and doing what she was told. Her bloody mum was always the same: this is the law, this is the way it is. She claimed to be all supportive when Lucy got upset about stuff, but wouldn’t let her have a tiny bit of wine to help her relax. It was infuriating, being treated like a little kid all the time.

  She jumped as Jake sat down next to her on the bench and held out two Solero ice creams.

  “Orange or strawberry?” he said.

  She took the strawberry Popsicle from him with a sigh. “Thanks, Jake.”

  “No worries.”

  “Where’s your brother, your little shadow?”

  “Dunno. Shaken him off, I guess.”

  Lucy unwrapped her ice cream and took a bite, the chill delicious on her tongue. “God, she’s such a bloody hypocrite.”

  “What’s up?”

  She looked out across the pristine garden with its infinity pool and palm trees and brightly colored flowers.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Sounds like it does.”

  “Oh, let’s talk about something else.”

  Jake bit into his ice cream. “Have you heard anything? From back home?”

  “About what?”

  He stole a sideways glance at her. “You know.”

  She held up her phone. “Only what’s been posted.”

  “You haven’t heard anything else? Like from family or something?”

  “Why should I have?”

  “Just thought that because you were…”