Devil and the Deep (The Ceruleans: Book 4) (7 page)

‘Leave it to me,’ said Si. ‘The older ladies – they love me.
Always have done. My gran used to say it was because I’m so gay…’

He flashed me a white-toothed grin and I had to laugh.

Si was right: my mother took an instant shine to him. And
Cara. She already loved Luke, of course, and she was over the moon to see me
again, so lunch was a lively, happy affair.

We sat out on the patio, and chatted our way through Luke’s
Italian-inspired lunch menu: bruschetta followed by fettuccine Alfredo, and
panna cotta with fresh raspberries for dessert. The conversation veered between
getting-to-know-you chat and catching up. Mum was most interested in The
Project, especially when Luke told her it was not his but ours.

‘You’re going into business together! Setting up a cafe
here! Scarlett, how exciting!’ Mum’s eyes shone with emotion as she leaned over
to hug me.

Across the table, Si and Cara were beaming at this display
of maternal pride.

‘Well, it’s really Luke who’s doing the work for now,’ I told
her. ‘I just turn up now and then and try not fall down any holes.’

She laughed at that, and so did the others. But as Mum began
firing questions at Luke about the premises and the menu and the decor, and he
shot back answers with passion, I sat quietly, unwilling to take any ownership
of this exciting new venture. Because it wasn’t mine to own. My path… well,
that was separate. Only I couldn’t tell my mother about that.

‘Well, if the food’s anything like this, it’ll be a roaring
success,’ Mum declared at last as she scraped her plate clean of panna cotta.

I smiled at the sight: I was so used to my mother picking at
desserts. And mains. All food, in fact, thanks to her obsession with staying
slender. She still was, but she looked healthier these days.

Mum caught my smile and returned it, then said eagerly, ‘Can
I come down for the grand opening?’

‘Of course!’ Cara said at once.

Luke shot his sister a loaded look, and Mum caught it and
turned to me.

‘That would be great,’ I said quickly, before she could read
anything sinister into Luke’s concern.

‘Fabulous! And in return, you must all come to Hollythwaite in
September. I’m hosting a wedding fair there!’

‘Ooooooh,’ said Cara at once.

I held up a hand. ‘Hang on. I’m lost. Isn’t the house for
sale, Mum? And aren’t you going into wedding
planning
, not exhibitions?’

‘I had a better idea. I’ve been dying to tell you, but I
wanted to wait until it was all set up and I could invite you to a proper
event.’

‘Tell me what?’

‘I’m keeping the old pile to hire it out as a venue! I’ve
moved into the old lodge at the front gates, and the big house has been spruced
up. I started marketing the venue two months ago: weddings, conferences,
exhibitions. There’s been a great deal of interest. I’m even in talks with the
Girl Guides to host a jamboree on the grounds – imagine that, tents everywhere!’

‘Wow,’ said Cara. ‘That sounds amazing!’

I shot her a look. She missed it. So did my mother.

‘Thanks, Cara,’ said Mum. ‘And of course you’re welcome to
exhibit your designs at the wedding fair. You can have a free stand.’

Cara’s squeal said it all.

I exchanged looks with Luke, and he touched his leg to mine
under the table.

‘So,’ said Mum, turning to me. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think you’re an inspiration,’ I said.

She really was. Here, sitting in the garden of the cottage
with my boyfriend and my friends, radiating energy. I remembered well the last
time she’d sat on this patio almost a year ago now, perched demurely on the
edge of her seat in her formal dress, lipstick-stained mouth pursed at my
lacking hostess skills, whiffs of gin wafting across with every self-absorbed,
emotional declaration she uttered. But now… well, she wasn’t perched, she was
settled right in; she wasn’t dressed for Ascot, she was dressed for the
seaside; she wasn’t pouty, she was smiley; and it was a mocktail she was
sipping as she laughed and questioned and listened and engaged. Were it not for
her stiletto heels, I’d barely have recognised her.

She caught me looking at her and gave me a little private
smile as if to say
, Don’t worry, darling. I won’t let you down again.
Then
she said hopefully, ‘So you’ll come in September? To the fair?’

I hesitated. I couldn’t go, theoretically. Hollythwaite was
beyond the Devonshire border that Ceruleans couldn’t cross. But there was only
one way to test that ‘fact’.

‘Yes,’ I said.

She clapped her hands. ‘That calls for another round of
Cara’s mocktails, surely?’

Cara sashayed off to work her magic, Luke cleared the plates
– refusing all offers of help – leaving Si and Mum and me to watch the
afternoon’s entertainment: Chester chasing his tail.

‘Scarlett,’ said my mother suddenly, ‘is it me, or is the
cottage whiter than before?’

I sat upright. The fire – she had no idea about the fire.
She mustn’t find out; she’d be so upset.

‘Yes,’ I said slowly, buying time. ‘Luke did some work on
the cottage.’

‘Really? You never mentioned that. Why did he do that?’

‘Oh, er…’ In casting about for something to say I caught
Si’s eye and remembered his earlier point that the best lies are the closest to
the truth. ‘There was smoke damage,’ I said. ‘Woodworm, you see. I called in
exterminators, and they smoked it all out. Only the smoke made a right mess.
Luke turned sorting it out into a bit of a project. Good practice for his cafe
renovation.’

‘Goodness,’ said Mum. ‘It must be nice to have a chap who’s
a dab hand at DIY. Hugo was terrible, you know. Once tried to put up a shower rail
in the bathroom for me. Only he couldn’t work the drill, so he used superglue.
Which he got all over his hands. Which he then wiped with toilet paper. He had
double-quilted fingertips for a week.’

We all laughed, none more so than Mum, who had to wipe her
eyes to clear the tears.

‘After that, he got William – he’s our groundskeeper, Si –
to take on all the handiwork. Thinking of it, I could send him down here for a
few days, if you like, Scarlett? To help in the cottage?’

‘It’s all done, thanks, Mum.’

‘Oh well. The cafe, then? How about that?’

‘You’d have to ask Luke, but I reckon he’d jump at the offer
of a helping hand.’

Mum beamed. ‘I’ll speak to him about it then.’ She turned
her gaze back to her childhood home. ‘It really does look smart now. Just like
I remember it from my younger days. Dad was so house-proud – an Englishman’s
home is his castle, as they say.’

I caught my breath. Mum so rarely talked about Grandad…

‘I was always offering to hire help, but he was so stubborn.
Did it all himself.’ She smiled fondly at the thought.

‘Sounds like a typical born-and-bred Twycomber,’ said Si
smoothly.

I slanted a look at him. He was the very picture of
innocence. I looked at Mum. Would she take the bait?

‘Oh no,’ said Mum, ‘my father wasn’t from here originally.’

‘Really?’ said Si. ‘Where was he from?’

She frowned. ‘Do you know, I’m not sure I know exactly. Now
my mother, she was from Plympton. We would go to visit my grandmother there –
Grannie Martha, Scarlett; she died when I was ten so you never knew her. But
Dad. Was it somewhere on Dartmoor?’ She thought for a moment and then threw her
hands up in the air. ‘Nope, it’s gone. He just wasn’t one to talk about
himself.’

Si was opening his mouth to speak again, but I stepped in.
Now he’d created the opportunity, it felt only right that I be the one to ask.

‘Did you know your grandparents on Grandad’s side, Mum? I
mean, I don’t remember them.’

Mum was shaking her head. ‘You wouldn’t, love. They died
long ago – before I was even born, I think. Another one of those things my
father didn’t like to talk about. Just too painful, I suppose.’ Her eyes
clouded over, and I knew she was thinking of Sienna then, the lost member of
our family whom neither of us had mentioned all day.

Then Cara was stepping back outside calling ‘Mocktails!’ and
Mum was breaking into a smile and I caught Si’s eye and shook my head to
indicate that we were done here. Finding out about my grandfather wasn’t worth
dredging up painful thoughts for my mother.

*

Mum had to head back to Hollythwaite by four o’clock – she
was expecting company this evening – so after another quick round of drinks
Cara and Si and Luke said their goodbyes, leaving us with an hour or so alone
together.

We stayed in the garden for a while, basking in the unexpected
warmth of the day. Mum took out her iPad and showed me the website she’d had
designed to market Hollythwaite as a venue. I could see at once the estate
would be an attractive proposition for event organisers. No longer was it the
oppressive, cold home of my childhood; Mum’s vision and substantial budget had
obliterated every vestige of gloom. Only one room remained unchanged, and it
was closed to anyone who hired the venue: Sienna’s bedroom.

‘I know it’s silly,’ said Mum. ‘But I just couldn’t bear to touch
it. I did clear out some of her things, though. Goodness that girl had a lot of
clothes – more than I ever did, I think.’

I smiled at her. Sadly. I wanted to ask her how she was
coping now with her grief. But I didn’t think I could stand to hear the answer.
Whatever it was, it would convey that Mum was still hurting, would always be
hurting, over the death of her daughter. And the thought of her pain stoked a
fire of raging fury against Sienna.

Thankfully, Mum seemed to sense I didn’t want to talk. She
reached over and placed a hand over mine and said with feeling, ‘Thank you for
inviting me here.’

‘Thank you for coming,’ I replied sincerely.

Had the day ended there, I’d have always looked back on it
as a memorable one for me and Mum, our little family of two. Not least for the
fact that we were able to be together and genuinely happy in a way neither of
us had ever been before. But ultimately, it was the last few minutes of the
visit that would always stand out most in my recollection of that day.

We’d gone into the house for Mum to freshen up before her
journey back, and she’d taken a tour of the same-but-different cottage. Back in
the hallway, ready to kiss me goodbye at the front door, she’d paused before a
picture on the wall – a large, bold, bright canvas that emitted a strong scent
of acrylic paint.

‘Scarlett, this is new,’ she said. ‘Where did you get it
from?’

‘A friend painted it.’

‘Jude – that boy from the hospital with the tattoo on his
arm?’

It was my turn to be confused; why think of Jude? I shook my
head. ‘No, a friend of Jude’s.’

‘What is this friend’s name?’

I pointed to the signature in the corner.

She squinted at it, ‘Oh,’ she said as she made out the name
for herself:
Michael
. But she was still frowning.

I looked at the painting too, trying to decipher what may
have upset her. It looked innocuous enough to me. Beautiful, in fact, if a
little dark. It was abstract, so open to interpretation. I saw three layers to
the work. At the bottom, a row of black silhouettes – a man, a child, a woman
and another child standing on a hill hand in hand. The next, a vast, swirling
storm in reds and purples in which some kind of creature was caught up – a
bird, I thought. And the last, a strip at the top, sitting serenely above the
clouds, depicting a silvery sky peppered with pinpoints of light, some random,
some clustered into constellations.

Mum reached out and touched a group of white dots and said, ‘“Silently,
one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the
forget-me-nots of the angels…”’

‘Blake?’ I asked. According to my father, his side of the
family was descended from William Blake, the Romantic poet, and I’d grown up
with lines quoted at me regularly. Though come to think of it, it was Father
who did that – never Mum.

‘No,’ she said, ‘not Blake. An American poet called Henry
Wadsworth Longfellow.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I don’t know his works.’

‘Neither do I. Only those two lines, and the title of the
poem they’re from.’

‘Oh,’ I said again. There didn’t seem much else to say.

Mum looked at me and smiled. ‘Seeing this picture, being
back in this cottage, all our conversations today about family – it made me
remember those lines. Your grandfather would recite them sometimes, standing
out in the garden and looking up at a starry sky. Once I asked him why he
looked so sad as he said the words. He told me that poem made him think of his
mother, whom he’d lost. You were asking earlier about your great-grandparents.
Well, I’m afraid that’s all I know.’

‘Er, I’m a bit confused,’ I said. What did starry skies have
to do with my grandfather’s parents?

‘Sorry,’ said Mum. ‘That picture’s completely thrown me. I
mean the poem’s title. “Evangeline.” That was your great-grandmother’s name.’

I stared at her. So she did hold the answer after all. That
was it, the proof I’d been seeking. Enough proof to confront Evangeline? It was
hard to think with Mum still talking…

‘And that’s why, for your grandfather, I decided to name you
Scarlett Eve. I thought he would like it. Though I don’t think he ever
commented on it. But your father certainly did! I really had to fight him over
that name.’ Her eyes drifted back to the painting.

‘Father?’ I said, bemused. ‘Why – what’s wrong with Eve?’

‘I don’t know. He just hated the name.’

‘But didn’t Father have an Aunt Eve he was fond of? I
thought I was named after her.’

Mum started. ‘Who? Oh, her. Yes, that’s right. Your… Hugo
did have an Aunt Eve. I must be getting muddled. Old age – ha ha!’

Before I could say another word, she was pulling me in for a
breath-defying hug and saying heartily, ‘Well, I must be off, darling. But I’ll
see you soon! For the wedding fair! Hooray!’

And moments later I was alone in a shadowy hallway but for
the lingering scent of Mum’s Chanel No. 5 and a strangely revelatory painting.