Falling for You (32 page)

The only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, a brass carriage clock that Kerr remembered from his childhood. Under any other circumstances, his automatic reaction might have been to say to his mother, “You're joking.” But since she clearly wasn't, he was silent.

“That look on your face, Kerr,” said Pauline McKinnon. “That's why I've never told you. God, I thought deathbed confessions were meant to make you feel better. I
really
want a drink now.”

Kerr looked at his brother. Den was standing there, by the window, with tears sliding down his thin cheeks.

“Tell me what happened,” Kerr said slowly, but Den was incapable of speech. He shrugged and shook his head.

“We'd been to Evelyn Pargeter's cocktail party.” Pauline's voice came out as a monotone. “I'd had a few drinks, but I felt OK. When we left the party, I told Den I'd be fine to drive. We reached Ashcombe and I rounded the bend too fast, hit the girl—well, that was it. There was nothing we could do for her. She was dead. Then I realized what this would do to
me
. I was a justice of the peace, remember. Pillar of the community. I knew I'd fail a breath test. I just couldn't bear it, couldn't
bear
it.” She faltered, shaken by the memory. “But Den hadn't been drinking, and I thought it wouldn't be so bad for him. He was only seventeen. Any punishment would be so much easier for him to handle. I was in shock after it happened. And that was it,” Pauline whispered. “Den loved me. We were always so close, I knew he'd understand. I told him to say he'd been driving. And he did. It was our secret. I wasn't proud of myself, but I couldn't face the prospect of going to prison. Losing my license for drunk driving. Killing a sixteen-year-old girl. I thought it would be easier for Den. I'm sorry.” She closed her eyes in defeat. “I was wrong, I know that now. I knew it then, but I couldn't help myself. And I've been punishing myself ever since. I might just as well have taken the blame and killed myself there and then. Anything would have been better than living through the last eleven years, I can promise you that. So you see, I'm glad I'm going to die. In fact, I can't wait.”

Kerr was having trouble digesting this. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“It was our secret, Den's and mine.” Pauline shook her head. “You would never have allowed Den to go to prison.”

This was true. Jesus, what had Den
been
through, to protect his mother? Was it any wonder he'd disappeared to Australia?

“I was wrong,” Pauline blurted out. “I should never have done it. I'll make a statement to the police.”

“You're about to die,” Den said baldly. “What good would that do?”

His mother looked at him. “It'll clear your name.”

“Can they rewind the tape and stop me going to prison? Because otherwise, I don't see the point.”

“There's nothing I can do to take that away.” Tears were running down Pauline's face now, dripping into the folds of her cream cardigan. “I just needed to see you again, to let you know how truly sorry I am. I always loved you so much. I don't suppose you love me, but thank you for coming back. It means more than you'll ever know.”

* * *

It was three o'clock in the morning. In the living room of Hillview, Kerr opened two more bottles of chilled Beck's and handed one to Den.

“I feel like a ton weight has been lifted off me,” Den said for the fifteenth time that night. Shaking his head in wonderment, he stretched out along the length of the sofa and crossed one foot over the other. “You have no idea how it feels, somebody else knowing at last.
You
knowing at last. If someone had asked me yesterday if I could forgive my mother for what she did, I'd have laughed and said never in a million years. But now…I don't know. I can almost think about it. Because she's dying, and that's what she wants, isn't it? Forgiveness.”

“I suppose.” Kerr couldn't believe the change in his brother in the space of just a few short hours. He couldn't stop looking at Den, his eyes brighter now, his whole body seemingly more alive. “You should have told me. I can't believe that you didn't tell me after it happened.”

“Straight after the accident, I was in a state of shock,” said Den. “None of it seemed real. It didn't occur to me that I'd end up actually going to jail. After a while I began to panic, but by then it was too late. I realized that if I did try to tell them that Mum had been driving that day, they wouldn't believe me. And there'd be no proof if she denied it, just her word against mine—the respected JP versus the seventeen-year-old rebel.” He pulled a wry face. “Of course they'd believe her. Anyone would. And I'd just come out of it looking worse, even more despicable, than ever.”

This was true. Kerr felt terrible, recalling how he had regarded Den even while he'd been visiting him in prison. No wonder his younger brother had been sullen and uncommunicative during their meetings. No wonder Den had told him not to bother anymore.

“You never told
anyone
,” Kerr burst out, appalled by the injustice of it all.

“I lied to Mum. I did tell someone once.” Tipping his head back, Den took a swallow of beer. “A girl I met in Canberra. Moira, her name was. Pretty girl. We started seeing each other. Anyway, one night we got to talking about my life in England, where I'd grown up, that kind of thing. I told her about the accident, sticking to the official version. She was horrified. Well, basically, I was a bit drunk and I could see I was losing her. So I panicked and told her the truth. What really happened. Disaster,” he announced with a shudder. “I saw Moira's face change as I was saying it. Then she called me pathetic, said I was a bullshitter and a sad, desperate loser. We were sitting in a restaurant at the time. Moira walked out on me, between the starter and the main course. And that was it. I never saw her again. So much for being honest. I learned my lesson after that.”

“No more telling the truth,” said Kerr.

“No more women.” Den shook back his hair. “None I cared about, anyway. I'm not saying I was celibate, but I made bloody sure I never got emotionally involved.” He paused. “How about you?”

Kerr was tempted to tell him everything but couldn't bring himself to do it. How would it sound?
OK, so you've suffered in your own way, but hey, I've suffered too. Don't think you're the only one who's had his life fucked up by what happened.
No, that would be just…cheap. It wasn't a competition. It may have felt over the last few weeks that his life had been well and truly fucked up, but compared with what Den had been forced to endure—

“Do the Harveys still live in Ashcombe?” asked Den.

“Um, yes.” Kerr nodded. “Apart from the father. Robert Harvey died a few years ago.”

“God, what that family have been through.” Yawning, Den finished the last of his beer and hauled himself upright. “I'm shattered. It's been a hell of a day.”

“You can say that again.” Kerr rose to his feet too. After a moment's hesitation—because it wasn't something they were accustomed to doing—he gave Den an emotional hug. “I still can't believe it. I've got my brother back.”

“You think that's weird.” Den's smile was crooked. “For the first time in eleven years, I'm going to be sleeping in my old room. Any idea what happened to all my old M. C. Hammer records, by the way?”

At seventeen he had been devoted to M. C. Hammer. Bracing himself for outrage, Kerr said, “I think they went to a charity shop.”

“What was I thinking?” Den shook his head with heartfelt relief. “You're sure they've all gone? Thank God for that.”

* * *

“I can't,” said Pauline, afraid. “That's blackmail.”

“So? It's what I want you to do,” Den said evenly. “You have to. It's only fair. You owe me that much at least.”

Pauline closed her eyes. Her eyelids, flickering with anxiety, were paper-thin. She looked defeated and dreadfully ill.

“Don't make me do it. Please.”

“Listen to yourself.” There was an edge of irritation to Den's voice as he paced up and down his mother's room. “This isn't about
you
anymore. I'm asking you to do this for
me
, and I happen to think I deserve it.”

“But—”

“I'll wait outside,” said Den. “You just get on and do what you have to.” As he turned for the door, he added over his shoulder, “I'll be back in twenty minutes.”

Den spent the twenty minutes sitting on a bench beneath a vast cedar tree in the grounds of the nursing home, telling himself he wasn't being unreasonable. OK, so Kerr now knew the truth, but it wasn't enough. And their mother was dying, so what difference did it make to her? He hadn't talked this over with Kerr, but he knew he'd understand.

A pretty nurse passed by, pushing one of the ancient residents along in a wheelchair. Glancing across at Den, she smiled shyly at him. So preoccupied that he didn't even notice until too late, Den watched the nurse's back view as she headed on up the path. Maybe, once everything was sorted out, he'd feel normal enough to think of forming a proper relationship. Over the past years, not allowing himself to get involved had become second nature to him. Fear of rejection had left its mark.

Right, time was up. Back to his mother's room. If she hadn't done what he'd instructed her to do—well, she just better had, that's all.

“Finished?” Den said brusquely.

His mother's eyes were dull, their whites yellowed, her shoulders slumped back against the pillows in resignation. Prodding at the envelope on her writing tray, she indicated that Den should take it.

“I'll just check what you've written.” He pulled out the sheet of cream writing paper and rapidly scanned the contents before nodding with satisfaction. “Good. You see? I knew you could do it.”

“It hasn't happened yet,” Pauline croaked. “It may not happen.”

“Oh, yes, it will.” Den tucked the all-important letter back into the envelope. “After coming this far? Don't worry, I'll make sure it does.”

As the taxi pulled into Ashcombe, Den reached instinctively for his dark glasses. One thing he would never forget was the look on Marcella Harvey's face when she had stared at him across the courtroom during the trial.

And who could blame her?

It was four o'clock on a blisteringly hot Thursday afternoon. Apart from the usual groups of mainly foreign tourists meandering along Main Street, the town was fairly quiet. There was no one around whom Den recognized, but his heart was in his mouth nevertheless as the taxi driver slowed the car.

“This is it then,” said the driver. “Where d'you want me to stop?”

Where indeed? When you were public enemy number one, discretion was the key.

“Pull into the pub parking lot.” Den nodded at the entrance on the right, then twisted around to gaze back across the street at Snow Cottage. Did Marcella still live there? Kerr had said the Harveys were still here in Ashcombe, but who was to say they hadn't moved house?

The next moment his question was answered as the front door swung open and a small girl raced out, a brown-and-white terrier at her heels. The girl, who was around seven or eight, had skin the color of milky coffee, huge dark eyes, and hair braided in cornrows. She was wearing pale green shorts, turquoise sandals, and a baggy red T-shirt. As Den watched, the girl slammed the front door behind her, jiggled the terrier's leash, and headed off up the street with the dog in tow.

Well, that was good news, at least. He was pleased to see that Marcella had had a daughter of her own.

“OK.” Den handed the envelope, now sealed, over to the taxi driver. “Just post this through the letterbox of that cottage over there.”

The taxi driver, who had seen it all in his time, said wryly, “Come at you with a saucepan, would she, if you tried it?”

“At the very least,” Den agreed.

The taxi driver nodded sagely. “Restraining order?”

“Something like that,” said Den.

“Not going to get me into trouble, is it?” The man was running his podgy fingers over the envelope, surreptitiously checking for wires.

“Don't worry.” Den smiled. “It's not a bomb.”

As the taxi driver headed across the road, Den realized he was being watched. For a split second he panicked, wondering if he'd been recognized—but it was OK, no one he knew. The girl, in her late twenties, had reddish-brown hair and real curves. Glad of his dark glasses—thanks to them, she didn't know that in return he was studying her—Den admired the way the girl's bottom filled her jeans. Having just emerged from the Angel, she was watching him from the doorway, clearly wondering what he was doing there in the parking lot when the pub was closed.

Did that mean she worked there?

The next moment, the girl had turned left and headed off up the road, out of sight. Something in the pit of Den's stomach went
twaaang
, dimly recalling the memory of how it felt to be attracted to someone. Anyway, too late now. Across the street, the taxi driver had posted the envelope through the letterbox of Snow Cottage and was making his way back to the parking lot.

“Right, job done,” he told Den. “Where to now?”

Where to indeed? Without thinking, Den almost said, “Home.” Instead, clearing his throat, he said, “Back to Hillview.”

* * *

Sophie, returning from the mini-supermarket with fifty pence worth of sweets in a paper bag, let herself into the cottage. Zigzagging between her feet, Bean homed in on the envelope on the mat. Post was one of Bean's all-time favorite things. Launching herself joyfully at the letter, she nuzzled it with her nose, scrabbled furiously with her front paws, and finally managed to clamp it between her teeth. Now that she'd captured it, she could wrestle it to death, tearing it to messy shreds and—

“
Bad
dog,” Sophie said severely, grabbing the envelope from Bean in the nick of time and whisking it out of reach. “Mustn't do that to letters. No,” she scolded as Bean leaped up once more, “it's not
yours
.”

Turning it over, Sophie saw that it had Marcella Harvey written on the front. The handwriting was on the wobbly side, but that was OK. Sophie could still read it. Her own handwriting was pretty wobbly too.

“Dad?” Raising her voice, she ran upstairs and hammered on the bathroom door. Her father, with a casket to deliver, had finished work early to shower and change before driving over to Cheltenham.

Above the sound of gushing water, Jake shouted, “Yes?”

“There's a letter for Gran. I'm going to take it to her,” Sophie yelled back. She was allowed to visit Marcella's house on Holly Hill since there was no road crossing involved.

“What?”

She heard the shower door open inside the bathroom, enabling Jake to poke his head out and hear what she was saying.

“
Me
and
Bean
are going up to
Gran's
,” Sophie bellowed.

“OK. I'll be back by six,” said Jake. “I'll pick you up from there, then we'll go see Tiff at the hospital.”

“OK, see you!” Clapping her hands at Bean, Sophie galloped downstairs clutching the envelope. Delivering letters was easy; maybe she'd be a postman when she grew up.

* * *

Marcella had been out in the yard doing a spot of gentle pruning when Sophie arrived. Enveloping her beloved granddaughter in an enthusiastic hug and feeling her heart expand with love, Marcella wondered if holding a child of her very own could possibly feel better than this.

“Are those really sharp?” Beadily, Sophie eyed the shears in Marcella's hand. “Can I have a go?”

“In your dreams, sweetheart.” Tweaking the end of one of Sophie's braids, Marcella spotted the envelope and said, “What's that? Love letter from Tiff?”

“It's for you. See, it's got your name on it. What are you going to call the baby if it's a boy?” Sophie was extremely keen to be involved in the decision-making process. “How about Malfoy?”

“I thought we'd wait until it's born, then see what it looks like.” Taking the envelope, Marcella glanced at her name shakily inscribed on the front and headed over to the garden bench. “Where did you get this?”

“On the floor at home. The teeth marks are Bean's—I rescued it just in time. Can I have a cookie?” asked Sophie, because nobody kept a better supply of cookies in their house than Marcella.

“Hmm? OK, just the one.” Having opened the envelope, Marcella's eye slid automatically to the name at the bottom of the letter. It was like bouncing along happily on a cloud, then all of a sudden landing on a tangle of barbed wire. Marcella's breath caught in her throat and her heart began to race. She wondered if this was someone's idea of a sick joke.

But the wording of the letter seemed honest enough.

Dear Marcella,

Please don't ignore this letter. I have liver failure and very little time left to live. I need to speak to you before I die.

This is very important to me and will be to you too. Please come to Dartington House on Friday afternoon.

I'm so very sorry.

Once more, Marcella found herself gazing at the signature at the bottom of the page. It looked like the handwriting of someone hopelessly frail. Pauline McKinnon, no less. Close to death.
Saying
she
was
sorry
. Well, that was a first.

Without even realizing it, Marcella had risen from her seat and was busy deadheading roses. Needing something to do with her hands, she snipped away, doing her level best to block all thoughts of Pauline McKinnon from her—

“
Ouch
.” She snatched her left hand away as a thorn on one of the branches punctured her skin. A bead of blood welled up and Marcella sucked her finger, thinking that if she caught tetanus now, that would be the McKinnons' fault too.

Why the bloody hell should she go over to Dartington House anyway? What had her doctor told her about avoiding stress? And if seeing that woman again wasn't stressful, Marcella thought resentfully, she didn't know what was.

Then again, the woman was dying. Pauline McKinnon had lost her son as a result of the accident, albeit in a less final way than April had been taken from her own family.

And she had just said sorry.

Marcella, barefoot and still sucking her index finger, gazed around the sun-drenched garden she loved so much. Her hormones must be getting the better of her; at any other time she would have ripped Pauline McKinnon's letter to shreds and been stomping around the yard calling her the kind of names no granddaughter should ever overhear.

But as Sophie emerged from the kitchen and came racing across the grass toward her, Marcella found herself sliding the letter into the pocket of her white cotton shirt. Not that this meant she'd definitely be going along to the nursing home tomorrow; she simply hadn't yet made up her mind.

“I brought chocolate-buttercream cookies and Oreos, so you can have some too.” There were telltale chocolate marks around Sophie's mouth as she generously offered the opened bags to Marcella. Spotting the letter sticking out of her grandmother's shirt pocket and eager to divert attention from the number of cookies missing from the bag, Sophie said brightly, “Was it a birthday card?”

Marcella smiled. As far as Sophie was concerned, mail was either birthday cards or bills. “No, darling, it's not my birthday until November.”

Breaking an Oreo in half, Sophie surreptitiously fed it to Bean—who proceeded to chomp away in a very unsurreptitious manner. Rolling her eyes—and looking uncannily like Jake—she said sympathetically, “Another bill then, I suppose. Electricity?”

“Something like that,” said Marcella.

Maybe it hadn't been electricity, but it had certainly given her a shock.