The Secret Art of Forgiveness (6 page)

There was a noise outside, below her room. A thud. Two.

What the hell?
Emily held her breath, wondering what to do.

Then she heard the creak of the big front door and voices.

Strange.

Was The Judge up and about already? Who was he talking to?

‘Judge? Judge, is that you?' she called out. Then clamped her lips together. What if it wasn't The Judge?

Myriad horror scenes flooded her head.

‘Too many zombie movies, you stupid cow,' she whispered, as she crept out of bed and tiptoed down the two flights of stairs. ‘It'll be fine. Just a cat… or something.'

Investigating the noise was a sure-fire way of meeting a grisly end. But what else could she do?

There was a definite chill in the air, as if someone had let a gust of snow through the house, and muffled voices coming from the kitchen. She followed them.

Through the crack in the door she could see The Judge, dressed in a flimsy, overlarge, collared shirt that would have given his Savile Row tailors nightmares, and ancient khaki shorts. Another man had his back to the door, but from what she could see he was very tall with short hair, and dressed all in black.
Like a cat burglar.

Who the heck was he? And why was he here at this time in the morning? Her fists curled by her sides.

If this was someone taking advantage of a confused old man she'd throw everything she had at them. She looked down at her empty hands. She wouldn't be much of a threat like this. Glancing around, she found an old boot by the door, which she picked up ready to fling if necessary, and another bucket, sitting underneath yet another crack in the ceiling. The whole house seemed to be about to crumble.

‘Judge? What's going on?' She strode into the room, aware that she probably didn't look terribly menacing in her sparkly
I heart New York
T-shirt and Daisy Duke Denim shorts, brandishing a single, moss-green wellington boot – but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. She snarled at the stranger's back. ‘Who are you?'

‘I might ask you the very same thing.' The man turned around and stared at her – a long, slow burn taking in her bed hair and T-shirt, her legs, which incidentally felt pretty naked – his eyes widened. Suspicion curled around his tone.

And, whoa. Not a cat burglar at all, but a tall, quite broad man who looked like an extra from a James Bond movie with his all-black get-up outlining honed muscles, and short, mussed-up, blond hair.

She wasn't scared by him. She probably should have been, but she wasn't.
He
was trespassing, after all, not her. ‘I'm Emi – actually, what has it got to do with you?'

His voice was stone. ‘Judge Evans is a friend of mine and I've never seen you before. Who are you?'

Hey, she was family not him. ‘I'm his… er… daughter.'

‘No, you're not. I know Matilda and Tamara and you're neither of them. Believe me, I'd have remembered meeting you.' And he didn't mean that in a good way if the frown over his penetrating blue eyes was anything to go by.

They made her feel just a little on edge. Okay, a lot on edge. ‘I'm Emily. The one no one mentions.'

‘No one mentions her because she doesn't exist. Let's ask your daddy, shall we?' He leaned over towards The Judge, eyes glinting, and pointed at her. ‘Judge –'

She tried to stop him. ‘Oh, you… you think you're being clever, don't you? We both know he's –'

‘Judge Evans, excuse me, sir, but can you tell me who this lady is?' And of course his voice was melt-in-your-mouth polite to The Judge.

The Judge peered at her with rheumy, sunken eyes and frowned. ‘Can't say I know, to be honest.'

‘Is she your daughter?'

‘Oh, no. I don't have… Oh, wait… yes. Yes! I know you.'

Emily snarled at the intruder. ‘See?'

‘Yes… you're… someone. Now… who? Oh, yes. The cook.' The old man smiled, clearly pleased he'd passed the test. ‘Have either of you seen Chip? The little bugger's disappeared on me again.'

The intruder shook his head and bobbed down in front of the old man, his voice a damned sight softer than when he was talking to Emily. ‘Judge Evans, I'm sorry, but Chip's gone, I'm afraid. Remember?'

‘Gone? Oh, yes… I remember now. The car? That's right. He was run over. Rum old state of affairs. Poor bugger never had a chance.'

The man shook his head. ‘I know.' Then he uncoiled to his full, too-tall height and turned to Emily, holding out his hand, all softness gone. ‘The cook? Is that what you told him? I've heard about people like you. I need to see some ID.'

‘So do I.' She did the same with her hand. And there they were in stalemate, eyes locked in a game of who the hell would back down first.

For the record, it wasn't going to be her.

Just as her arm was beginning to shake with waiting he blew out a breath and fished his wallet out. ‘Here. Here's my ID. Jacob Taylor. I live next door.'

‘The Lawsons' old place?'

He nodded, eyebrows rising. ‘Yes.'

‘So if you know Tam and Tilda and The Judge, then surely one of them would have mentioned I was coming here?'

‘I haven't seen Tamara or Matilda for weeks. I've been away for work, flew back in this morning. Luckily, I did, otherwise God knows where The Judge would have ended up.' It was more growl than conversational. Oh, she did not like this man at all. ‘Now, your ID? Miss?' He glanced at her left hand, nodding as he saw the diamond. ‘Miss…?'

It was none of his business.

‘You're not the police. This is my house.' Kind of, in a roundabout way. She put her hands on her hips. ‘I don't need to show you anything.'

‘Well, I'm not leaving until I see something that says who you are, or have someone vouch for you.'

She could hardly say,
pop down to the village and find someone called Greta who has kids and a husband and a café, she knew me twelve years ago
, and finding anyone else in Little Duxbury to vouch for her at this time in the morning would be nigh on impossible, and she so wanted this obnoxious man to be gone. ‘Okay. Okay. Just wait here.'

She was back within minutes, panting after taking the rickety stairs two at a time. ‘Here. My passport. I used to live here, with The Judge and now I live in New York. Fine? Am I allowed back into my own kitchen?
Sir?
'

He still didn't look convinced but he snapped the passport shut and gave it back to her. ‘Well, if it is your house perhaps you can spend a bit of time and effort fixing it up. It's falling apart and your
sisters
don't appear to be interested.'

‘Step.'

He blinked. ‘Sorry?'

‘Stepsisters, stepfather. My mum married their dad… a long time ago. Then she died and I was… Well, I'm sure they're doing their best under the circumstances.' And wow, those words coming out of her mouth surprised her, but who was he to come in here telling her what to do and criticising her… her family?

That thought was a swift blow to her solar plexus. Just because she'd come here, it didn't mean she was part of anything. She was just helping out.

He lowered his voice. ‘Where I come from, family isn't about blood and we look after our own. Judge Evans needs more care than they're giving him.'

‘Well, I'm here now so things will get done.' And there was a curl of panic in the pit of her stomach, but she wasn't going to give in to it.

He carried on as if what she was saying was of no consequence. ‘It's Sunday, so it's Tilda's night. They take it in turns; half a week each and Marion, the sitter, on Saturday. Which, surely you'd know, if you were really their sister. Step or otherwise.'

‘There was something about a carer breaking her leg and Tilda and Tamara had to go to Paris to be with Sylvie – their mother. She needs an operation. So here I am. Not that I have to explain anything to you.' She shrugged and turned to The Judge to indicate to Mr No Social Skills that the conversation was over. Although, as he appeared to be the only person able to give her any inside information on The Judge, he was probably worth mining for information. ‘Actually, about The Hall, you were saying it needs fixing…?'

Judging by his pained expression she probably didn't want to hear his answer. ‘The roof is rotten and if it's not fixed the whole place will fall down in the next big downpour we have. As regards The Judge, Tamara is very bossy and treats him like a naughty child instead of stimulating him. He can't live here on his own any more. In fact…' The intruder gestured to her to follow him into the hallway. ‘I can't say this in front of Judge Evans, but he gets quite confused and goes wandering. He's going to hurt himself or worse. He's a good man and I'd hate to see that happen to him.'

Emily sighed, inwardly. She'd come here thinking all she had to do was make the odd cup of tea and provide a pencil for his crossword, perhaps pull a rug over his knees and finally make amends. Some fresh country air, and time out to think about Brett and their future.

Not… not policing a frail old man and mending a broken house.

Suddenly the enormity of what she'd taken on started to become clearer. She didn't even know how to climb a ladder safely, never mind build a roof… or whatever you did to make roofs watertight. How could she fix things with The Judge when he didn't even know who she was? She didn't have nursing skills; that much was proven when her mum died and Emily had utterly fallen apart. Working twenty-four hours in a day didn't bother her, and neither did the prospect of dealing with two hundred sex-obsessed dogs, but where illness and death were concerned she didn't have coping strategies, she just panicked. Because serious illness, in her experience, meant death. And she didn't know if she could face that again.

She could feel that panic start to rise a little. But she wasn't going to let anyone see that, least of all this stranger. ‘Well, yes, that's why I'm here. I'm going to fix things.'

‘I hope you've got deep pockets and that New York can spare you for a good few months then, because this won't be an easy fix. Don't think you can just shove him into a home. He might be prone to confusion, but he's a stubborn old bugger when he's lucid, so he's not going to budge from Duxbury Hall, that's for sure.'

‘We'll be fine. Thank you. We'll manage.' Somehow. There was his pension, his retirement money and surely he had savings. She just needed to clarify things with Tam and Tilda. ‘You don't have to worry anymore.'
Or interfere.
‘I'll work it out.'

‘Well, that'll make a nice change from your sisters. They couldn't manage a piss-up in a brewery.' Shaking his head he glanced at his watch. ‘This hasn't exactly been the best start to my day.'

Nor mine, to be honest.

But she suspected he wouldn't be interested in anything else she had to say.

***

‘Okay, Judge. Breakfast's ready. Finally. Come eat and let's have a chat, too.' What she really meant was,
let's do this getting-to-know-you thing
. He'd seemed a little more lucid this morning, not truly back to his old pernickety self, but a step closer. So it was time to find out more about him and what he needed.

After the early-morning start, she'd ushered him towards the bathroom and he'd emerged almost clean-shaven, but his hair was still too long and a little matted. He definitely
looked
a lot more like The Judge of old, just a little as if someone had opened a valve and let a lot of air out. He was too skinny and his clothes hung off him. ‘Let's eat here, shall we? I don't think we need to take it into the dining room. That table's far too big for the two of us. We'd have to shout across to each other.'

Emily put the laden plates down on the kitchen table, making sure he had everything he needed close to hand.

He nudged the food around the plate, peering at it over his half-moon glasses. ‘Okay, yes, my dear. Why not? I like it in here.'

‘Me, too. We always used to eat in the big dining room, but it's much cosier in here.' She'd always liked the comfort of the large kitchen with its warm baking smells and washing drying on wooden racks overhead. Unlike anyone else she knew, they'd had a housekeeper, hired after her mum had died to cook and keep the place clean, and Emily had sought solace from the comfort of informality in here. Often she'd sneak in and just sit at the big old table and wish with all her heart that it was her mum kneading the dough or peeling the potatoes.

So many times she'd wished she could rewind the clock and be with her mum right here again. Just once. She'd tell her everything she wished she'd told her then instead of taking her for granted – because in Emily's youthful, innocent eyes no one would ever be unlucky enough to lose both parents. She'd thought she'd have her mum for ever.

Her throat filled with a rush of sadness – she'd loved her mum; her mother had doted on her until her marriage to The Judge and Emily knew she'd tried after that, too. Their hours in here together had been filled with laughter and shared jokes but they would never have that again.

She swallowed hard and looked round the room. It was a pity that while she'd been in here all those times she'd never actually paid any attention to how to cook anything.

Or how to use the ancient Aga. What the heck was that about? There were no instructions so she'd had to work it out – switching it on was the first problem, then a long, slow wait for it to heat. Now she was starving and had only managed just-about-cooked, but too-hungry-to-care food.

God, she'd taken the New York twenty-four-hour culture for granted. Pizza at four in the morning? No problem. Cheesecake for breakfast? Be our guest
.
Here, it was a case of rummaging around to see what scraps she could find.

The Judge glanced up at her, pale-blue eyes wide. ‘They let you eat in the dining room? With them? What kind of people were they? Letting the cook eat with the family? I've never heard such a thing.'