Christmas at Butterfly Cove. Sarah Bennett

      ‘Yeah, anyway. We weren’t snooping, but we heard what Nee said, about leaving you being a mistake. She sounded pretty sincere to me. Can’t you at least give her a chance to explain?’

      A car approached, and they stepped onto the grass verge to let it pass. As soon as the road was clear again, Luke started walking. He didn’t want to think about the wedding. Didn’t want to think about how delicate and slight Nee had looked, the aching sorrow in her voice when she’d tried to talk to him. He heard Aaron’s footsteps behind him. Without looking around, he held up a hand in warning. ‘No more. The subject is closed.’

      He couldn’t give her a chance to explain, because then he’d have to admit to the true source of his anger – himself. For all his protestations, he didn’t care why she’d left. He just wanted her back. And what kind of an idiot did that make him?

       Chapter 3

      It had taken all her powers of persuasion, but Nee had eventually convinced Mia and Kiki she was the best person to travel home to help their dad. She’d made sure not to give any hint leaving Butterfly Cove was anything more than a temporary arrangement. A bit of space away from everyone would hopefully give her time to think, and to come up with a plan for what she would do now her art was lost to her.

      She had other reasons too. So many things had moved on whilst she was away, and running to catch up was exhausting. Her sisters had reached a compromise with their father over the past and were moving forwards. Nee had watched him at the wedding, especially with the little ones, and hadn’t been able to stifle a bite of jealousy when he’d balanced a laughing Charlie on his feet and danced around the marquee with her. She rolled her shoulders to shrug off the unwelcome reminder. Nee had never been a jealous person, never doubted her own worth and importance to the people in her life who mattered, until …

      The announcer called her station and she watched the people around her stand and sway their way between the seats towards the door. She remained seated. Her suitcase perched in the rack by the corridor door, hemmed in on all sides. What was it that made people so desperate to be first off? She’d never been on a train where people didn’t start queueing five minutes before arrival. Nor on a flight where someone didn’t pop their seatbelt open before the indicator light turned out. Once that first click sounded, a wave of others invariably rippled around the cabin. As if once one person had disobeyed the rules, it made it all right for them too. You could always spot the Brits in those situations by their guilty glances, as though they expected to be told off.

      The platform came into view through the window beside her and Nee watched the people crammed by the door and counted silently in her head, three, two, one … The train jerked to a halt as the driver applied the brake, sending one unprepared passenger staggering into the person in front of him. A domino ripple of bumps, pushes and glares followed. She shook her head. Every time. As soon as the crowd thinned, she slipped from her seat to join the back of the group, pausing to haul her case down from the rack as she passed it.

      A tall, dapper figure waited for her on the platform, and she couldn’t help the small smile on her lips. Rain or shine, George Thorpe would be dressed in his usual uniform of pressed trousers, smart shirt and a jacket or buttoned-up cardigan. Today, he’d added a black woollen coat and a dark, felt trilby hat. He moved towards her, then stopped, an uncertain expression on his face. He removed his hat, turning the brim in his hand in a nervous gesture. ‘Hello, Eirênê, how was your journey?’

      She popped up the handle on her rolling suitcase and closed the gap between them. ‘Fine, thanks.’ They did an awkward little dance when he tried to take the case from her, and she hung on to it. ‘Leave it, I can manage.’

      George shrugged awkwardly. ‘The car’s not far.’ He settled his hat upon his head, checking the brim was straight. No jaunty angles allowed.

      The silly thought made her smile, and she made sure he saw it as she gestured in front of her. ‘Lead on, MacDuff.’ He started a little at her words, and she frowned. It was one of those things she’d always said, picked up unconsciously from somewhere long ago. A memory tickled the back of her mind, of a smiling, happier-looking George lining his three daughters up in a row. Nee could feel herself bursting with pride at being put at the front of the line. ‘Lead on, Macduff!’ George had ordered, and they’d marched down the front path. Where they’d been going was lost to her now, but the long-discarded memory reminded her things hadn’t always been doom and gloom.

      Traffic was light, and they made quick progress through the town, the dark saloon purring through the streets. Gentle strains of classical music drifted from the speakers, negating the need for either of them to make much small talk. There was no denying the air of tension between them, though. Nee swallowed a sigh. Between her father’s natural reticence and her own resentment towards him, the next few days were likely to be a struggle. One of them would have to make the first move, and somehow, she couldn’t imagine it would be him. Time to break the ice.

      ‘Matty’s settling in well at school. Still a bit shy, Kiki says, but he’s coming out of his shell nicely. There’s even talk about him joining the local cubs. They’ve got a taster session coming up. The teashop opened last weekend, did you hear?’

      George drew to a halt at a set of lights and half-turned in his seat. ‘That was quick.’

      She nodded. ‘The conversion works didn’t take long, and we all pitched in with the decorating.’ She might not be able to find the inspiration to create something of her own, but she’d wielded a brush and roller easily enough. They’d found some pretty stencils at the local DIY store, and Nee had added bright, summer flowers and a spray of butterflies to one crisp, white wall. It was the closest she was likely to come to having anything of hers on display.

      Breaking away from those thoughts before she slipped into another spiral of melancholy, she continued the conversation, although George had turned his attention back to the road. ‘If the weather picks up next week, they might entice a few half-term visitors looking for a bite to eat. Mia’s guests are going to be directed there and there’s enough people using the studios to make it worth their while being open.’

      ‘Ah. That makes sense, I suppose. I’ve rather lost track of dates now I’m not working.’ His voice sounded a little wistful. George had left the job he loved at the local university, making way for Kiki’s ex-husband to succeed him, in exchange for his agreement to a trouble-free divorce. It had been a remarkable sacrifice for a man who’d attached his entire self-worth and image to his career. His passion for ancient Greece and its history had trumped everything, including the needs of his wife and daughters.

      ‘How are you coping with retirement, Dad?’ she asked as he turned into the driveway and parked before the smartly painted garage door. He didn’t immediately answer, choosing instead to exit the car. Nee sighed and followed him out. Perhaps she should have stuck to less difficult topics.

      Waiting whilst her dad retrieved her case from the boot, she studied the familiar red-brick edifice of her childhood home. Ruthlessly weeded borders sat beneath the front windows, and there was not a hint of moss on the path dividing the tightly clipped lawn. With its neat net curtains and tidy paintwork, it presented a perfect façade to the outside world. How many other houses in this quiet street hid the kind of dark secrets that lay behind the innocuous-looking front door? Letting George manage the burden of her luggage this time, she squared her shoulders and followed him inside.

      Braced for the floral-sweet scent of her mother’s perfume, and an onslaught of memories, Nee smelled only lemon furniture polish and the rich gravy of some kind of stew. It was as though the house had already shed Vivian’s presence. ‘You made dinner?’ George had never been one for that.

      He placed her case at the foot of the stairs, then hung his hat and coat on one of the hooks by the door. ‘I asked Wendy to make something nice for you. I thought you might be hungry.’ He raised a finger to her cheek, stopping just short of touching her skin. ‘You look tired, my dear.’

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