Page 72 of Forever, Maybe
She closed the kitchen door behind her just as he loaded the last of the crockery.
“Thanks for taking care of Mum.”
Sometimes, her husband was impossible to read. His slightly hunched shoulders spoke of a man carrying the weight of the world, but when he turned to face her, his expression wasn’t sad or weary—it was just… neutral.
“Look,” Danny began, his tone measured. “The supermarket pitch. I know it’s shitty timing. But if we land a slot, it’ll mean more nine-to-five days, more weekends and—”
She shook her head, cutting him off—not out of anger, but resignation. He was a good man, at heart. Kind. He’d only wanted her to feel good about herself. What was the point in recriminating him for it? What she needed now wasn’t answers or apologies, it was time. Time to think long and hard about what the next decades of her life were going to look like.
“I’m going to get up early tomorrow and drive Mum and Dad back home,” she said. “Stay down there for a while to help out.”
That means you’ll have plenty of time to cancel the London trip and focus on the supermarket pitch.The words sat on the tip of her tongue, but she bit them back. No sense in making a bad day even worse.
Danny held out a hand, his expression resigned. “Fine. If you give me the keys, I’ll fill your car wi’ petrol and check the tyres.”
Later, as Nell packed her suitcase, Bobby’s words from the day before drifted back, unbidden and unsettling.Love, I wasn’t going to say anything, but we ran into the Hardys a few days ago.
Since then, the mention of the Hardys had lodged itself in her subconscious, gnawing at the edges of her thoughts. Was she wrong? Did they deserve to know the truth, after all? If her father was right, and they were both elderly and unwell, time might be running out. What if they died without ever knowing?
But even as the idea took shape, doubts swirled. It was amighty big if,after all. What if she tracked them down while she was in Norfolk and told them what really happened in 1989? What then?
Try as she might, her imagination refused to supply her with an answer.
Chapter thirty-two
May2016
“You two are such lazy bumblebees!” Chrissie exclaimed, borrowing Mum’s gentler alternative to lazy bums.
It was the early May bank holiday, and she had the Monday off. Mikey was at home too, thanks to a rare stroke of luck from Lincolnshire Constabulary’s shift planners. The weather, however, had been far less obliging. In true British bank holiday fashion, the skies were a uniform slate grey, and the rain, which had started at seven that morning, showed no sign of letting up.
Her brother and dad were settled in the living room. Mikey was sprawled out on the dark grey velvet sofa, his black-and-red striped socked feet propped on one armrest, head resting on the other. Dad was in his matching recliner, a steaming cup of tea and a plate of biscuits perched on the table beside him, the TV flickering quietly in front of them.
“Something smells incredible, Chrissie!” Dad said, smiling up at her. “Let me know when you need me for the photos.”
His voice sounded cheery enough, but Chrissie’s insides gave an uneasy twist. Dad had been coughing a lot. He blamed it on his annual spring cold, but her spidey senses were on high alert. It had been at least fifteen days now, and there was that poster at the GP surgery:Any cough lasting more than three weeks should be checked out. The memory of it hung in her mind like a warning siren.
Her chest tightened at the thought of losing him so soon after Mum.
“I can take the photos,” she offered quickly.
Dad waved her off, glancing up again. “No, no, I’ll do it. It’s no trouble. I like being useful.”
Chrissie caught Mikey’s eye. He gave her a subtle nod. He wasn’t as anxious as she was, but they both understood how much their Dad needed to feel needed.
“It’ll be a while yet, Pops,” she said. “The cake needs at least an hour to cool before I can add the orange jelly layer, let it chill, then pour over the chocolate ganache.”
Mikey shot upright, sending the cushions under his legs flying across the room. “Are you making a giant Jaffa cake?”
“No!” Chrissie lied through her teeth.
“You are, you are, you are!” His face lit up as he clasped his hands in mock prayer, tilting his head to the ceiling. “Oh, thank you, Gods of the shift pattern! Blessings be upon you for arranging my day off—ontheday my sister bakes a giant Jaffa cake with my name on it!”
“Your name’s nowhere near it!” she shot back, her lips twitching.
He un-steepled his hands, turning to face her. “What if Dad could take a shot of me eating it? If he snaps me rolling my eyes in ecstasy, everyone will queue up to order that cake, promise, promise, promise!”
Chrissie rolled her eyes. God, he was annoying—in a nice way. Still, his idea wasn’t the worst. Mikey’s biological parents had blessed him with jackpot genes: sandy hair, wide-set green-blue eyes framed by cow-like lashes, freckled skin so clear it practically glowed and a big, easy smile that he flashed at almost everyone.
