Page 43 of Beyond Her Manner
“Yes.”
“I assumed you didn’t drink.”
“Why?” Viola asked, passing a steaming cup to her.
Gillian hesitated before saying, “Your past addiction. You drank orange juice at the pub.”
“Abuse, not addiction. There’s a big difference. I didn’t drink at the pub as I was driving, and it was lunchtime.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Gillian lowered her head, wishing she hadn’t mentioned it at all.
“Not that it’s not okay to drink at lunchtime,” Viola clarified, placing another cup under the spouts and pushing a button. “I have boundaries now, and it helps me to have a better relationship with alcohol. I used it in the past to help with myproblems. Not that it helps of course, it just masks… takes the edge off, for a short time at least.”
Taking her cup from the coffee machine, Viola gestured to a breakfast bar overlooking the parkland. “Shall we? I find this is my favourite place to sit now.”
“I think it would be mine, too,” Gillian agreed as something brushed against her leg, making her jump. Agatha launched herself onto the breakfast bar and proceeded to walk up and down it. “Oh, Agatha, where on earth did you come from?”
“I ask her that daily,” Viola said, sounding a bit vexed. “I’m careful when I open the doors, and I don’t leave windows open. It’s a bit of a mystery.”
Agatha continued her procession along the breakfast bar, ignoring anything in her way.
“Sorry.” Viola reached out to pick up Agatha, who was having none of it and scurried off out of reach.
“Don’t be. Technically she’s still my cat, even if she has moved out. Or not moved out. Whichever.” Gillian’s forehead furrowed.
“I get you,” Viola assured her, patting her arm and then leaving her hand resting there.
It was warm and soft against Gillian’s skin, a gentle touch that shot a wave of comfort through her. It wasn’t unwelcome, yet it stirred feelings again in her that she didn’t want to think about, let alone deal with. It made her wonder why Viola was still touching her. She was quite hands-on at times, though recalling those situations it was more likely to be a supportive gesture. The tender nudges, playful smiles, and little digs she couldn’t ignore. Could they be construed as flirting, or was she so out of touch that she was reading too much into it all?
“Honestly, this kitchen is a work of art,” Gillian said, hoping to turn her internal monologue off by talking over it.
“My mum chose the style and helped a lot with the layout,” Viola said, looking behind her. “It’s gutting that she never got to see the finished article and only saw it on a screen. It evokes a lot of memories from her final days.” Her voice faltered. “It’s beautiful because it’s hers, but it’s also a constant reminder that she’s gone.”
Gillian realised then that the kitchen was a tribute to Viola’s loss, with each carefully chosen detail serving as a silent echo of her mother’s influence, now immortalised in its grandeur. It wasn’t just a kitchen; it was a space that held grief and love in equal measure. For all her own grief over what had been lost at Kingsford Manor, Viola was mourning, too — just differently, if not deeper.
“You’ve made it into something that keeps her here with you.”
Viola nodded. “Sometimes, I imagine what she would say, what she would think seeing it in person.”
“I’m sure she will be looking down on it from somewhere and that she would find it as enchanting as we do,” Gillian said.
“You believe that?” Viola asked, eyebrow raised.
Gillian pondered the question before answering, “No, not at all.”
“Then why say it?”
“I thought it might bring you some comfort,” Gillian said with a shrug. “Perhaps I’ve been going to church too often.”
“Sounds like it. Thanks for the thought, though.”
Gillian picked up a book from beside her and examined it. “What are you reading?”
“A romance,” Viola answered, sipping from her cup.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for a romance reader. Don’t you find the power imbalance in those kinds of books a bit distasteful?”
“That’s the best bit. The ice queen boss being forced to melt by her assistant.”
