The Secret Keeper by Kate Morton

only been over a few years, they’d no capital to speak of, and her mother-in-law had graciously consented to rent them a room in her own establishment (in exchange for ongoing duties, of course—she wasn’t a charity!). Dorothy and Stephen were only supposed to be out for a picnic.
    It was a rare free day in the middle of July. They woke at the crack of dawn, tossed a basket and rug on the backseat, and then pointed the Morris Minor west; no further plans than to follow whichever country lane took their fancy. This they did for some time—her hand on his leg, his arm slung round her shoulders, warm air flowing through the open windows—and so they might have continued had the tyre not sprung a leak.
    But it did, and so instead they slowed the car, pulling onto the side of the road to inspect the damage. There it was, plain as day: a rogue nail protruding from the rubber, a comprehensive puncture.
    They were young though, and in love, and they didn’t often have free time together, so the day wasn’t spoiled as it other-wise might have been. While her husband fixed the tyre, Doro-thy wandered up the grassy hill, looking for a flat spot to spread the picnic rug. And that’s when she crested the rise and saw Greenacres farmhouse.
    None of this was supposition on Laurel’s part. The Nicolson children all knew the story of Greenacres’ acquisition by heart. The sceptical old farmer scratching his head when Dorothy knocked on his door, the birds nesting in the parlour fireplace as the farmer poured tea, the holes in the floor with planks laid across them like narrow bridges. Most importantly, no one was in any doubt as to their mother’s immediate certainty that she must live in this place.
    The house, she’d explained to them many times, had spoken to her; she’d listened and it turned out they’d understood one another very well indeed. Greenacres was a cantankerous old lady, a little worn, to be sure, cranky in her own way—but who wouldn’t be? The deterioration, Dorothy could tell, concealed a great former dignity. The house was proud and she was lonely, the sort of place that fed on children’s laughter, and a family’s love, and the smell of rosemary lamb roasting in the oven. She had good, honest bones and a willingness to look forwards rather than backwards, to welcome a new family and grow with them, to embrace their brand new traditions. It struck Laurel now, as it hadn’t before, that her mother’s description of the house might have been a self-portrait.
     
    Laurel wiped her feet on the mat and stepped inside. The floor-boards creaked familiarly, the furniture was all where it should be, and yet the place felt different. The air was thick and there was a smell that wasn’t usually there. It was stale, she realised, and that was understandable— the house had been closed up since Dorothy went into hospital. Rose came to take care of things whenever her grandchild-minding schedule allowed it, and her husband Phil did what he could, but nothing compared with the constancy of habitation. It was unsettling, Laurel thought, suppressing a shiver, how quickly a person’s presence could be erased, how easily civilisation gave way to wilderness.
    She counselled herself not to be so bloody cheerless and added her bags, from habit, to the pile beneath the hall table. She went then unthinkingly to the kitchen. It was the place where homework had been done and sticking plasters applied and tears cried over broken hearts; the first place anyone ever went when they came home. Rose and Iris were already there.
    Rose flicked the light switch by the fridge and the wiring hummed. She rubbed her hands together brightly. ‘Shall I make us all some tea?’
    ‘Can’t think of anything better,’ said Iris, lining up her court shoes and stretching her black stockinged toes back and forth like an impatient ballet dancer.
    ‘I brought wine,’ said Laurel.
    ‘Except that. Forget the tea.’
    While Laurel fetched a