from me before she pushes her way back into my life. I canât afford to make a mistake with this.
I take the photograph off the wall and go into the kitchen where my mother is spreading pink icing over the surface of a twelve-inch cake. As I open the door, she looks up, startled. Her face is flushed a raspberry hue and sheâs breathing hard as if sheâs just been running.
âOh, itâs you, Grace,â she says, moving around the table to greet me. âWhat on earth are you doing here?â She gives me a perfunctory hug then steps back and looks at me, exasperated. âIf youâve come for the cakes then I havenât finished them yet.â
âI know they wonât be ready until Saturday.â I kiss her warm cheek. âIâm not here to rush you.â I show her the photo. âDo you mind if I borrow this?â
âOf course not.â She waves the palette knife. âKeep it.â
âThank you.â I slip it into my handbag, not really sure why I want it.
âWonder how Orlaâs doing now,â she says casually.
I shrug. âNo idea. She just upped and disappeared.â
âShe did write to you, Grace.â She gives me a sharp look. âYou were the one who let it slide.â
Thereâs no arguing with that. I lift a couple of mugs off the hooks. âIâve just been chatting to Dad. I came in to get us a cup of tea. Why donât you stop for a minute and join us?â
âNo, no, no! Iâm busy with the finishing touches.â She examines the smoothness of the icing from several angles. âYou go and talk to him. He has some ridiculous notion about painting the house. I have the cakes to do and lunch will be ready soon. Youâre staying, I take it?â
I hesitate. âOnly if itâs convenient.â
She frowns at me. âSince when have I given my own daughter the impression that her visits are inconvenient?â
âI didnât mean it like that, Mum.â I put teabags in the mugs. âOf course, Iâd love to stay for lunch. I know itâs a lot with the cakes, thatâs all.â
âIâve been making the girlsâ cakes since they had their first birthday.â She reaches over and takes the teabag out of my fatherâs mug. âNot those teabags, Grace! Give him some peppermint. Heâs been having trouble with his stomach.â
âWhat sort of trouble?â I try to sound casual, add the boiling water to the mugs and look her full in the face. âMum, is Dad not well?â
âOh, you know your father.â She breezes past me and takes another knife from the drawer. âAlways in denial.â
I wonder whether to mention the blood on the hankie but sheâs left the kitchen and is inside the pantry, humming purposefully. I take the tea outside and sit down on the bench beside my dad. âI hear your stomachâs giving you gyp?â
âWho, me?â He looks behind him as if there might be someone else around. âFighting fit and raring to go, I am. Itâs just an excuse for your mother to get me started on a health kick.â He takes a sip of the tea and screws up his face. âSo how are my granddaughters?â
âWhy not have the doctor check you over, Dad? One of those well man clinics, you know?â
âI know Iâm getting old, toots. That much I know. No point in digging around. Itâll only stir it all up. Look at Angus. Never a dayâs worry until the hospital got their hands on him. And Mo.â He gives a weary shake of his head. âShe was the same.â
âPlease?â I take hold of his hand and bring it on to my lap. âPlease, Dad. For me.â
âWell . . . I donât know, lass.â His face moves through reluctance and irritation, eyebrows meeting in a frown and then rising again as he settles on maybe. âYou were always one for getting your own
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