But there’s a reason she’s chosen air-conditioning over soft breezes, a reason she insists on keeping the windows in New York closed at all times. She tells Jack it’s his allergies and he complains she’s overprotective, that a single gust of wind won’t make him ill.
It’s not the breeze. Holly is afraid he’ll disappear. Just as Eden has. Just as Holly herself almost did, once.
* * *
When Jack finally wakes up, he’s starving and back to being grumpy.
“Where are we?” he mutters, rubbing at his eyes.
“There’s a pub not far,” Holly says. “We’ll stop and get something to eat before we press on to the hotel.”
At the pub, she parks and sends Jack ahead, claiming that she needs to call the office. The time difference makes her lie unlikely, but he doesn’t argue. Once he’s out of sight, she calls the cottage and tells the day nurse what time to expect her. She wants everyone ready and assembled when she arrives. Then she hurries inside.
The pub is new to her but looks clean. She finds Jack in a corner booth puzzling over the menu.
“Can I get a Guinness?”
“What? No. Absolutely not.”
“Why not? I looked it up before we got here. The drinking age is eighteen, but you can buy me a drink at almost any restaurant.”
When he had the time to research that, Holly has no idea.
“Because I say you’re not old enough, that’s why. Not to mention it’s not even noon. And this isn’t a vacation for you. This is a punishment.”
“Tell me about it,” he mutters. He spends the rest of the meal alternately poking moodily at his eggs and bacon and glaring balefully at her. The waitress, an older, heavyset woman, smiles sympathetically at Holly and brings her a fresh pot of tea without being asked.
“I have one of my own,” she says when Holly thanks her. “I know the signs.”
Once they’ve settled the bill and are back in the car, he perks up a bit, looking at the rural landscape with interest. Flocks of sheep and stone houses have replaced the tidy, close-quartered villages they’ve been driving through.
“What type of supplier works way out here?” he asks once. “There’s nothing but sheep. And cows.”
“We have several in this area,” she says. “We purchase a blue seaweed from one of them to use in our overnight cream.” They do too, although the use of the seaweed is nothing but a cover for her trips to visit Eden—it contains no miracle ingredients that she couldn’t find in seaweed back in the States.
By the time they pull into the inn’s car park, Holly is exhausted and relieved to be done driving. She’s booked a two-bedroom suite. The hotel has a pool and is close to a tiny sandy beach. There’s a restaurant on-site as well, so there’s no need for Jack to go into the village. The odds of someone recognizing him are absolutely nil, but Holly doesn’t want to take a chance. The inn provides exactly what she needs—until she finds out the tutor she’d booked last-minute can’t make it.
The front desk manager apologizes. “She woke up with a fever,” he says. “We looked all about, but there’s no one else qualified.”
Holly doesn’t need qualified—she needs a babysitter. But she grits her teeth and thanks the manager, telling him her son will be staying here while she’s working. “Could you keep an eye on him?”
“I’ll do my best,” he says. The manager, who is clearly overworked, nods in an unconvincing manner.
It’s not particularly reassuring. Nor is Jack, when Holly catches up to him inside their suite. He’s brought in their bags, but now . . .
“What am I supposed to do here?” he complains. He’s sitting on her bed, bouncing a little as he tests the springs, and the squeaking annoys Holly all the hell out of proportion, although she struggles not to show it. “There’s just a stupid small TV. Not even a flat screen. And the WiFi is too slow.” When he can’t run or work out, Jack’s fond of playing an ever-rotating list of games, although none, to Holly’s relief, seem particularly violent.
“Study,” she says, whisking her clothes into the closet. “As I said, this isn’t a vacation.”
She heads into the bathroom, takes a fast shower to wash off the travel grime and wake up. When she comes out, Jack is stretched out on the sofa in the living area, eyes closed.
“Hey,” she says, shaking his arm. “Don’t go to sleep.”
He drowsily shakes her off. “One minute,” he mumbles. “So tired.”
“Jack.” She nudges him again. Reflexively checks his forehead. He’s cool. “You’ll be up all night. Come on.”
He opens one eye sleepily, notices that she’s changed into slacks and a blazer, and sits up. “You’re going out? Already?”
“I told you, this is work for me. I have to meet with the seaweed farmers. I won’t be gone too long. A couple of hours at most.” She crosses her fingers to cover the lies.
“If you get hungry, order something from room service or go down to the restaurant, but wait to have dinner with me, okay?” Holly’s read that dinner with parents is one of the biggest factors in raising well-adjusted teenagers. No matter what crisis she’s facing, she always tries to make it home to eat with him, even if it means going back into the office later. “Do some studying, hit the pool, but don’t leave the hotel. I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Can I come with you?”
“No,” she responds, too quickly. “Not today, at least. I have too much to do.” She leans over and kisses his forehead. “I’ll see you soon.”
She leaves him glaring on the couch, but at least he’s awake. He can’t get into too much trouble at the isolated, half-empty hotel—as long as he stays there. Holly’s only option at this point is to hope that he does.
The hotel is on the outskirts of the village, new in the years since she’s left. But the village looks remarkably the same. There’s a pub, a chemist’s shop, a fishmonger, and a butcher, all with brightly painted wooden fronts. A small grocery store at the far end, followed by a handful of houses. Overlaid over it all, the sharp tang of the sea. And then she’s through the village and into open country, driving toward the house. No more than fifteen minutes later and she’s topping the grassy knoll that frames the view of Grace House. She pulls the car over to the side of the road.
As always, her heart catches in her throat, the way it has since the very first day she saw it. Somehow that makes it worse—with all that’s happened, the house can still evoke a visceral response from her; it isn’t simply a pile of stones. The house stands there unchanged—and she does not.
She’d been six months pregnant with the twins when she first saw this house.
“We need a break, before you melt,” Robert had said, and bundled her into his wildly impractical red sports car and out of the hot city. It was unlike him—he’d just gotten started at the brokerage firm and was eager for everyone there to take him seriously. He had enough family money to live comfortably, if not well, but he wasn’t ever the type to sit back—that was one of the things she’d loved about him ever since the night she’d gazed down from her mother’s staircase and seen his blue eyes looking up at her.
“Where are we going?” she’d asked, her belly barely fitting into the car’s passenger side.
“Never you mind,” he’d said, revving the engine. They left London late Friday afternoon, and by the time they’d arrived, it was too dark to see the outside. She’d gotten a sense of age and mass, but was so exhausted she fell asleep as soon as she’d climbed into the bed. In the morning, she’d woken to boring white walls and heavy drapes, no art or color anywhere.
She’d poked Robert until he’d opened his eyes.
“Not your usual style,” she’d said. Robert loved his flash. And he’d smiled and lumbered out of bed and drawn the curtain back and she’d caught her breath. The view was spectacular. Dark blue ocean contrasted with sloping green hills. Brightly colored boats bobbed and rocked in the water, all beneath a brilliant sky. With no other distractions on the walls, the window dominated the room.
“Like it?”