The hall exploded again into whoops and cheers.
When the noise had quieted down again, Ellen, leader of the Cussing Crocheters, announced their intentions to dress the banquet table and decorate the marquee with wintry displays. Nobody doubted they would do an excellent job. These women were the Banksys of the crochet world. One never knew when you would wake to find crochet dioramas of village scenes attached to the tops of postboxes or garden gates festooned with crochet characters from popular children’s literature.
There was a natural crossover between the various groups and clubs of Rowan Thorp. Some members of the Cussing Crocheters also belonged to the Women’s Institute or the historical society or the library book club or the church flower association, and all of them were happy to join forces should the need arise. It seemed the winter solstice warranted just such a call to arms.
One of the farmers who supplied Maggie’s shop with free-range eggs promised to donate ten chickens to the feast. This spurred more offers of homegrown garden produce and an abundance of stewed fruits from various households.
Belinda, no stranger to calling upon the parish for volunteers, had come equipped with a clipboard and a stack of paper. As proceedings drew to a close, she urged people to write down their names, contact details, and what they could contribute to the winter solstice event. To the North sisters’ delight and relief, there was a queue for the sign-up sheets.
Antonia and Troy walked over to the stage to congratulate them on a successful meeting.
“I’m so excited!” Antonia smiled. “We used to celebrate it back home. It’s so nice to see you all together! You must all come into the pub for a meal.” She put an arm around Star. “This one comes in for discounted dinners.” She kissed Star’s cheek. “But we don’t mind. She brings out the Italian mama in me; she makes me want to feed her. Simone, we’ve hardly seen you since you arrived.”
“Oh, I’ve been around. You know me, always busy.” Simone smiled. “We will all definitely come in for dinner before we head our separate ways.”
Slowly the community of Rowan Thorp trickled out into the evening and made their way home to warm houses and suppers in front of the TV. Not for the first time, Star felt the pull of the village like a physical force. If, as she was coming to understand, her heart had always truly belonged in Rowan Thorp, perhaps it was time to stop forcing herself to fit elsewhere and accept that this was the place she had been searching for all along.
28
Simone was almost at the gate to Dalgleish cottage when Star came up beside her, keeping step. There was no one else around; the hubbub of moments before had dissipated and the street was quiet.
“Fancy a hot chocolate at mine?” Star asked.
“Yours?” Sometimes she surprised herself with how easily the snark came.
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m pretty tired,” said Simone. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She was relieved when Star stopped walking beside her. She didn’t want to be mean, but she was hanging on by a thread and needed to be alone. She pushed open the gate to the front garden.
“It’s because Antonia’s pregnant, isn’t it?”
Simone stopped dead.
“That’s why you haven’t been in to see her. It breaks your heart.”
She was angry with herself; she thought she’d hidden it so well. The last person she wanted to get into this with was her irresponsible sister. Without turning to face Star, she snapped, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Of course you don’t. You’re Simone—unflappable, unemotional, and unapproachable. At least, that’s how you act. That way no one can see what’s really going on in your head.”
“Don’t try to psychobabble me, Star, I’m married to the real deal.”
“And where is your wife?”
Simone still hadn’t turned around, but she could feel Star’s eyes boring into the back of her head, picture her face set in challenge. “Go away, Star!”
“Sure, push me away like you have with Evette.”
Simone spun on her heel. “How dare you! You know nothing about my marriage. Nothing! And you know even less about me.”
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong. I know that you and Evette are the strongest couple I have ever seen. I know that you love each other fiercely. I know that the only reason your wife would have let you come down here to sort Augustus’s shit out alone is if she was at her wit’s end. And I know that every time you see a pregnant woman or a baby it cracks your heart into a million pieces.”
The truth of her words hit Simone like a slap. The shock of it stole her breath and smashed a fist through the wall she’d been hiding behind. Suddenly it was all too much, the repressing and pretending.
She covered her face with her hands as she gasped for air. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. Her sadness was a hand around her throat, choking her. She couldn’t breathe. She kept trying to pull in air, but it came in tiny gasps she couldn’t seem to let back out. She thought her sorrow might actually kill her if she kept it in, but she didn’t know what would happen if she let it out. She felt Star wrap her arms around her.
“Let it out,” she said softly. “I’ve got you and I won’t let go. Let it out.”
“I—I can’t,” she stammered.
“Yes. You can. You must. You have nothing to lose with me.”
She found herself gripping hold of the back of Star’s coat, her open mouth pressed to her sister’s shoulder as she tried to stifle her sobs. Star was so much smaller than she was and yet she was practically hanging off her and Star was holding her firm.
“What if I can’t stop?” she managed to gasp.
“Then I’ll wait with you until you can.”
Simone sagged further. The weight of this interminable grief wanted to pull her under the earth and bury her alive.
“Come on,” Star said. There was a garden bench tucked beneath the front bay window, hidden from the street by an arbor, draped in the forlorn limbs of a rambling rose. Simone allowed herself to be guided to it and almost collapsed onto the cold wood. Just inside the porchway behind the log store was a basket of thick blankets—Mrs. Dalgleish liked to drink her morning coffee sitting on the bench, whatever the weather—and Star hastily grabbed two, shaking them out and wrapping them around Simone before pulling her close.
Simone allowed herself to be swaddled by her baby sister, leaning in and resting her face against Star’s chest. Star rocked her gently and she didn’t fight it. The tenderness of Star’s hands rubbing her back through the thick blankets finally untied the tourniquet around her chest.
For a few minutes she couldn’t speak. There was no room for words as the grief spilled out of her in wracking sobs and a high-pitched keen. Her sadness was visceral, primal, every lament convulsive. Star didn’t speak either; she simply held her tightly, still rocking her, letting Simone know that she wasn’t alone, that she was safe.
It took a long time.