“There you are,” Jane says cheerfully. She has a hand on the phone. “I was about to requisition provisions. Weren’t you clever to bring dinner home. Is that a curry?”
Holly nods. She’ll play pax with Jane—for now. She fishes the package of Indian bread out of the bag. “And extra naan,” she says, waving it temptingly toward Jack, who is leaning against the far corner of the counter.
“Wonderful!” Jane exclaims. “Jack, be a dear and set the table. Use the good china from the living room—curry calls for a celebration.” She speaks firmly, and after a moment, Jack leaves to retrieve the dishes.
“He came home a half hour ago,” Jane says sotto voce. “Nan brought him—I received the distinct impression that it had been quite the challenge to get him in the car.”
“That was kind of her,” Holly says sarcastically before she can stop herself.
Jane looks at her. “You’ll have to do better than that when she shows up to work here tomorrow.” She pauses to deliver her final blow. “Jack seems quite fond of her.”
Holly takes a breath. None of this is Nan’s fault. Jane, on the other hand . . .
“Don’t look at me like that,” her mother says firmly, correctly interpreting Holly’s face. “The boy needs to know about his past. You can’t hide it from him forever.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” This time, she sounds like a surly teenager.
Dinner is a largely silent affair, despite Jane’s attempts at chatter. Jack sits in the middle of the table, sulking, with Jane at one end and Holly at the other. He’s showered and changed, but he’s pale. She tries to stealthily inspect him, but he glares at her, so she stops, afraid she’ll drive him away from the table. Although he physically stays in the room with her, it’s clear he’d rather be almost anywhere else. He responds monosyllabically to every attempt to draw him out, and by the end of the meal Holly is perversely pleased to see Jane as frustrated as she is. Her satisfaction is short-lived.
“For goodness’ sake,” Jane says, standing up from the table and folding her napkin. “I’ve forgotten what a misery it is to have a teenager in the house. Holly, he certainly reminds me of you at that age. The two of you can do the dishes tonight—I don’t want them left for poor Nan in the morning. I’m going out. The McHales have asked me to a dessert bar this evening, and as boring as they may be, their company has to be an improvement over yours.” She drops her napkin on the table and sails from the room.
Jack and Holly are left looking at each other.
“I’ll wash,” Holly says after a moment.
“Can’t we put them in the dishwasher?” It’s the longest sentence she’s heard out of him since this morning.
Holly snorts. “Your grandmother’s Stafford china? Do that and you’d better start swimming home.”
He gives a small smile, one that lasts barely a second. But he does help carry the plates out to the kitchen. Since dinner was only the three of them, cleanup is relatively quick. Holly is sudsing the last plate when he finally speaks.
“What was she like?”
She knows immediately what he means, and extends him the courtesy of not pretending.
“Eden? Brilliant. Mercurial. Quick as a hummingbird,” Holly says. She rinses the plate, careful to keep her eyes on it, as if all her energy must go toward not dropping it. “Devoted to you.”
“What happened to her?” He reaches for the plate, but she shakes her head and takes the cloth from him. She needs something to do.
“Eden was born with a rare condition. It caused her to grow rapidly, probably more rapidly than her body could sustain,” she says. “And then she had an accident. She hit her head. The doctors think her body, which was already stressed, couldn’t handle the damage. She’s spent the last decade in a coma. Her brain couldn’t wake up.”
She’s surprised by how easily the truth rolls off her tongue. Almost as easily as all her lies have lately.
“What type of accident?”
“She fell. She was climbing a tree and lost her balance.”
“I remember that.” He screws up his face. “Ever since we left the house in Cornwall, I’ve been having bits and pieces of memories. I thought I was going crazy.”
She wants, so badly, to ask what he remembers. But she doesn’t. That line of questioning could lead to other memories, and she’s not ready for them. Not now. Maybe not ever. She doesn’t think Jack is ready, either, although she’s not certain. But he’s blocked them for years, leaving his twin brother no more than a shadow at his heels—what good will remembering do now?