The French doors are ajar. The air feels full, like every particle is charged and vibrating. We wait. Jack takes my hand, strong and warm and so familiar it makes my throat ache.
And there it is: a streak of hot silver splits the sky. It’s the start of a symphony; a second later comes the low crackle of thunder rolling above our heads and the first drops of rain which ping against the French doors like bullets, and the wind picks up, shaking the glass in its frame with frenzied fingers.
We settle in, sitting down with mugs of hot chocolate, and I decide this is better than TV. My longing for home is forgotten. The truth is, when I’m with Jack, I am home.
I stretch my legs out in front of me and touch the delicate lace hem of the shorts – I’m wearing the silky green pyjamas Jack bought for my birthday. I have good legs, I think, admiring the way the flickering candlelight casts shadows on the contours of my calves. My gaze drifts upwards. Jack is staring at my legs too.
Coming to Wisteria has shifted something between us – before my disappearance, the idea of Jack staring lustfully at my legs would have been absurd, but now …
He clears his throat and turns his focus towards the night sky. ‘We pulled it off.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The plan.’ He gestures widely. ‘This.’
‘Can we really say that before I’ve written the book and signed a contract?’
‘We pulled it off,’ he says again.
I don’t reply. I am instantly nervous; I try very hard not to think about the questions the police will have once I’m found. I worry about messing it up, getting caught out. But I can’t think about that now.
‘I can’t wait to see your name on a book,’ he says.
‘If I have to work this hard to become an author, maybe I just don’t deserve it.’
‘You’re talented enough to do it, Fray. The market is the problem, not your ability.’
‘I know it’s all about luck, and what’s selling right now, but maybe it’s just not meant to happen. What if we do all this and I still don’t get the deal?’
‘You’re going to get it. They want true crime; you’ll give them true crime.’
‘Half-true crime. True-ish crime.’
‘Is there a market for that?’
My smile is wan.
‘You’ve wanted to be an author for as long as I’ve known you. We’ll make it happen. Don’t take no for an answer.’
‘Don’t take no for an answer. Is that the motto you live by?’
‘You know the motto I live by. How far will you go?’
‘How far won’t I go?’ I parry.
This time, my smile is genuine.
‘Got another motto?’ he asks.
‘Never thought about it.’
‘Here’s your opportunity.’
Through the gap in the door, a fine mist of rain comes in, smelling like sea-salt. ‘Go to bed with dreams, wake up with purpose.’
‘Apt.’
‘My mum has loads of those fridge magnets with sayings on them. Whenever we went on holiday – or came here for the summer – we’d pop into town and Dad would treat her to a magnet from the little gift shop on the High Street.’ I can still hear the bell ring above the door as I push it open, smell the clotted cream fudge as I step inside.
‘I know Ada’s motto,’ he says. ‘Why be the understudy when you can be the star?’
I smile but, just for a beat, I get a wave of longing for my sister. ‘I think Charlie’s would be something like … Kindness is free. Throw it around like glitter.’
‘My brother has a good heart,’ he says with envy. Or sadness.
‘So do you.’
‘Jeffrey’s little motto was Hardship breeds strength of character.’
I’m not sure Jack’s aware that, as he says this, his thumb moves over the scar lacing through his eyebrow. I still don’t understand why Jeffrey treated his sons so differently. If either of them was to be the target of his aggression, I’d have put my money on Charlie. Where Jack is granite, Charlie is candle wax. Jeffrey was so accepting when Charlie came out, he treated him with a kindness Charlie deserved but Jack never received.
‘So, your motto – is it Don’t take no for an answer?’
‘Actually, that’s a close second.’ He reaches into his back pocket and produces his wallet. Carefully, he slides out a small, folded square of paper, smiles down at it and hands it to me. ‘This is a solid first.’