“OK,” says Bean warily.
“And…lunch?”
“OK,” says Bean again.
“And supper? And then breakfast again? And maybe…” He hesitates. “Maybe every meal?”
As she suddenly understands his meaning, there’s a kind of rippling on Bean’s face. A kind of sunshine breaking out. And it’s only now I see it that I realize how long her night has lasted.
“Yes,” she says, her voice trembling, her mouth flickering into a joyful smile. “Yes, I would like to.”
“Good.” Adam breathes out. “That’s…good.” He reaches out to her with an instinctive, loving movement—then, as though aware of his small but avid audience, limits himself to taking Bean’s hands and holding them, tight.
I exhale, my eyes hot. From the way he’s looking at her—steadfastly, protectively—I feel like he might just pass the test of Good Enough for My Sister.
“Let me…I’ll get some coffee on, and then you can meet everyone properly.” Bean breaks the mood at last, a little flustered, and it’s like a signal for everyone to move.
“I need a shower,” Temi announces.
“We must have some bacon,” Gus is saying. “Shall I make bacon rolls?”
“I’ll help,” volunteers Joe, then he touches my shoulder gently. “Coming?”
“I’ll be a minute,” I say, and he nods.
I sit down on the grass and watch as Bean and Adam make their way down the mound, Adam still clutching her hand tight. Behind them, in a kind of procession, go Joe, Gus, and Temi, trailing sleeping bags and blankets, with unruly hair and disheveled clothes. Just like the old days.
They all trudge across the drive, then disappear through the front door into the house. And just for a moment there’s total stillness. There are no removers in the drive. Libby Van Beuren has vanished from view and I can’t see the two children. It’s just me and Greenoaks.
On impulse, I reach for my Russian dolls and line them up on the grass, then take a photo of them with Greenoaks as the backdrop. Their five familiar faces stare back at me, fixedly smiling. Always connected, always a family, always part of one another, even if they’re scattered.
I take a few more shots, playing with filters, then put my phone away. I wrap my arms around my knees and breathe out, running my eyes for the last time over the turret, the stained glass, the outlandish brickwork. Dear Greenoaks. Dear, ugly old house.
I don’t think I’ll return, I find myself thinking. I won’t come back. But I don’t need to.
One year later
I’m absolutely determined that Skye should be a bridesmaid for Joe and me. She’s very advanced for her age, and I’m sure she’ll be able to walk soon enough.
“I read about a baby who walked at eight months,” I say casually to Bean. “And another one walked at seven months. It was on YouTube. It does happen.”
“I’m not pushing her to walk early just so she can totter along at your wedding.” Bean shoots me a ferocious mother-tiger glance. “So don’t get any ideas.”
We both survey Skye, who beams back in that sunny, adorable way she has. She’s lying on her sheepskin rug in her Peter Rabbit–themed nursery, apparently fascinated by her own hands. To be fair, I’m quite fascinated by them too. In fact, I’m fascinated by all of her and spend most of my spare time round here at Bean and Adam’s place, helping as much as I can.
“What about crawling?” I suggest. “Could she be a crawling bridesmaid?”
“A crawling bridesmaid?”
“She could have her own little white train.”
“She’d look like a caterpillar,” says Bean fondly. “Or a little white slug, edging her way up the aisle.”
“No she wouldn’t!” I say. “No you wouldn’t, would you, Skye?” I bury my face in Skye’s tummy, just to hear her delicious gurgle. Late-summer sunshine is coming in through the muslin curtains, and from downstairs I hear a pop, which means Aperol spritzes are on the way. It feels like a celebration. Every family get-together feels like a celebration recently. There was Bean’s engagement and wedding, and then the arrival of Skye, and then me and Joe…I twist my engagement ring round my finger, still unused to the feel of it.
“Nice rabbit,” I say, noticing a new blue crocheted bunny on the rocking chair, and Bean’s face lights up.
“Mimi made it.”
“Of course she did.”