Page 38 of Sunset at Embthwaite Farm
“ToStroud?” Jane goggled at her, looking, Anna hoped, more incredulous than angry.
“Yes,” she confirmed, wishing she and James had talked about how to handle telling Jane—although, what really, was there to tell? Basically nothing. Besides, why should Jane, at thirty-odd years, needhandling? Maybe she was just bruised from the way her own daughters did, or at least had used to. “He offered to help with the driving and things,” Anna explained.
“But didn’t you just meet, like, four days ago?” Jane demanded. She was clutching the brownies to her chest, heedless of the chocolatey crumbs now caught on her fleece top.
Itdidsound strange, Anna knew. Itwasstrange, and yet it had also been wonderful. “Yes,” she admitted, “that’s right. But I suppose we’ve become friends.”
“Friends…” Jane huffed. “He didn’t tell me he was going. I was texting him today, wondering if he wanted to come round and see Henry, and he just said he’d come tomorrow.”
That, Anna knew, had nothing to do with her, and she wasn’t about to wade into it.
“He was just helping me out, Jane,” Anna told her. She suddenly felt very tired, practically swaying where she stood. “I’m sorry, it’s been such a long day. Shall we talk tomorrow?”
Jane gave her a look that was not quite a glare, but almost. There was clearly some hostility in the air, and Anna knew she would have to figure out a way to deal with it. “Yes, all right,” she said frostily, and then she turned to go back inside without giving Anna the brownies she’d baked.
Anna stifled a groan. Clearly Jane was not happy with the thought of her being friends with her father, something Anna found unsurprising but dispiriting all the same. Yet another fraught relationship in her life…but, she decided, she’d think about Jane tomorrow. And for that matter, she’d unload the car tomorrow, as well. Right then all she wanted was a hot bath and bed, and not to have to think at all.
*
Anna woke slowlyto weak sunlight filtering through her curtain and her mobile, charging next to her bed, pinging with texts. She scrabbled for it, pushing her hair out of her eyes, wondering who on earth was texting her with such urgency at just past seven in the morning.
She saw, with much trepidation, that it was Rachel.
Can you come? Dad’s asking for you.
Peterwas asking for her? Anna thought with a ripple of uneasy incredulity. Why—and what did that even mean? She feared she knew…that the end was close.
It had been coming—they’d all known that. Rachel had said as much the other day, and there could be no denying that Peter was becoming frailer and more disorientated by the day. And yet…somehow death always felt like a surprise. Unexpected no matter how much you were bracing for it. Anna recalled the numb shock she’d felt when the carer had called to say her mother had passed away. She’d been told it would be a matter of days, and yet somehow, she hadn’t quite believed it could happen. And here she was again.
She dressed quickly, running a comb through her hair, and bolting a cup of coffee although her stomach was churning.Peter was asking for her.Why? What did he want to say? What would she say to him?
As she left the house, she glanced uneasily at Jane’s closed door. She didn’t have time to explain what was going on, but she had a feeling Jane would have put a lot of stock in her promising to come over that morning to explain things. Well, it couldn’t be helped. She’d stop by later, if she could.
It was just half past seven when Anna pulled up to Embthwaite Farm. A single, lonely curl of smoke rose from the chimney; otherwise, the house looked dark and empty. Rachel met her at the door, a long cardigan thrown over her pyjamas.
“He woke up early,” she explained in a low voice. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her hair in a wild tangle she pushed behind her ears. “Maybe five? He was agitated and wouldn’t settle. It took me a bit to understand what he wanted…you.” She shook her head slowly. “Then he got very clear, clearer than he’s been in weeks. He said, ‘I need to talk with Anna.’” Her eyes filled with tears. “This is the end, isn’t it? Nearly.”
“I don’t know, darling,” Anna answered, pulling her daughter into a quick hug. “It might be.”
“I’ve read about it,” Rachel said with a sniff as she pulled back to swipe at her cheeks. “Often people seem better right before they die. They get a burst of energy or a moment of clarity or something. Do you think that’s what this is?”
Anna stared at her helplessly. “I don’t know, Rachel. We’ll just have to take each moment as it comes.”
Her daughter nodded slowly. “Harriet’s making breakfast. You’d better go up.”
“All right.” Anna would have rather checked in on her younger daughter first, but she decided to do as Rachel said, in case time was of the essence. Could the end really be that near? It gave her a sense of loss and regret that she hadn’t expected. She’d come to terms with Peter’s infidelity a long time ago, and she’d made peace with it as best as she could. But what did Peter have to say to her now?
She tapped once on the door and he grunted a greeting before saying in a voice that was clearer than she’d heard before, “Come in.”
Slowly, with trepidation, Anna opened the bedroom door. Peter was sitting up in bed, propped against the pillows. Anna hadn’t actually seen him in weeks, and she was shocked at howdiminishedhe seemed. Once a brawny, broad-shouldered man, he now looked small and frail, engulfed by his pyjama shirt, his pink scalp visible through his sparse white hair.
“Hello, Peter,” she said quietly as she stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. “Rachel said you wanted to see me.”
He nodded once, his chin tucked towards his chest, the look on his face one Anna recognised—stubbornness. She hoped he wasn’t going to berate her for something. That was the kind of deathbed confession she’d rather not have, but maybe Peter needed to get something off his chest.
“Sit down,” he said, his voice raspy, and he pointed to the end of the bed.
Gingerly, Anna perched there. “How are you?” she asked, and he gave a croak of rusty laughter.
