Page 4 of Sunset at Embthwaite Farm
Before Anna could reply, the door was flung open and Rachel stood there, managing to look both anxious and accusing as her gaze moved from her father to Anna. “I’m here, Dad,” she said, and gave Anna a quick, quelling look. “I can take it from here,” she told her, her tone decidedly cool.
Well, so much for helping. Anna couldn’t keep from feeling not just rebuffed but also humiliated. What on earth was she still doing at this wretched farm, she wondered, if no one actually wanted her help? If no one wanted her here in the first place?
“Very well,” she managed, her tone stiffer than she would have liked, and then, not trusting herself to say anything more, she headed downstairs.
Back in the kitchen, she glanced at the porridge she’d left warming on the stove and then, in what she suspected was no more than a childish fit of pique, she dumped the congealed mass in the bin. She scrubbed the pan out in the sink, using more force than necessary, because the truth was, she was feeling rather furious, and she knew she had to master her emotions before she spoke to Rachel or Harriet again.
A few calming breaths later, with the pot clean and drying on the rack, Anna felt a bit more reasonable about the whole unfortunate episode. All right, yes, she could understand why her ex-husband did not want her helping him use the toilet. She didn’t want that particular job, anyway. But it was hard, she realised,reallyhard, to keep feeling like an unwanted guest in what had once been her own home. She’d forfeited all rights to anything here by leaving, Anna knew. She’d accepted that, or thought she had, and yet to be smacked in the face with it at every possible opportunity was certainly starting to sting. Yet what could she do about it?
“He’s back in bed.”
Anna glanced towards the door, where Rachel stood, her arms folded, her expression obdurate. Lost in her unhappy thoughts, she hadn’t heard her come down the stairs.
“Well done,” she said as brightly as she could, but that was clearly the wrong thing to say because Rachel simply scowled. “Shall I make his breakfast?” she suggested. “You can bring it up to him if you’d like, if you think seeing me might upset him.”
Rachel gave a weary sigh, like she was tired of Anna hassling her. “All right, fine,” she replied, clearly a concession. “I need to get back to work but let me know when it’s ready.”
Yes, madam; very good, madam, Anna thought sardonically, trying not to grit her teeth. She wanted to help, but she still didn’t like being treated like some sort of skivvy. There was, she supposed, no winning.
Not for the first time, she wondered if she should just go home. Her cosy little terraced house in Stroud was waiting for her, with its courtyard full of winter aconite and jasmine, its quaint and tiny rooms perfect for one person. She’d bought it after she’d sold her parents’ house in Reading, where she’d grown up. It had felt like a new beginning, months after she’d left her husband and children, emerging from the darkness of despair that had been so thick and cloying she’d felt as if she’d forgotten how to breathe, to see.
Running back to that safe and comforting place, where she’d rebuilt herself and learned to heal, even if that had been no more than finding a way to live with the scars, was tempting, treacherously so. And yet if she gave up this time, Anna thought, if she walked away again, even if her daughters were practicallyaskingher to, she feared there would be no way back, ever. Right now, there still was, no matter how narrow and precarious a path it was, and she was determined to take it…which meant staying.
She just needed to figure outhowto stay. How to make this work in a way that moved the three of them forward. She could start, she supposed, by making breakfast.
Ten minutes later, Anna had assembled a fried egg—runny in the middle as Peter liked—and two pieces of toast with marmalade, no butter, on a tray, along with a cup of tea, milky and sweet as she remembered he took it. There was something both poignant and bitter about making breakfast for a husband who had never, not once, said thank you for all the breakfasts she’d made him over the years. He wouldn’t this time, either, she supposed, but at least now she knew she could live with it.
She went to the dining room to summon Rachel, who was frowning once more at her laptop.
“I’ve made the breakfast,” she offered hesitantly.
Rachel yanked her gaze up from the computer screen, looking irritated. “Sorry…do you mind taking it up yourself? I’m in the middle of something.”
“Of course,” Anna replied. So, this time she was allowed? She wouldn’t question it. She slipped from the room and went back to the kitchen for the tray before heading upstairs, her heart starting to beat hard with trepidation.
Harriet appeared still to be closeted in her room, the door firmly shut, as Anna crossed the hallway to Peter’s bedroom. Balancing the tray on one arm, she tapped once and then pushed open the door. Rachel had tidied the room, and settled Peter in bed, the covers drawn up to his middle as he leaned against several pillows. There was a lap table next to his bed that Anna supposed he used for meals.
“Good morning,” she said quietly, keeping her tone friendly but not overly bright. There was too much history between them to attempt to be chipper, and in any case, she didn’t think she’d be able to manage it.
“What are you doing here?” Peter demanded. His voice was slurred as before, but Anna could still understand him.
“Bringing you breakfast.” She put the breakfast tray on top of the bureau before reaching for the lap table and setting it on the bed, across Peter’s middle. He glared at her as she did so, his eyes rheumy and fierce.
“You know I didn’t mean that,” he said. A bit of drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth, and it filled Anna with a sudden, surprising pity.
“I know,” she replied. “But it’s all of a piece, really. I’m here to help, Peter.”
“I’m managing fine with Rachel,” he replied in a growl.
“But Rachel and Harriet aren’t managing fine,” Anna replied as calmly as she could. “They have jobs and lives, and they need support.”
Peter simply shook his head as if to deny the truth of his words as he glared down at his breakfast. Anna recalled Rachel saying he needed help eating and drinking; his hands were too shaky now to manage it on his own.
“Let me help you,” she suggested, and reached for his fork.
Peter batted her hand away, hard enough to hurt. She drew back, alarmed, as he glared at her fiercely. “No.”
“Why be so stubborn?” she protested, trying to sound reasonable. She knew he had his pride, but his vitriol was hard to take, on top of everything else, especially when they both knew it wasn’t deserved. Peter, more than anyone, understood why she had left. The real question was why she hadn’t left sooner.
