Page 4 of A December to Remember
“My motherlivedfor the summer. She took herself off for luxury vacations somewhere hot and fabulous.”
“I’m surprised she didn’t object to letting you stay with your sisters.”
“What, because she’s such a snob?”
“Well, yes. I mean, I’d have thought it would have rankled her to have you mixing with his other illegitimate children.”
“Not enough to keep her from her holidays.” She felt bad as soon as she’d said it.
Rene was by no means a bad or selfish mother, and Simone would be lying if she said she hadn’t got a kick out of having the most glamorous mum at the school gates.
The air in the church was thick with the scent of flowers, which almost masked the underlying smell of old varnish, damp stone, and mothballs.
“It was really quite modern, when you think about it. To have such an open approach to the blended family dynamic. Fair play to all the mums and your dad. And you got to spend quality time with your dad and sisters. I love it when you talkabout your summers; it always reminds me of an Enid Blyton novel—without the xenophobia and sexism, obviously. Ice cream for breakfast, climbing trees, sleeping under the stars. It’s the childhood most of us wish we’d had.”
“Nothing’s free, though, is it?” said Simone. “There’s always a price to pay.”
Despite their more recent estrangements, she couldn’t deny that she had perfect memories with her sisters in Rowan Thorp. Their summers genuinely were halcyon days. It was a children’s paradise, mostly because their father was himself a glorified child. For Simone, those summers had been the complete antithesis of life with Rene.
A committed career woman with no time for husbands or children in her life, Rene had been an art dealer, sourcing rare pieces for her wealthy clients. What she found on one fateful expedition to the Loire Valley forty years ago was a fifty-six-year-old lute player with a twinkle in his green eyes that made her forget all about the Rococo canvas she had been commissioned to find. She left France carrying rather more with her than she’d expected.
Simone studied her mother. Time had done nothing to soften her straight-backed haughtiness. In contrast to the rest of the mourners, she wore a chic vintage Chanel skirt suit and an expression that dared anyone to approach her.
“Perdita is exactly as you described her,” Evette said with a giggle, changing the subject. “Right down to the floral head wreath.”
“And all these years you thought I was exaggerating.”
In addition to the wreath, Star’s mum wore a floor-length velvet cloak embroidered with gold stars and moons. She wept openly despite Rene’s evident scorn.
“And how did Perdita meet your dad? I don’t think I’ve ever asked.”
“It may surprise you to learn that Perdita was a leftover flower child from the sixties, drifting from commune to commune,” she said dryly.
“No.” Evette dripped sarcasm. “You don’t say.”
“They met at a Beltane festival in Ireland and wham, bam, thank you ma’am, nine months later Heavenly-Stargazer Rosehip was born in a yurt on the Isle of Man.”
“Does anyone ever call Star by her full name?”
“Only Dad. Or us when we wanted to annoy her.”
“It’s much easier to see the appeal between your dad and Star’s mum.”
Simone pressed her lips into a thin line. “She’s as ridiculous as her daughter.”
“Your sister.”
“Don’t remind me.”
Above their heads, electric heaters fastened to the stone pillars glowed orange but did little to heat the drafty church.
“You know, Star most probably had as difficult a childhood, being dragged from pillar to post, as you did being forced to strive for excellence. They were both extremes in their own way. I really do think that if you could acknowledge that, you might find you have more in common with Star than you think.”
“No amount of your well-meant therapy will make me believe that Star and I are kindred spirits.”
“Please just try to be friendly. If not for your dad or Maggie, then for me.”
All around them, long stained-glass windows depicted vivid tales of saints and sinners.Is it unholy to feel so much spite in a church?she wondered.
