‘And only mine came home,’ said Joan. ‘Oh, darling.’ And Joan reached over to grasp Carol’s hand, and before she knew it, for the fourth time that day, Carol was crying.
When she could speak, she said, ‘I had a little epiphany while I was lying in the hospital, after Will and Jodie showed me the little historical mystery they had uncovered when they put together the pieces from your article in the Clarence Gardens newsletter.’
‘What was your epiphany?’ said Jodie.
‘I realised that by being such a nitwit over who baked the best cake, I was denying myself an opportunity to make a friend. One who not only shares common interests—like cooking and committees and bossing people around—but with whom I also had a shared history. I have a little something for you, too, Jodie.’
Jodie was looking a bit pink in the face and her eyes were over-bright.
Carol reached into her pocket and pulled out a small box. ‘This is symbolic, pet, because you’ve already got one. But I’d like you to open this box anyway.’
Jodie took the box and lifted the lid.
Inside was a key to the house.
‘I do already have one,’ said Jodie.
‘I am giving you the key as a symbol,’ Carol said. ‘I’m giving it to you because I’m giving you the house. I want you to live in it. I want you to run your practice here.’
‘I live here already. With you, Carol.’
‘Unfortunately, darling girl, it’s not all about you, is it? So you’re going to have to learn to not be so selfish. I will be moving into Clarence Gardens.’
Jodie’s mouth opened. ‘Into the old fogeys’ home?’
‘We don’t call it an old fogeys’ home. It’s an aged living facility.’ Carol lifted her glass and held it up.
Joan held up her glass and the two of them clinked.
‘Here’s to the next adventure,’ said Carol. ‘Now, before I finish, I popped a little something for you in the Willow tin, Joan.’
Joan picked up the tin and lifted the lid, then she held aloft a small bundle of papers that was inside.
‘What are these?’ she asked, then answered her own question. ‘Recipes?’
Carol smiled—rather nobly, she thought—because ithadgiven her a pang to share them. ‘Since my mother was good enough to share one recipe with your family, I thought you might care to have some others of hers, since you’ve done a reasonable job of baking her fruit cake.’
‘Apricot tart? Oh, lovely. I’ll make that one first,’ said Joan.
‘Fools rush in,’ said Carol testily. ‘The pastry can be a little sticky, it takes a skilled hand—you might not have the knack—but it was a fan favourite in our household growing up.’
Joan gave Jodie a small wink, which Carol pretended not to see, then said, ‘Do you know, Carol, in the Clarence Gardens kitchen there are two identical fluted tart tins. What say you and I challenge each other to a bake off?’
‘An apricot tart war?’ Carol said, delighted.
Jodie groaned and Will laughed, and then the four of them were all raising their glasses and wishing each other Merry Christmas, and Carol thought to herself that life was—still, even at eighty-four—marvellous.