The Secret Art of Forgiveness Read Free Page A

proposal. Not a break-up. Not a disaster.
    Why did she always imagine herself on the brink of a disaster?
    Because bad things happened and she just wanted to be prepared.
    But she looked at the ring in her palm, and at his earnest eyes and nervous smile, and felt the sharp sting of tears. This was probably the furthest thing from disaster, ever. Brett Fallon was everything a woman could possibly want; a damn fine man with a heart of gold and exquisite taste in diamonds. He made a dull day brighter. He made waking up very appealing, and going to bed even more so. He came from a lovely home with darling parents – married for thirty-seven years in December – who treated her as one of their own. He was stable, supportive and kind. And despite the little thrum of panic that she put down to nerves, she smiled. What other answer could she possibly give?
    â€˜Yes. Of course, Brett. Of course. Wow. Yes!’
    Laughing, he stood up and whipped her into his arms, hugging her close. His mouth on her throat. ‘Thank you. Oh, God! I am so relieved you said yes.’
    She inhaled his comforting scent and kissed him, although kissing and trying to force air past the lump in her throat were particularly difficult. She burst out laughing. ‘Well, wow. Yes. We’re getting married!’
    â€˜Hell, yes.’
    â€˜What do we do now?’
    He was grinning insanely and it felt pretty damned good to know she’d put that smile on his face. ‘I don’t know; I’ve never been engaged before.’
    â€˜That makes two of us. More champagne?’
    â€˜Whatever you want, fiancée.’ He topped up her glass and for a few moments they just sat there grinning at each other. Literally speechless. Then he took out his phone. ‘We could call some people? My folks?’ There was a tentative pause. ‘Yours?’
    â€˜Yours, definitely. Yes.’ A knot formed in the pit of her stomach and some of the excitement died away. It was at times like this that she missed her mum so badly, the grief sometimesswamping her, catching her breath, taking her by surprise. She would have been so proud that her daughter was marrying someone like Brett. But Emily doubted, sadly, that the rest of her family would be interested. ‘I’m not sure the timing is right to call England.’
    â€˜It’s only, what…?’ He looked at his watch and did the maths. ‘Eleven p.m.? Midnight? Someone will be up? Surely they wouldn’t mind a call for such exciting news?’
    â€˜I imagine that in sleepy Little Duxbury everyone’s been safely tucked up for hours. I think we should leave it. Really.’
    â€˜Sure?’
    â€˜Yes. Another time.’ She filled her glass again and took a drink, not wanting to get into this right now.
    His smile slipped. ‘Hey, babe, what’s really going on here? Don’t you want them to know?’
    â€˜Oh, yes, of course I do. Please don’t read anything into it. It’s just… well, you know how it is…’ She didn’t want him to think she wasn’t proud to be engaged to him. But she couldn’t expect a guy from a perfectly formed two-point-four to grasp the realities of communicating with a stepfamily who’d prefer you not to be around.
    She imagined the uninterested response from her stepfather. The polite and stilted congratulations from Tamara and Tilda and the collective sigh of relief that, finally, she wasn’t their responsibility any more. Although, when she’d left in the middle of the night all those years ago, she’d wanted to show them that she didn’t need them anyway. ‘You know things are rocky between us. I’ve got to pick my moment to call them.’
    His head tilted a little to the side as he looked at her. ‘Actually, now you mention it, in all the years we’ve been together I’ve never seen you speak to them.’
    Not speaking to her family was the