What You Left Behind Read Free Page B

Freddie up. He’s still in bed. A couple of bombs and an earthquake should do the trick.”
    Another indignant moan and squirm from Stella made Jo stop teasing.
    “Shall I make some tea?”
    Lorraine nodded, trying not to show her irritation with her sister’s news. Whatever she felt about Malcolm and the way he’d so speedily stepped into Jo’s life eight years ago (although that was almost certainly due to Jo’s impulsiveness at work) and now his sudden retreat, he was the man her sister had chosen to marry, the man who had adopted her son, the man who’d looked after her and supported her financially. And knowing Jo as she did, that was no mean feat.
    But she still thought he was a complete shit for deserting his wife.
    No doubt, she thought as the kettle boiled, he’d found something younger, something less tarnished by the nagging drudgery of running a large house and bringing up a teenage boy mostly alone while he was living it up in London.
    They sat outside in the midmorning sun, the tray set down on the white-painted iron table that she remembered her father sanding and lacquering every couple of years. It was clear to Lorraine that Jo had kept up their mother’s high standards around the place since she’d moved in five years ago. It looked as if she’d worked her fingers to the bone weeding and maintaining the acre of garden. It was immaculate, and the crammed-in shrubs and herbaceous plants were in full bloom. The thick scent of the overhead jasmine winding around the pergola and the nearby thicket of roses made Lorraine feel almost dizzy. She marveled at the patchwork of colored borders that she knew had taken years to mature.
    It was nothing like her modest, sun-deprived suburban patch that only ever got used a few times in the summer when they threw a last-minute barbecue for friends or work colleagues, or when she ducked outside for a sneaky cigarette, usually at the end of a long day during an investigation that didn’t allow for any kind of routine. She hadn’t done a scrap of gardening this year, and Adam had only cut the grass a handful of times.
    “You’re going to tell me it was an affair, aren’t you,” she probed, but with a casual inflection so it didn’t sound as if she had an issue with the word. Jo wouldn’t respond to an inquisition.
    She thought she noticed a small nod.
    “You know, if dog-ends grew into flowers, mine would look way better than this,” Lorraine said with a laugh, sweeping her hand out in front of her.
    “Yes,” Jo said with a curt nod. “And I mean about the affair, not the dog-ends.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that, Jo. I hope you kicked him out in a goodand proper village-rousing, suit-slashing display of emasculation, rather than allowing him to slink off with his tail between his legs when no one was looking.”
    Jo fished the tea bag out of Lorraine’s mug, added milk, and stirred in some sugar. “He left quietly of his own free will.”
    “I bet he bloody did.”
    “Lorraine …” Jo sighed. “It’s me having the affair, not him.” She slid the mug toward her sister.
    Lorraine took a breath. “I see,” she said, picking up her tea.
    The first thing she thought about was the house. It had belonged to their parents. It was their family home—Freddie’s inheritance now. When their father had died ten years ago, their mother, June, had continued to live there for several years. But the place was no good without him, she’d said. Too big, too empty, too heartbreaking  …
    Too much to cope with, Lorraine suspected but never said.
    And then, one day, her mother had packed up a few essentials and, without telling anyone, moved into her trailer on the north Cornish coast. It was a month before they knew where she’d gone. She’d since relocated to a more substantial park home, and had never set foot inside Glebe House again. No one really understood why. It was just the way she was.
    In the meantime, she had made arrangements for the property