Page 91 of All Our Missing Pieces

Not that Beatrice cared. She was here, spending Christmas with her real mother, as she had dreamed of doing ever since she’d been old enough for the concept of having a different, separate mother from the one she’d always known to be a thing. She was in the house she’d come to love, with a man she suspected would fall in love with her in due course. Contentment swelled inside her as satisfyingly as if she’d already devoured a whole Christmas dinner.

Which, after a couple of hours, they had. Orla opened Neil’s champagne and then a bottle of red wine. Neil carved the turkey, saying that as the oldest son, it had always been his job at home and he was an expert at it, with Maud twining round his legs mewing for scraps. Beatrice over-boiled the brussels sprouts, but the others said it didn’t matter. Everyone found an abundance of silver five-pence pieces in their Christmas pudding.

When everything was cleared away, Beatrice said, ‘Should we go for a walk? Isn’t that what you do on Christmas Day in England?’

Orla laughed. ‘It’s certainly what we used to do in Ireland. Rain or shine – and it was usually rain – my grandmother would insist on it. She said it was good for digestion. But it’s raining now, so…’

‘My digestion could use all the help it can get,’ Neil said. ‘But what I’d really like – if you wouldn’t mind, Beatrice – is to see some of your paintings. May I?’

‘I… All right. Of course. I’ll just finish off here and then I’ll get my portfolio from upstairs.’

She dried the last of the plates efficiently, stacking them away in the cupboard. Then she hurried up to her bedroom, retrieving the plastic folder from its shelf. She glanced through the pages inside, suddenly filled with doubt.

Neil would be uncritically enthusiastic about her work, she was sure. But Orla – the only work of hers Orla had seen was the roses Beatrice had painted for her by way of an apology. She’d praised that – but what would she think of these? Beatrice found herself craving Orla’s approval.

She carried the folder downstairs and joined the others in the living room, where they were sitting on the chaise-longue finishing the red wine. Beatrice folded herself down on to the floor, feeling the fire warming her back.

‘These aren’t very good,’ she apologised. ‘I’ve got a lot to learn.’

‘Never apologise for your work,’ Orla reprimanded her, smiling.

‘I’m sure they’re brilliant,’ Neil said.

‘Okay, so…’ Beatrice extracted a page from the folder and handed it to Neil. Orla leaned in close so she could see too. ‘These are some of the paintings I brought with me when I came out here, to remind me of home. This is the view from my bedroom – that’s a maple tree.’

‘Gorgeous colours,’ Neil said.

‘There’s beautiful brushwork on the leaves,’ Orla observed. ‘Real delicacy.’

‘And this is Sligo, our dog.’

‘He’s adorable.’

‘You’ve captured his face perfectly. The playfulness and the eagerness to please.’

‘And this…’ Beatrice looked at the painting. It was the best thing she had ever done, painted shortly before she’d left for Europe, full of apprehension about what she might discover and sorrow for what she was leaving behind.

‘Go on, show us,’ Neil urged.

‘This is my mom and dad – my adoptive parents. Ruth and Declan.’

Shyly, she handed it over. Neil studied it with all the seriousness of someone seeing potential in-laws for the first time. But Orla’s face had gone as still as marble.

I shouldn’t have shown her, Beatrice thought. She can see how much I love them and I’ve hurt her feelings.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’ Orla’s smile had returned as if it had never not been there. ‘That’s a wonderful portrait. You should be proud of it. Perhaps you could have it framed and hang it on the wall in your bedroom?’

She doesn’t mind, Beatrice thought with relief. Or if she does, she’ll mind less and less when she understands she isn’t going to lose me again.

‘The rain has stopped,’ she said. ‘Maybe we could go for that walk after all?’

Outside, the wind whipped Beatrice’s full skirt around her legs, hobbling her steps. But she barely noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the twinkling lights in the windows above; Neil’s hand clasped hers and kept it warm and on her other side, Orla’s shoulder pressed strongly and steadily against her own as they linked arms.

I will paint a portrait of Orla too, she decided. I can frame that as well and hang it next to the one of Mom and Dad, and every morning I’ll be able to wake up and see them there.

My family.