Page 109 of The Bookshop By the Loch

“Yes, I have. I’ve just come from there.”

“And, how is she?”

Maeve indicated, squinting up at her rear-view mirror as she drove us around a flower- studded roundabout. “She wasn’t too bad. Still cracking waspish jokes. But the letter from Corinne was still propped up by her bedside clock. I think she’s been reading it again.”

I sighed at the thought of Celeste sitting alone in her room, torturing herself with that letter and the agonising memories attached to it. “You’ll never get her to admit it, but it must have hurt her.” I shot Maeve a side glance. “Did you manage to take a note of Corinne’s address ok?”

“Yep. I pretended to be looking for a spare pen and when one of the carers came in to check on Mum, I jotted it down.” Maeve nodded at her satnav. “One-seven-five, Montague Drive, White Woods, Glasgow.”

The traffic didn’t look too bad for a Sunday afternoon in June. The castle was long gone through the rear windscreen, as was the shiny line of the loch water.

Fields and parks opened out now, showing off jade grass, children streaming up and down and dogs dive bombing to catch frisbees.

Maeve gave me a quick glance as she concentrated on the road. “Lexie, do you think we’re doing the right thing? Going behind Mum’s back to talk to Corinne?”

“Are you having seconds thoughts?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so. Oh bugger, I don’t know!” She fell quiet, easing us up to a set of traffic lights. “I want to do what’s best for Mum. I don’t want her upset anymore.”

I stretched out my legs as I sat back in the passenger seat and waggled my ballet pumps. “For what it’s worth, no, I don’t think what you’re doing – what we are doing – is a mistake. I think it’s essential.”

Maeve glanced at me from behind her smoky sunglasses.

“If we don’t try to reach out to Corinne again, then there definitely won’t be any closure for your mum or for her. The way I see it, we’ve no choice.”

My throat thickened, as I conjured up images of Celeste in bed and the osteoporosis taking a tighter and more malicious hold on her. “Maeve, you need to be the one to speak up and explain to Corinne what’s happened.”

Maeve nodded as she negotiated the traffic.

“Then it really is up to Corinne whether she’s willing to carry on with her life, knowing she could’ve met her birth mother but deciding not to take that chance when it came her way.”

Maeve listened, her hands controlling her leather steering wheel.

I smoothed the hem of my dress. I blinked back a couple of threatening tears. “It might not make any difference, you asking to speak to Corinne, but if we don’t go to see her, you’ll always be wondering.”

Maeve forced out her chin. “You’re right.” She hesitated. “Has what has been happening with your dad made you think more about things?”

I allowed my attention to drift out of the passenger side window at a faraway herd of cows. They looked like clumps of solid black and white liquorice. “I’m not going to pretend our situation has been easy either. When my father first reappeared just over four weeks ago or so, I was furious at him. How could he think he could waltz back into our lives? But when we found out about his dementia I knew I had to make a decision one way or the other.”

My fingers tugged at the neckline of my dress. “I could either turn my back on him or I could be there for my mum, who’s still so in love with him. She was prepared to forgive my dad and help him and I promised I’d support her decision.”

The corners of Maeve’s mouth turned upwards. “I can understand that. And how do you feel about your dad now?”

My lips formed into a thoughtful “O” shape as I considered her question. “That’s a tricky one. Right now, I feel sorry for him more than anything. The dementia is gradually stealing who he is.”

Maeve angled the steering wheel to the right and took us up beyond the last of the country lanes, before the motorway spread ahead of us, like an outsized tarmac-black tongue. “Well, if you ask me, you, your mum and your grandfather have been wonderful about it.”

“Thank you. I can’t just forget what he did and act like it never happened. He was so ruthless about leaving Mum and me, but I suppose I’m just learning to compartmentalise it for Mum’s sake.” I let out a low laugh. “I still catch my grandpa giving my dad the odd killer stare though when he thinks nobody’s looking.”

Maeve laughed as she checked her mirror again and glided us onto the motorway. The red dot of Corinne’s house was drawing ever closer on the satnav screen.

My stomach pirouetted with nerves. I hoped more than anything that Corinne could see her way to putting aside any preconceptions about Celeste and at least hear what Maeve had to say.

Corinne’s house was a 1970s detached affair in a north Glasgow suburb, thronged by trees and a short walk from a plethora of dinky but expensive independent shops.

The front garden consisted of fat, ceramic pots of various plants and flowering bushes, leading up to a white panelled front door.

An attractive, rangy man in his early sixties, sporting Bermuda shorts and a deep tan, was busy mowing the front stretch of lawn.