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‘I know, my girl. Now, I don’t want to spend forever dissecting this, ok? That’s not why I told you. But to answer your questions, briefly. No, no one else knows. Pam doesn’t know – though I wouldn’t have put it past her to have guessed. I didn’t tell you for the same reason I didn’t tell anyone else – because I didn’t want to own up to it. I painted the first one before Richard died,’ she said quietly, looking at Jack now as she spoke.

Holly glanced at him too, expecting a stiffness to show, but all he did was nod.

‘Your card, the one I gave you, was one of the very first. A sort of trial, to see if I could do it, without having to put my name out there. But then, after Richard died . . .’ She ran a hand over her face. ‘I didn’t think I should want to paint. I felt guilty for it. But I couldn’t quite stop myself. So I kept hidden behind a different name, and then it all became bigger: Mirabelle Landor became a bit of a thing, and I felt like I couldn’t own up to it.’

She dropped her hand to her lap. Tired. She looked so tired.

‘But I wanted to tell you. Both of you,’ she said, glancing between them before letting her gaze settle on Holly. ‘But especially you, my girl. Because I know that you’ve been scared to start your art again, too. And I didn’t want you to shy away from that part of you, like I’ve been doing my whole life.’ She turned the sculpture Holly had given her around in her hands, studying it. ‘Though I suppose I should have known you’d be stronger than me, in the end.’

She looked up at them both, and her eyes were shining.

Holly reached out to place a hand on Emma’s shoulder, but Emma waved her away.

‘Anyway, enough about me. Can we move on now, please? I didn’t tell you so I could be subjected to the Spanish Inquisition.’ She huffed out a breath. ‘It’s a present, that’s all.’ She sniffed. ‘Do you like it?’

A simple question, but Holly could hear the vulnerability under the surface – the first painting she’d put her name to.

Holly swallowed down her own feelings on the matter and laid a hand over Emma’s. ‘It’s beautiful. We love it.’ She glanced up at Jack.

‘We do,’ he agreed, and Holly felt something stir at the way he’d gone along with the ‘we’ so easily. ‘Memma, it’s incredible.’

‘Well. Good. I also got you gin baubles, just in case,’ Emma said, brushing down imaginary lint off the skirt of her dress. ‘Now, I think it’s about time for a refill, don’t you?’

She held up her mug and Holly took it, headed for the kitchen.

It was only early afternoon, but already an evening winter glow was taking over the garden – pink skies and fading light. The garden, too, was very different to how Holly had seen it last time. It was winter, but even so Holly could see Jack had been at work – he’d made it look loved again.

She had to blink a few times as she looked out of the back door, to be sure she hadn’t imagined the little flecks of white falling softly from the sky. She felt a bubble of delighted laughter rise up inside of her.

‘Hey, guys, it’s snowing!’ She laughed again and, shoving on a pair of boots that had been left by the back door, she stepped outside. She lifted her hands, feeling the snow melting where it touched her skin, and turned a slow circle.

It didn’t take long for Jack to come outside too. ‘Emma sent me to get you,’ he said, crossing his arms over his dark blue jumper. ‘She doesn’t want you to catch a cold and then give it to her, apparently.’

She smiled as she looked up at him, the white snow a shock against his dark hair. He didn’t make any move to drag her back inside, though.

‘Thank you for my sculpture,’ he said, his voice a gentle caress.

‘You’re welcome,’ she said. Her heart was starting up, the way it always did when it was just the two of them.

He took a step towards her, slid a small box out of the back pocket of his jeans. ‘I got something for you, too.’

She hesitated, then took the box. She hitched in a breath as she opened it. It was a necklace. A green pendant hanging from a golden chain. Green and – was that gold, at its centre? It seemed to pulse, like it was desperate to be worn.

‘It’s you,’ he said, still in that low, smooth voice. The one that never failed to make her skin heat. ‘The green and the gold and the fire. It’s what I think of when I think of you.’

‘I love it,’ she murmured.

She held the necklace to him, then lifted her hair and turned around in silent invitation. She felt the whisper of his touch on the back of her neck as he fastened the chain, gone before it was really there.

She turned back to face him. ‘I’m going to keep teaching.’

His eyebrows shot up at the abrupt change in direction. ‘Ok. Good to know.’

‘Wait, I’m going somewhere with this.’

‘Ok . . .’ Said more cautiously this time.

‘I’m going to keep teaching, because you’re right, I do love it. But I’m going to go part-time. I’m going to put some serious work into my art and see what comes of it. Maybe nothing, but I’m going to try – actually, properly try.’ She’d thought about it before, but the conversation with Emma made her feel sure it was the right thing.