Page 168 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘I’m not responsible for saving you from things you won’t deal with.’

Chloe let out a short incredulous laugh. ‘Ungrateful. That’s what you are. After everything.’

Sammy’s throat tightened. ‘This,’ she said, her voice steady despite the crumbling face before her, ‘this – it isn’t love.’

Chloe’s eyes glittered, colour rushed into her cheeks. ‘Don’t expect me to be there for you one day,’ she said, backing toward the open door. When Sammy didn’t reply, Chloe gushed on. ‘You’re all I have,’ Chloe said, the words breaking now. ‘Don’t do this. Please.’

Sammy swallowed. ‘I can’t help you,’ she said. ‘Not this time.’

Something closed behind Chloe’s eyes. Then she turned, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the walls. She stalked off without looking back.

Through the window Sammy heard Jimmy’s engine running.

Chloe reached the car, words already spilling out of her. Sammy didn’t catch Jimmy’s reply – just the clipped tone.

Sammy stepped outside. Jimmy met her gaze through the windscreen. To her surprise, he didn’t look angry. He looked as though he understood. Chloe stopped talking, got in and slammed the door shut. The car shot down the lane, scattering gravel behind it.

Sammy’s hands shook. She pressed them together, holding them still.

Before she even reached the lake, Sammy’s phone was in her hand.

The water lay still in the evening light, the surface unbroken except for a few ripples where something moved beneath. Reeds lined the bank, dry at the tips, green lower down where the water reached them.

She glanced at the patch where Stop It had got himself trapped. It was impossible now to tell exactly where it had happened. The mud looked no different from anywhere else. Yet she could almost feel the pain in her shoulders when she’d hauled at his collar, sinking deeper with every step; she could virtually see the relief in Magnus’s face when she and Nate had finally dragged the dog free.

This was where they’d fed the ducks, on those days when everything had seemed possible. She pictured tossing the grain on the water, the ducks gliding in across the surface; then the ducklings, the sound of them, the way those small bodies followed, certain of her. Gone now. Where they were meant to be.

Sammy dialled Jean’s number.

‘Hello, love.’

‘Chloe came to see me. In trouble. Again.’ Sammy said. ‘I told her no.’ The words sounded different here, carrying out over the water.

‘Oh, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you.’

Sammy picked up a stone, tossing it across the lake, watching it skim across the water before sinking. ‘It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.’ She could still see Chloe slamming that car door.

‘I know,’ Jean said. ‘But you did it.’

A kingfisher flashed low over the lake, dark against the silver water, before vanishing into the September sky. ‘I keep thinking . . .’ Sammy said. ‘What if she really needed me? What if . . .’

‘She’s always needed you,’ Jean replied. ‘She always will. The question is: what do you need?’

Sammy traced the curve of the bank with her eyes, stopping where Thyme had nested behind the reeds. The absence of the ducklings didn’t feel sharp anymore. Just . . . right.

‘I need . . .’ She stopped, then tried again. ‘I need to build something that’s mine.’

‘Then go and do it,’ said Jean.

Sammy closed her eyes, lying back on the grass, letting the warmth settle over her. When she opened them again, she propped herself up on her elbows and stared out at the lake, the future not clear, but hers. She slipped the phone into her pocket.

It was done. And she wasn’t taking it back.

Thirty-nine

The first message was mildly inconvenient.

Valerie: I’ve been signed off sick for the next two weeks.