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As she letherself into the house, the depressing darkness of the place fell on her like a refrigerator. Why hadn’t Harriet—or her dad, for that matter—done something about this house, she wondered as she kicked off her boots and shed her coat. Harriet might have bought a new bowl and a print for the kitchen, but the rest of the house was stuck in a time warp, circa 1980—or 1880, for that matter. Much of the furniture had belonged to her great-great-grandparents, heavy, dark mahogany pieces that took up a quarter of a room without being very useful.
The wallpaper was the same too, from that era, or near enough—faded flocked, some of it coming away in strips, along the stairs. And the pictures—the muddy oil paintings, the black-and-white photograph, the needlepoint sampler, none of it would be so bad, Rachel supposed, if there had been other things to lighten the atmosphere. A few modern paintings, or family photos of the four of them—even her hideous, gap-toothed school photo from her notoriously awkward stage—anything to show there was life here. There was love.
But maybe there wasn’t. At least, not very much.
She walked slowly back to the kitchen, already feeling dispirited, defeated by the thought staying here for weeks, maybe even months. How was she going to bear it?
“You’re back.” Harriet was moving around the kitchen like a dervish, banging baking trays on top of the counter and sticking other ones in the oven. Rachel stared at her in bemusement.
“I am. But…what are you doing?”
“Baking.” Theobviouslywas unspoken but as clearly stated as if it had been, in a snarl.
“Cookies,” Rachel surmised, because that’s what was on the trays. “A lot of cookies. What for?”
“For a retirement party at the Wainwright.”
The Wainwright was a local pub, named after the hill walker of old, Alfred Wainwright, who had made a path from coast to coast, St Bees to Robin Hood’s Bay. Its trail went to the north of Mathering, missing the town centre and therefore the potential tourism opportunities, unfortunately.
“Oh, who’s retiring?” Rachel asked, trying to be friendly, and Harriet gave her a quick, quelling look.
“No one you know.”
O-kay. “You must know them, though,” Rachel said after a moment.
“Actually, I don’t.” Harriet was slipping cookies off the tray onto a cooling rack with swift, practised ease. “Beyond their name, anyway.” She hesitated and then said in a tone Rachel suspected was meant to sound offhand but clearly wasn’t, “This is a professional thing.”
She stared at her sister blankly. “Professional?”
“The baking.” Harriet’s cheeks were flushed now, and not, Rachel thought, from the heat of the oven.
“You’re baking professionally?” she asked, and heard the surprise in her voice and inwardly winced. She hadn’t meant to sound so disbelieving, but her sister had never done anythingprofessional, as far as she knew.
And how would you really know? It’s not as if you’ve been around.
“Yes, actually, I am,” Harriet snapped. Clearly, she’d heard the disbelief, too. “It’s just small stuff for now, for parties and things. I’m looking into supplying the Old Bakery, as well. With fresh bread.”
The loaf she’d eaten a slice of? Rachel gave another inward wince. “Wow,” she said, hearing how uncertain she sounded, even if she was sincere. “Well done.”
Harriet rolled her eyes. This did not seem the best moment to say she might be staying for a while, but Rachel doubted there would be a better one. Every interaction with her sister was acrimonious.
“Did you talk with Dad about his appointment?” she asked, and Harriet blew out a breath.
“I didn’t have time.”
“Well, it seemed to go okay. The specialist has referred him for an MRI, but I didn’t get the sense she thought he had Alzheimer’s or something like that. At least…I hope not.”
Harriet shot her a suspicious look. “What, then?”
“I don’t know.”
Her sister blew out a breath. “Okay. Well, you’ve done your duty, I guess.”
“Actually…” Thisreallydidn’t seem like the right time, with Harriet whirling about the kitchen, but Rachel didn’t feel she could put it off. “I was thinking about staying,” she said. “For a little while.”
Harriet turned to face her, mouth agape, spatula in hand. “What?”
“For a few…weeks, maybe. You know, like you suggested.” She gave the glimmer of a smile, which her sister did not return. “Until Dad gets the MRI, and then a diagnosis, if there is one.”
