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Though she had no siblings, Juliet had a number of aunts, uncles, and cousins on her father’s side of the family who all gathered together on holidays. The phone was passed around from person to person, with Juliet repeating the same few sentences: “Yes, England is lovely.” “Yes, I’m enjoying the house and the work.” “Yes, I plan to return to teaching next year.”
At least everyone in her family was wise enough not to talk about the divorce or Liam. Except, naturally, her mother, who said abruptly, “I saw the photograph online.”
At least Juliet could be assured that this wasn’t a prelude to her being told to “Quit taking half-naked selfies” or questions like “How drunk were you exactly?” But it was even less welcome.
“Duncan,” she said flatly.
“And his student’s new baby. I assume this was the same one he was with when you were in the hospital? Or are there more women to come forward?”
“Mom, did you ever pause to consider that I might not have seen that photo? That you might be telling me something I had no idea about?”
“Oh please, Juliet. I know you much too well. Of course you keep tabs on him online. I’m just glad that you managed to finalize the divorce without changing your mind.”
“Thanks, Mom. Very encouraging, ‘I’m glad my daughter’s only a partly hopeless loser.’”
“Juliet, that man had you pinned like a butterfly to a board for ten years. We didn’t see you most of those years unless he was perched right next to you, watching every move you made and listening to every word you said. I thought I had lost my daughter for good. I will grieve forever the loss that brought you to your senses. But I will also never stop being grateful that you had enough spirit left in you to walk away.”
Her mother didn’t use Liam’s name. Juliet had screamed at her the one time she had, in the hospital just hours after they’d taken him away.
It was an unusual flood of sentiment from her severely practical mother and, in her newly healing state, Juliet felt a pang of remorse.
“I know, Mom. I’m sorry, you’re right. Yes, I saw the photo. And I didn’t get drunk or crawl into bed for three days or stop showering. So you can relax. I’m doing well.” She knew better than to tell her mom that Duncan had been texting her four or five times a week since the night of that photo. That his texts had thus far remained pleasant enough, dwelling on his own faults and asking for her forgiveness.
Juliet simply deleted them and hoped he would get the message sooner or later.
She thought of what else she could tell her mom as a distraction. “I even have a date on Saturday. He’s a surveyor in Newcastle, and his sister helps keep up the house. His name is Noah.”
“That sounds very promising. He’s not a stalker, is he?”
Juliet rolled her eyes. “I’ve got to go, Mom. Love you.”
November turned to December under steel-gray skies and unrelenting rain that only occasionally crossed into snowflakes. At least she could still work out—the best thing about a ridiculously enormous house was the ability to jog indoors. The daily workouts had become the first part of Juliet’s newly perfected routine. The rest included waking to an alarm, eating salads for lunch, and spending a minimum of four hours a day researching either the Wars of the Roses or the 1918 pandemic.
Her hard work was rewarded the second week of December when Nell Somersby-Sims made a brief visit to Havencross. Juliet expected it to be a little more than a tour of what she’d accomplished so far and, no doubt, judgment about how far she had left to go. Would Nell notice that she hadn’t washed down all the baseboards in the old dormitory wing?
Juliet braced herself for the solicitor’s London-tailored perfection by wearing a jersey dress she didn’t remember packing—maybe her mother had thrown it in—red tights, and low-heeled ankle boots. She straightened her hair, applied makeup (including concealer), and only stopped herself when she considered whether she remembered how to apply eyeliner.
It doesn’t matter what some distant cousin thinks of me. Just as long as I don’t get fired.
Nell, when she appeared, wore country-casual clothes (black skinny jeans, velvet-trimmed long-sleeved T-shirt, Burberry raincoat, forest-green Hunter boots) and a perfect ponytail. But just when Juliet’s confidence began to sink, Nell popped the trunk of her car and grabbed the first of several boxes.
“Family history,” she announced. “You did say you were interested in the Somersby past?”
Juliet snapped her mouth shut and swallowed. “Yes, thank you. Let me help.”
They placed the boxes on the long table in the Victorian kitchen alongside Juliet’s notebooks and the boxes from the Bennett farmhouse.
“This is really very—where did you get all this?” Juliet opened one and saw a number of neatly-labeled folders: Surveyors’ Maps, Renovation Work After 1940, Property Tax Receipts.
“Someone in the family had to pull everything together in order for the sale to go through. Clarissa Somersby did a lot of the work; I just cleaned it up a bit. It’s interesting.” Nell was defensive in a way Juliet recognized—it was a tone she’d often heard coming out of her own mouth. Every time Duncan had squinted and cocked his head about one of her interests, for example. She’d never known anyone more able to convey disdain with just the blink of an eye or the scrunch of his nose than her ex-husband.
The memory broke through Juliet’s own preemptive defensiveness. “Thank you for bringing all this—I’d have come down to London and spared you the trip if I’d known.”
“I’m supposed to check in before winter hits anyway, to make sure you’re set up in case there’s any trouble.”
“I think so. Noah Bennett from the surveyor’s office came round, made sure I have firewood and plenty of food stored.”
“Noah Bennett? Very nice.”
