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“Michael told me about how you were doing in school though—what theatre courses you were taking in university. I read all your old essays and plays.”

Alex turned another page of the album. Several of the photos stuck together. She ran her fingers over the yellowing images, separating them.

“I was going to post you some photos a few years back, but your dad asked me to send nowt,” said Joan. “He worried if I told you about my years treading the boards, your mum would’ve had a right old strop, especially with your love of theatre. I didn’t care about upsetting her ladyship, but the last thing I wanted was to make things harder for you, so I kept my trap shut.”

“It couldn’t have gotten much worse. She practically disowned me when I accepted the spot at Emory. Refused to help with tuition, constantly belittled my choice.”

Joan rubbed Alex’s back.

“This one is from another production at the Palace.” Joan pointed at an image where she stood in the middle of a long line of chorus girls. “The director wanted to pay us a quarter of what the men were earning. We didn’t have a contract, so five of us girls threatened to walk out an hour before opening night unless he gave us a third. He caved, of course. We didn’t take any guff.”

“Why did you stop performing?” asked Freddie.

“I married Alex’s granddad before my nineteenth birthday. Had Michael nine months after. It’s what all of us did in those days, Freddie.”

Alex slipped a photo from the album sat on her lap. “Oldham Repertory Theatre, 1957” was handwritten in faded pencil on the back.

“Oh, that was Noel Coward, Design for Living. I had a dozen lines or so, but I made the most of them,” said Joan.

She continued to answer Freddie. “But you see, love…with a baby, it just wasn’t possible to carry on. You were done. The day after I found out I was pregnant, I was offered a lead role—it would’ve been my thirteenth play. It broke my heart to turn it down. I often wonder where it might have led if I’d stuck with it. I had some grand old times on stage.”

“I had no idea.” Alex’s eyes widened.

“Thirteen? So unlucky,” said Lucy.

The kitchen rattled with clinking mugs and the metal-on-metal clatter of cutlery. The smoky, salty call of bacon wafted around the corner.

Michael stepped into the lounge, holding a knife smothered with butter. “Helen’s back, and breakfast’s almost ready. Let’s get you all fed and watered so you can head into town. Who fancies a brew?”

“I do,” said Freddie. He set his glass on the coffee table and bounded into the kitchen with Lucy in hot pursuit, snatching the back pocket of his jeans.

Joan squeezed her granddaughter’s arm. “It’s so good to have you here. It means the world to us.”

“Me too,” said Alex with a smile as they walked into the lively kitchen. Lucy and Freddie were laughing at Michael. Helen had just told him off for pinching a slice of bacon.

“Alex, gimme a kiss, love.” Helen set a greasy pair of tongs on the counter, wiped her hands on a flowery Cath Kidston apron and wrapped her chubby arms around her stepdaughter. “I tried to stay up last night for your arrival, but fell asleep.”

Alex closed her eyes, resting her chin on Helen’s shoulder, the squishy hug both welcoming and overdue. Helen never had kids of her own, but when she married Michael in 2005, she treated all three of his children like they were hers—albeit from an ocean away. Helen had been her dad’s first love as a teen, and she boasted many qualities that Alex knew her mother lacked: she was utterly selfless, always put her family first, and appreciated each of the kids in their own right. With only a few years left until retirement, Helen had recently marked thirty-five years working as a critical care nurse. Alex adored her.

Helen eased her clinch, her round brown eyes aglow. She placed her hands on Alex’s waist. “So skinny! Have they been starving you down there? You need some good northern cooking to put some meat on those bones. Bacon barms coming up, my sweet.” She lifted several thick rashers of sizzling bacon onto a large plate.

“Usually it’s me making breakfast for people. Can I help?” Alex leaned in between Helen and her dad who buttered several pieces of toast. She plucked a fresh cup of tea from the counter and handed it to Joan.

“Nope. Grab a mug for yourself and head to the table. I’ll bring the barms as soon as your dad’s finished with the toast,” said Helen. “I’m making two for all three of you. These London kids, so skinny.”

Lucy pulled Alex aside and whispered. “All systems go for talking to your dad about a hand with rent money?”

Alex watched the bacon sandwiches being assembled, avoiding Lucy’s gaze. “After breakfast when you’re on the way to the train station.”

Twenty-One

Alex paced around the lounge, waiting to hear the door slam to Helen’s SUV. Freddie and Lucy were buckled in for a lift to the Heaton Norris train station. Within twenty minutes, they would be at Manchester Piccadilly in the city centre where Alex would join them later. Joan had returned to her granny flat at the back of the house to finish a piece of pottery, so Alex had her dad all to herself.

“You’re going to wear a hole in that carpet. What’s so worrisome that you shuttled your friends off, and want to speak with me on your own? Not boy trouble? Devin hasn’t been calling, has he?” Michael settled into his leather recliner and slapped his Saturday morning newspaper on the small side table. “I know how hard it’s been for you to let him go.”

Alex crumpled into the couch, pulling her knees into her chest. She picked at a stray thread sticking out from the toe of her sock. “It’s not that, Dad.” She dropped her chin. “It’s something else.”

“I’m all ears, love.”