I wet my lips and squeeze Marie’s fingers gently, my smile aimed to reassure. ‘What Cain said...’
She studies me for a second longer and then she nods, her beam so full of relief, happiness. ‘Good. Good.’ And then she picks up her cutlery. ‘In that case, let’s eat.’
She looks as if a weight has been lifted. For the first time since the crash I see a glimpse of the old her and my smile is genuine, filled with the love I feel for this woman who has treated me as her own for fifteen years.
My eyes drift back to Cain and my smile dies a swift death. He’s watching me, eyes intense, brooding, and so many emotions cross his face I can’t latch on to a single one. I just know they centre on me. All me.
Where has the composed Cain from seconds before gone?
I pull my eyes away and lift my fork, preparing to eat, hoping he’ll do the same.
He doesn’t.
What have I done? Did I say something, do something, to put him on edge?
‘This looks lovely, Marie.’
I stare pointedly at his plate and his lashes flicker. He gives a slight shake of his head and then finally he follows suit.
‘Smells as good as ever,’ he says.
‘Well, it always was your favourite. A mother never forgets.’
Shepherd’s pie. I should have remembered. Should have realised. I want to kick myself over my stupidity.
Marie hasn’t made this dish in over seven years. Not since that last family meal when his father announced the redistribution of his shares, cutting Cain out of the business. Not since Cain and I fell out in the O’Connors’ front garden, of all places, straight afterwards, both flinging accusations that neither of us could come back from.
But we might have stood a chance if Cain had only stuck around. Instead he’d fled. Leaving not just me but the O’Connors too. A hate-filled goodbye, all he’d deemed us worthy of...
Jesus, Marie, you really are facing the past head-on.
I glance at her, seeing the hope in her bright green gaze, and I wonder if maybe, just maybe, she’s right to do this. Maybe it’s exactly what I should be doing too?
My hand goes to my stomach, stroking back and forth. There’s so much he doesn’t know. So much I need to confess in order to truly face the past. So much pain to dredge up.
Can I really go there and come out whole again?
Do I have a choice?
Now he’s back, doesn’t he deserve to know?
My skin prickles beneath my jumper as a cold sweat breaks across my back, down my front. I wish I’d worn a vest, so I could take off my suffocating fur-ball of a jumper, but even then I’d feel like this.
It has nothing to do with the warmth of the room and everything to do with the pain of past, of the memories I try to bury but not to forget, all at the same time. Because Rose shouldn’t be forgotten. I gave birth to her. Held her. Her small body fragile and still.
My eyes sting and I avert my gaze, blink, reaching for my water glass and hoping they don’t notice how my fingers quake.
Yes, telling him is the right thing to do.
In my heart I know that.
But confessing will also rip my heart in two, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to piece it back together again.
Not this time.
CHAPTER FOUR
I EAT EVERY last mouthful of shepherd’s pie and go in for seconds. I do it for Mum. To see the pleasure on her face as she dishes out another helping.