B L A I R E
•
When it comes to the copy of The Key to Anchor Lake that I know is in this house somewhere, I haven't got far. To be honest, it has barely crossed my mind. I haven't even listened to a single episode of The Anchor Lakey for the past couple of days, ever since Elizabeth and I sat down and talked at last.
She's been my priority since then. I may not have got any further with any of Sukie's mysteries, but I've made leaps and bounds with my aunt. The book can wait.
When I make it downstairs on Tuesday morning, my mind still reeling after hearing about the cousin I never had a chance to meet, Elizabeth's in the kitchen. The table has been laid and there's a jug in the middle, filled with a bright bouquet that brings sunshine to the dim room.
A cafetiere of coffee is ready and waiting and the toaster pops the moment I enter the room. Elizabeth turns around and greets me with a smile and a bowl of fresh fruit, her expression a complete one-eighty to what I've got used to since moving in. The newfound brightness of her disposition jolts me; so does the thought of something other than toast and marmite for breakfast.
"I went to the shop this morning," she says, setting the fruit down in the middle of the table.
I don't know why that shocks me so much. For some reason, I can't picture her leaving the house, but of course she does – I've only shopped for her a couple of times yet she cooks every night, and she's lived alone for at least twenty years. A girl's gotta eat, and it's not like there are any supermarkets around here willing to deliver.
"That looks amazing." I'm salivating at the thought of fresh crimson strawberries, shiny blackberries, scarlet raspberries.
"I thought we could do with a change." She tucks her hair behind her ears, only half of it twisted into a top knot that knocks ten years odd. "I went to the florist, too. The Greek girl seems to know you?"
"Olga? Yeah, she's part of the book club."
"She seems nice." Elizabeth puts the toast in a rack on the table. "I'm glad you've been making some friends, Blaire. I know it's a bit rich coming from me, but it's good for you. Oh, and she wanted me to give you this."
When she moves to the side, I see a second bunch of flowers in a vase next to the microwave, wrapped in polka dot cellophane and pastel pink paper. Peonies and freesias. There's a note attached, a floral heart on the front and several lines of beautiful, swirling handwriting inside.
Dear Blaire,
I hope everything's okay with you and Elizabeth! We missed you at book club on Monday. Thinking of you! I don't want to swing by and interrupt anything, especially if you two are making progress, so please come to the café when you can! It's so weird not having you around! In the meantime, I hope these brighten up your day.
Lots of love,
Sukie xxx
(P.S. I hope these are the flowers you liked!!)
Welcome back to the lump in my throat, a sudden rush of emotion swaying me. "Olga wanted you to give this to me?" I want to frame Sukie's card. I wish I could bottle up the way it makes me feel. It's a potent drug, heat filling my cheeks and stars filling my eyes.
"Mmhmm. She asked if I was Blaire's aunt and told me I had perfect timing, because she had just put together an order for you." She nods at the flowers. "They're pretty. You ordered them?"
"They're from Sukie." I cradle the bunch, inspecting the stunning assortment of pinks and purples and whites and greens. I don't know anything about the language of flowers, but this seems positive. It certainly makes me feel positive.
I know Sukie's terminally kind, that she's an open book with her emotions and her time, but perhaps this is something more. The thought that it could be, that the love and the kisses aren't just friendly, sends a swarm of overexcited butterflies to my stomach. I fold the note in half and slip it into my pocket, keeping it close.
"These were Mum's favourite flowers," I explain, touching the soft pink petal of a round, bulbous flower. "Freesias and peonies."
"She had good taste." Elizabeth sits down and I follow suit, buttering toast and spooning an assortment of fruit into a bowl. "Did she ever tell you why she named you Liberty?"
"Do you know?"
"No. I'm interested," she says. "She always called me Libby when I was little, she was the only one who did. And we go, what, thirty years without talking? And she calls you Libby too."
"She must have cared about you," I say. Elizabeth must feel as unmoored as I do, overwhelmed with information and questions that can't be answered because the people who know are the people who have died. "She had a thing for freedom, and she loved New York, too. One of her other nicknames for me was Statue."
A faint smile crosses Elizabeth's lips. "That's sweet," she murmurs. "Funny, isn't it, how parents will spend so long finding the right name for their child, and then call them anything but. Fee was always Fee, or Fifi, or Munchkin. Anything but the name on her birth certificate."
"Mmm. Mum never called me Liberty. Not even if she was mad." I spread butter on warm, crisp toast, and I drizzle a careful amount of marmite. "You know what, she was always insistent on me being free to be who I wanted to be and do what I wanted to do. She had this, I don't know, this fear of being pinned to one place. Maybe that's why she chose my name."
"She was scared of turning into me," Elizabeth says. "Do you feel free, Li- sorry, Blaire?"
I don't know how to answer that. "Not right now," I say. "Not because of you. Just ... everything."
She spends a couple of minutes slicing fruit over her granola. I pour myself a coffee and add a bit more sugar than usual, a splash more milk. We don't speak for a while, not until I finished half of my drink.
"Are we okay?" I blurt out, head tilted.
"In what way?"
"You and me. Are we okay with each other? I know I've been a shit to you, b—"
"Your behaviour has been completely understandable," Elizabeth says. "I wish I could say I know better, but I don't. Clearly. Neither of us were prepared for this, not so soon. Not ever. But yes, we're okay. I think ... patience. Patience is key."
"Mmm. Yeah." It's going to take time, I know. But looking at us now compared to where we were just a few days ago, it's night and day.
"You're my niece, Blaire. You're my flesh and blood. My big sister's daughter. I'm still coming to terms with it – I've never been good with change, and I've grown too comfortable on my own – but that counts for a lot. Your mother and I are hardly a shining example, but family should stick together."
Is this a breakthrough? Are we having a moment? My face is warm and I feel like the weights on my shoulders have turned into balloons, lifting me up rather than pressing me down.
I finish breakfast with a smile on my face.
*
I don't want to rush anything, so after two days with Elizabeth, she heads upstairs to paint once more and I head outside to find Sukie. I walk, taking my time along the long and winding road, and it feels even better to make it to the café nearly thirty minutes later.
I blow through the doors in a gust of wind that whips my hair around my face, and I manage to get it out of my eyes just in time to see Sukie barrelling over to me. Her hug almost knocks me off my feet and I get her hair in my mouth when I gasp at the sudden attack.
"I was getting worried," she says into my shoulder before she pulls away. "Are you okay? I saw Olga earlier and she said your aunt was in the florist?"
"I got your flowers," I say. "They're beautiful. You didn't need to do that."
She flushes and shrugs, a coy smile growing. "I wanted to. I'm so glad you liked them! But are you all right, Blaire? How did things go with your aunt?"
"Heavy," I say, following her over to the counter. She slips behind and takes out one of the enormous mugs, already preparing me a latte. "It was good, though. We talked a lot. We've had, like, two whole days of talking."
Sukie looks at me over her shoulder as she steams the milk. "Did she tell you why she had a photo of you? Did she explain why she lied?"
"She didn't."
"What?! And you're okay with that?" she cries out.
"No! No, no, I mean she didn't lie." I blush with shame at the way I reacted, the way I accused Elizabeth. "I was wrong. It wasn't me."
"It looked like you. Vanilla?"
"Please."
She adds a couple of pumps to the mug that she fills with hot, frothy milk, adding a couple of espresso shots. It's an easy, practised art for her – she hardly seems to think about her movements as she puts together the latte, her eyes on me most of the time. "So who was it?"
"Elizabeth's daughter."
Sukie almost drops the mug. "What the hell? She has a kid?"
"Yeah. She had a daughter. Fee, or Fifi. I'm not a hundred percent sure." I hand over a five-pound note that Elizabeth pressed into my hand when we crossed paths in the hallway as I headed out and she headed up.
"Wow. Well, blow me down. I am shook. I had no idea. I can't picture her as a mum."
"Fee died," I say. "A long time ago. She was only a child."
Sukie pales. "Oh, god. Oh, Blaire, I'm so sorry. Shit. Poor Elizabeth."
"Yeah." I take the latte that she pushes across the counter, and drop my change into the tips jar. "It was ... yeah. Heavy."
"And you two are ... are you all right with each other?"
I nod, cupping my mug in both hands despite the heat as I make my way to the table at the end of the counter. Sukie meets me there, on the other side. "We had a breakthrough. Probably one that we should have had a month ago, but I was too busy avoiding her because she looks like my mum, and she was busy avoiding me because I look like her daughter."
Sukie makes a sympathetic noise. "I can see why that might be tricky."
"A bit, yeah." I don't want to drag myself down into that conversation again, so I shake it off and say, "So, you missed me, huh?"
"It's crazy how much I got used to having you at home," she says with a laugh, whipping out a cloth to wipe the counter when another barista comes out of the back and eyes her. She makes a face at them when they're not looking. "So, you know, even if you're not fighting with your aunt or icing each other out, you're more than welcome to stay over."
"Thanks, Sukie. I might have to learn some of your mum's recipes and teach Elizabeth a thing or two about seasoning."
That makes her chuckle, and I get all warm at the sound of her laugh and the look in her eyes.
"I'm glad you guys were able to talk," she says. "I take it you don't know anything else about the book?"
"It wasn't the time." My sigh ripples the surface of my latte. "I'll find out. I'll find it. I just need time, and strategy – the last thing I want is to fuck things up and go back to square one."
"Oh, god, no. No, please don't do anything for me that would jeopardise your relationship." She holds up her hands, shaking her head. "Focus on you. This is really good progress."
"We're getting there."
To be honest, even if Elizabeth and I never get any closer than we are now, I could live with that. We're talking – that's a start. And eating together without the pressure of a heavy silence, the kind where things aren't being said that should be.
"Did I miss anything at book club?" I ask a few minutes later, once Sukie's dealt with a customer and returned to me like we're a couple of magnets, drawn back to each other over and over again.
"Nothing major. I didn't mention Elizabeth's copy of the book to the others – I thought you'd want to figure that out without pressure from them. Well, from Jacob, I guess."
"Thorny little prick, that one," I mutter. Sukie giggles.
"Couldn't have put it better myself, and I've known him for years."
"He's always lived here, right?"
"Oh, yeah. His family's been in Anchor Lake for, like, forever. Like that's some kind of badge of pride." She rolls her eyes and tuts. "He used to always bang on about his ancestors founding the town, and I was like, dude, that means your ancestors are English pricks who stole this town's history and rewrote it."
I stop in my tracks, mug halfway to my mouth. "Wait, what? His ancestors founded the town?"
"I don't know. He spews a lot of crap, god knows how much is fact. I think he just wants to be heard, even if half the time he comes across as a little baby fascist."
The thought snags on my ragged brain, harking back to what Sukie's already told me about this town. If Jacob's ancestors founded it, then it's his ancestors who killed Temperance Key. It chills me to the core, an actual shudder running through me that I try to quell with a mouthful of coffee.
No wonder he's such a prick. It's in his blood.
*