Remember Me at Willoughby Close (Return to Willoughby Close #4) - Kate Hewitt Page 0,2

unpack.”

Sam merely grunted, and Laura wondered if she’d have the energy to enforce the ultimatum she’d just given. Goodness but it could be hard to parent solo. There was never anyone else to take up the slack, to step in when you needed a breather, to play the bad cop when you needed a moment or two to shine as the good one. Thirteen months on and it still felt so very hard.

The first box she’d opened was all the nice table linens she hardly ever used. Naturally. Laura opened another, to find her standing mixer and all her wooden spoons and spatulas. Why hadn’t she marked her box of essentials? For heaven’s sake.

Four boxes later she’d finally found it and was gratefully plugging in the kettle. Maggie was still upstairs, no doubt telling all her so-called fake friends back in Woodbridge how much she hated it here. Never mind that she’d said they were fake, they were the only ones she had right now, and Laura understood her need to cling to what was familiar.

Far from the first time, she wondered if moving across the country was actually a good idea when your life was already in such upheaval. When you were still grieving, or at least trying to, except over a year on and you still weren’t sure how it was supposed to feel, what life was meant to look like.

The kettle boiled and she tossed teabags into two mugs and then poured boiling water over them before Perry, true to form, came over and snuffled against her thigh, hoping for something to eat, even if it was just biscuit crumbs.

Speaking of biscuits…Laura ripped open a packet of rich tea ones. “Sam,” she said gently. “It’s been fifteen minutes. Time to get off that screen.”

With a groan that seemed to come from the depths of his lanky form, Sam tossed the iPad aside and went over to grab for a biscuit—or three. “Okay, what?” he asked, spewing out some crumbs.

“Shall we sort your room out?” Laura suggested. The kitchen was more important, but she wanted her son to be involved. Excited. And she thought she should go upstairs and check on Maggie, even if her daughter wouldn’t appreciate what she’d see as interference. She’d bring her a cup of tea as a peace offering.

“Okay.” Sam gave her an uncertain smile that made Laura’s heart ache with both love and worry. Since their dad’s death Maggie had been full of fiery theatrics, while Sam had gone very quiet. It was tempting to focus more on putting out the fire rather than making sure her youngest was okay, but she did her best to take moments with him when she could—to enjoy simple pleasures as well as to simply be, letting the sorrow spin out.

Now she ruffled his hair and he leaned in for a quick hug; that was something else that was new since Tim’s death. Her son had become cuddly. While she savoured the connection, it also worried her. Sam would never say he was afraid, or sad, or just plain unhappy. But what if he was? What was he struggling with, that he never told her about?

“Come on,” Laura said, and together they headed up the narrow, open flight of stairs that led to the cottage’s first floor. Admittedly, it was significantly smaller than their house in Woodbridge, which had had four bedrooms and two receptions, plus an eat-in kitchen. It hadn’t been a mansion, but it had been nice enough, and number three Willoughby Close was, at least in terms of square footage, a definite downgrade.

But the view was gorgeous, and the cottages were wonderfully quaint, with their wooden beams and statement stone wall. Not that her children would necessarily appreciate that kind of quaintness.

Maggie was camped out in the back bedroom, which was smaller than her room at home, but still, Laura told herself, perfectly adequate. She had enough of a guilt complex going on not to add to it with the fact her daughter had a slightly smaller bedroom than she was used to. First-world problems and all that.

“Hey, Maggie,” Laura said in the same bright voice she’d used with Sam. “I brought you a cup of tea.”

Her daughter did not reply. She was sitting hunched under the window, a curtain of dark hair obscuring her face, her fingers flying over the screen of her phone.

“So this is your room,” Laura said unnecessarily as she put the cup of tea next to her. The