Remember Me at Willoughby Close (Return to Willoughby Close #4) - Kate Hewitt Page 0,3

cottage had, unfortunately, only two bedrooms, but the caretaker Jace had offered to put up a temporary wall in the master to turn it into two. Maggie had the back one, with the window, while Laura had, in typical maternally sacrificial fashion, taken the smaller, windowless one. Sam had the front bedroom. It would do; it would have to, because it was the only property they could afford in the whole area.

“Shall we start unpacking?” Laura suggested. Boxes were stacked along one wall and the furniture from Maggie’s old bedroom—bed, bureau, chair, and desk—were all in a jumble against each other, leaving very little room to manoeuvre.

“Can my stuff even fit in here?” Maggie demanded, her gaze still on her phone.

“Considering it’s already in here, I should think so.” This time Laura couldn’t keep a very slight edge from her voice. She was tired, she had a headache, and the last thing she wanted to do was unpack everything. She’d much rather take a bubble bath and sleep for about twelve hours. She’d been in a state of perpetual exhaustion for a year.

Maggie just jerked one shoulder in the semblance of a shrug, and Laura decided to help Sam instead. Maybe if she left Maggie to it, she’d start to unpack a little on her own. Maybe she’d even get into a better mood.

When Laura came into the other bedroom, Sam was standing by the window that overlooked the little postage stamp of garden.

“Dad would have hated this garden,” he said matter-of-factly.

His words gave her heart a little twist. “Perhaps,” she agreed, “but he would have been able to do something magical with it.” Their garden back in Woodbridge hadn’t actually been that much bigger than this one, maybe twice the small size, but Tim had managed to fit a tree house, a zip wire, and several raised vegetable beds in it, although when he’d died the veg beds had been full of weeds, the zip wire broken. But that was Tim to a tee—infectious excitement veering to weary indifference and back again.

Another thought to banish to that dark corner of her mind.

Laura joined her son at the window and put her arm around his narrow shoulders. He leaned into her as they both looked out at the view—the tiny garden covered in frost, the wood and the wolds beyond, the glint of the Lea River no more than a promise on the horizon. It was a perfect wintry scene.

“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” Laura said quietly. “I’m looking forward to exploring.”

Sam didn’t reply, and she didn’t force a response from him. She felt sorrow emanating from him in a rolling wave, and she understood it. Everything about this house—this life—was different than what they were used to. It wasn’t what any of them had wanted it to be, and yet here they were.

“Shall we get started?” she asked gently, and he nodded.

They worked in quiet companionship for about half an hour; Laura located sheets for Sam’s bed and made it up while he organised all his books—mainly Horrible Histories and Minecraft annuals—in the wooden bookshelf Tim had built for him a couple of years ago. There were reminders of her husband everywhere, which was, Laura had come to realise, both a good and bad thing. She didn’t want to forget, of course she didn’t, and yet it could hurt so much to remember.

“This is a good start, isn’t it?” she told Sam, dusting her hands on her jeans, just as the doorbell rang.

“Who’s that?” Sam asked and Laura shook her head. The only person she’d met in Wychwood-on-Lea was the caretaker Jace, and then only briefly.

Feeling cautious for some reason, she headed downstairs, Perry lumbering up to follow her to the door with an expectant sniff.

“You must be the new tenant!” The woman at the door let out an embarrassed laugh. “I mean, obviously you are. I saw you guys move in. But don’t worry, I’m not a stalker.” Another laugh. “Goodness, I sound mad, don’t I? My name’s Lindy.”

She stuck out a hand, which Laura shook with an uncertain smile. “Laura Neale.”

Lindy nodded enthusiastically; she seemed that sort of person, practically pulsing with energy. About six feet tall with long, tumbling golden-brown hair, she definitely seemed larger than life. Next to her Laura felt more diminished than usual. She suspected she should invite her in, perhaps for a cup of tea, but with Maggie still pouting upstairs and boxes all around, the thought exhausted her. She had not