Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

“You, too. I mean, you look wonderful,” answered Gemma, awkward in an attempt to cover her shock. Hazel didn’t look wonderful at all. While she had never been plump, there had always been a bit of softness about her that made her particularly attractive. Now her cheeks were hollow, and her collarbone jutted above the neckline of the cotton sleeveless blouse she wore. Tan hiking shorts hung on her hips, as if they’d been borrowed from someone several sizes larger, and her feet were bare, making her seem oddly defenseless.

“I know, I’m pale,” Hazel said, as if she sensed Gemma’s reaction. “It’s Scotland. We had no summer this year. I’m sure I must look as though I’ve been living in a cave. But enough of that. Let me show you the house.”

Gemma took in her surroundings. The door in the wall had actually been a gate, and they stood on the brick patio Hazel had described, overarched by trees. Across the patio stood a white-stuccoed bungalow, its single story capped with a red tile roof. Yellow roses climbed up trellises on its front, and lemon trees in tubs stood at either side of the front door.

“It is a bungalow,” Gemma said, delighted. “It’s a bit exotic for London, isn’t it?”

“I call it my Secret Garden house.” Hazel took her arm. “I fell in love with it the minute I saw the photo online. I know it’s not Islington, but the neighborhood grows on you, and I could just barely afford it.”

“Those boys-”

“Tariq, Jamil, and Ali,” Hazel corrected. “They’ve taken to keeping an eye on me. Tariq said he wouldn’t want his old mum living all on her own. Quite took the wind out of my sails, I can tell you. Not that his old mum is likely to be more than thirty-five.”

Hazel’s brightness seemed a little forced, and Gemma wondered if she were really as comfortable as she made out. But this, she sensed, was not the time to force the issue, and she followed Hazel obediently into the little house.

The front door led directly into a sitting room that ran the width of the house. The walls were white, the floor tiled, so that the room seemed almost a continuation of the patio. One end held recessed bookshelves on either side of a brick fireplace, the other a dining area and a small, fitted kitchen set into an alcove.

“It’s still a bit bare, but I’ve raided Ikea, and I’ve got books on the shelves, so that’s a start,” Hazel said. “And I’ve got tea, and wine in the fridge. Life’s essentials.”

Gemma recognized the pink-and-red-floral sofa and red-checked armchair from a recent Ikea catalogue. Hazel had added an ottoman, an end table with a lamp, a rag rug, and baskets filled with magazines and knitting yarns, a comfortingly familiar touch. The dining furniture was pale wood, pleasingly simple, and Gemma thought it, too, had come from Ikea. A vase filled with red tulips stood on the table, another familiar touch. Hazel had always had flowers in the house.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why Hazel hadn’t brought anything from Carnmore, her house in Scotland, or from Islington, when Hazel said, “It’s a doll’s house, really. Reminds me of the garage flat. Do you remember?”

Hearing the hint of wistfulness, Gemma squeezed her friend’s arm. “Of course I do. It’s only been-” She stopped. Had it really been that long?

Gemma had rented the tiny garage flat behind the house in Islington where Hazel had lived with her daughter, Holly, and her now-estranged husband, Tim Cavendish. It had proved both sanctuary and launching pad, allowing Gemma to regain the confidence so badly damaged by her marriage, and to move on in her personal as well as her professional life. Hazel had cared for Gemma’s son, Toby, who was the same age as Holly, and had provided Gemma with a stability she’d never felt in her own home.

Then an unexpected pregnancy had propelled Gemma into a new life with Duncan Kincaid, and a few months later, Hazel’s marriage had collapsed and she had moved to the Scottish Highlands to take over her family’s whisky distillery.

“It will be two years at Christmas,” Gemma said wonderingly. Two years since she and Duncan had moved into the house in Notting Hill with Toby and Duncan’s son, Kit, two years since she had lost the baby.

“There’s only the one bedroom,” Hazel was saying. “But when Holly stays, she’s comfy enough on the sofa. And of course she usually manages to creep in with me.”

“When Holly stays?” asked Gemma, brought sharply back to the present. “What do you mean, when Holly stays? Isn’t she with you?”

Hazel looked away, started to speak, then gestured towards the kitchen. “I’ll just put the kettle on, shall I? And then we’ll have a proper talk.”

It was the summer we became orphans…

– Emanuel Litvinoff, Journey Through a Small Planet

He struggled up from the dream, grasping for consciousness the way a drowning swimmer gasps for air. For an instant he seemed to breach the surface, and with an effort of will forced his lips to move.

“Sandra.” In his mind, he heard his own rasping whisper. But then the fog lifted a bit further, and he realized that he hadn’t spoken at all, that even his plea had been part of the dream. “Wha-,” he managed, and this time he was sure he had spoken, but his dry lips felt foreign, as if they belonged to a ventriloquist’s dummy.

“Where-” It was only a thread of sound, but encouraged, he attempted to blink. The sudden flare of light seared his eyes, and the accompanying wave of pain carried him back into comforting dimness.

Hazel took the armchair, settling into the curve of it and tucking her feet up as if she needed the comfort. She’d brought a tray holding a red teapot and mugs, a jug of milk, and a plate of mixed biscuits from a supermarket package. It was the first time Gemma could recall Hazel offering something she hadn’t made herself. Hazel had remembered, however, just how much milk Gemma liked, and poured for her before filling her own cup and cradling it between her hands.

Gemma felt the hint of a breeze from the patio windows, and thought she caught the scent of lemons. The voices of the boys in the street came faintly from beyond the wall.

When Hazel didn’t speak, Gemma said slowly, “I thought, when you said you were coming home, that you and Tim might be getting back together.”

“No.” Haltingly, Hazel went on, “I had thought…but I’m afraid it’s just too complicated. Even if Tim could forgive me, I’m not sure I can forgive myself.” The look she gave Gemma held an appeal. “I had everything, Gem. Marriage, family, home, career-and I threw it all away.”

“But you loved Donald Brodie. If things hadn’t gone so terribly wrong-”

“Did I?” Hazel sat forward, sloshing her tea. She rubbed at the wet edge of her mug with her thumb. “Did I really love him? Or was I just bored, and desperate for attention? It was a fantasy. It would never have worked, even if-” She swallowed, shook her head. “But none of that matters. What does is that I was willing to hurt Holly, and Tim, and I can’t take that back.”

“And Tim, does he feel that way, too?”

“I don’t know. He says he’d like to try, but I think once the novelty wore off, it would eat at him. How could it not? How could he ever trust me?”

Gemma was about to urge her friend not to be so hard on herself, but seeing Hazel’s obstinate expression, changed tack. “Then why have you come back? I thought you loved Carnmore.” The distillery, tucked away in one of the most remote regions of the Scottish Highlands, had seemed horribly isolated to Gemma, but she hadn’t been able to dissuade Hazel from staying.