Phaedra Patrick - Wishes Under The Willow Tree

Her question felt like a small punch in his gut. ‘I am married. And I dried your clothes.’ He stepped over them and opened the curtains.

Gemma squealed and covered her eyes with her hands.

When she lowered them, he’d forgotten what she looked like. Her hair was now dry, with strands stuck to her cheeks. It was a russet red, darker than Charlie’s copper mop, and it reminded Benedict of autumn leaves. Her irises shone teal blue against the pink of her eyelids. Again, because of the high angle of her eyebrows, he wasn’t sure if she was surprised or not.

‘When you’re dressed,’ he said, ‘I’ll make you an omelette.’

She screwed up her nose. ‘I hate eggs.’

‘I have cheesecake too.’

‘ That’s a dessert.’

Her answering back made his head throb. ‘I’m not running a café. After you’ve eaten, we’ll phone your dad. You can tell him that you’re safe and we can make arrangements.’

‘What arrangements?’

‘For whatever you plan to do.’

Gemma frowned. ‘I planned to come here.’

‘To Noon Sun?’

‘Yeah. For an adventure.’

‘Adventure?’ Benedict’s brow puckered as he thought about the sleepy village, with its row of lacklustre shops. ‘You’ll be lucky. And it’s dangerous to turn up on a stranger’s doorstep unannounced.’

‘You’re my uncle. And it’s not unannounced.’

‘It is, if I didn’t know you were coming.’

‘My dad said that you knew.’

‘ What? ’ Benedict said. ‘I think I’d remember that. We haven’t spoken for years.’

‘Didn’t he write or something?’

‘No.’

Gemma puffed out her breath. ‘I hate arguments.’

‘It’s not really an argument,’ Benedict replied.

But he hated them too. He detested when he and Estelle had chats that turned to discussions which evolved into heated debates. When they couldn’t find a way forward and she would hug her pillow to her chest and stomp into the studio to sleep there instead.

‘When your father moved away, we lost contact,’ he said vaguely. ‘I’m not trying to get you into trouble, but there’s been some miscommunication. So, as soon as you’ve eaten, we’ll get in touch with Charlie, and your mother, to sort things out. Okay?’

Gemma sat up. She drew her knees up to her chin and hugged her shins. ‘It’s not so easy.’

‘Why not?’

‘Cause Dad lives on a farm in north Maine, but there’s no phone line. He doesn’t even have email.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘And he and my mom split, a few years ago.’

‘Oh.’ This threw Benedict. He had always imagined Charlie and his wife Amelia were still together. ‘Sorry to hear that. Does he have a mobile number?’

‘Sure. That’s the only thing he does have.’ She frowned, but her eyebrows remained high and pointed. ‘It’s 605, or is it 4? I think it’s, um…no. Sorry.’

‘Don’t you have it stored in your phone?’

‘Someone took my purse, from the airport restroom. My phone and passport were inside it.’

Benedict stared at her in disbelief. ‘So you don’t have a purse, phone or passport?’

‘Well, I did have them, but not any longer.’

Benedict dug his hand into his hair. ‘I’ll call the airport and see if your purse has been handed in.’

‘I reported it missing last night. They’ll call me if they find it. I’ve thought of everything.’

‘How can they call you, if they have your phone?’

‘Oh.’ Gemma scrunched her mouth into a small circle. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Hey, you could write him a letter,’ she said brightly.

Benedict’s mind conjured up the last slice of cheesecake in the fridge. He wanted it badly. ‘You can’t really stay here…’ he began.

‘You have a spare room.’

‘Yes, but…I’m waiting for my wife to come back.’

‘Where has she gone?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

Benedict needed a sit down. He wanted to get into Stone Jewellery and shut himself away in his workshop. He could make another brooch, or links for the anniversary necklace. It would be nice and quiet. ‘It’s a long story,’ he said.

‘Well…’ Gemma jumped off the bed and scooped up her rucksack from the floor. A large hairbrush and a small teddy bear with a purple ribbon around its neck fell out. She picked them up and stuffed them both back inside. Her mouth was set in a thin, determined line. ‘If you don’t want me here, I’ll get my stuff and go.’

Benedict studied the back of her head. ‘Where to?’

‘What do you freakin’ care?’ she snarled. ‘I’m almost seventeen years old and I can look after myself.’

Benedict gulped. He hadn’t calculated in his head how old she might be. Panic began to churn in his stomach. ‘You’re only sixteen?’ How could he turf her out, in a strange country? But he also thought about Estelle, arriving back at the house to find it in a mess and a teenager sleeping in her studio, and wearing her pyjamas. How was he going to deal with that? It was a shame he couldn’t ring Cecil for advice. ‘Look, have your breakfast first.’

‘I don’t want a crappy omelette, okay?’

‘Have some bread then…’

‘Jeez, you sound just like my dad.’ Gemma’s voice fired up a notch. ‘He doesn’t listen to me either.’ She slumped back on the bed and kicked her heels against the base of the mattress. Thud, thud, thud.

‘You must eat something…’

More quickly than Benedict’s eyes could follow, she reached down to the floor and picked something up. She raised her hand to her shoulder as if performing a shot put. Then she thrust it forward. ‘Just stop talking.’

Benedict felt something hit him on his left cheek. Thwump. The pain made him screw his eyes shut. ‘ What the …?’

Gemma’s eyes widened. She scrambled off the bed and held out her arms as if carrying a large dog. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Uncle Ben. I didn’t mean to hit you. I meant to hit the door.’

Benedict squinted. On the floor was the small white drawstring bag. ‘Well, that’s okay then. Is this what you threw at me?’ He nudged it with his foot. ‘You can’t go round lobbing stuff at people. That bloody well hurt.’

‘I said sorry.’

Benedict’s cheek throbbed.

‘You should open that white bag,’ Gemma said. ‘I brought it for you.’

‘To throw at me?’

‘I can’t be responsible for all my actions. Open it up.’

Benedict bent down, picked up the bag and eased it open. He immediately recognised the jumble of gemstones inside – an egg-shaped green speckled stone, a chunk of Turquoise and a piece of Rose Quartz in the shape of a heart. His head felt floaty as he picked it out. ‘What is this for?’

‘I want to know what they mean.’

It had been many years since Benedict had seen the gemstones, since he pushed them into his brother’s rucksack before he left for America. ‘They used to belong to my parents.’

‘There must be more to the story than that.’

Benedict felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine. He tied the drawstring tight and handed it back to her. Surely Charlie wouldn’t have told her the reason why the two brothers had fallen out? When he spoke his throat was the thickness of a drinking straw. ‘No, there isn’t,’ he said.

‘Well’ —Gemma snatched the bag of gemstones back off him and held them to her chest— ‘I’m sorry for throwing these at you, Uncle Ben. I’ll leave today and not come back. But not until you tell me more about these gems…’

3. Moonstone

release, empathy, intuition

Benedict went downstairs whilst Gemma showered and changed. He made cheese on toast, just as he used to for Charlie’s breakfast, and when his niece joined him in the kitchen, they sat at opposite ends of the table. The atmosphere felt chilly.