One More for Christmas(87)

“I don’t see a section in this book where you tell people change is easy. You’re honest about how hard it is. That’s part of what makes it so valuable. This is written by someone who understands that change is hard.”

“You probably haven’t read enough of it to know.”

“I’ve read the book twice, Gayle, and I can’t tell you how much it has helped me. I woke up this morning feeling stronger than I have in a long while. Since before my Cameron died. I woke up with hope, and a tiny bit of excitement for the future. And you’re the reason why. Do you know how many books I’ve flung at the wall in the past year?”

“You’ve read other books?”

“Yes. I grabbed onto everything, like a drowning woman clinging to logs in the hope that they’ll keep her above the surface. I wanted to find a way to rebuild my life, but all I could see was what lay behind me, not what lay ahead. Your book changed that. And I’m not the only one you’ve helped. I went online and saw the reviews, and also some of the comments from people who have heard you speak. Women whose lives you changed. You should feel proud. Do you know how many people you’ve inspired? You’ve changed lives, Gayle.”

She was going to cry again, and her face was still swollen and blotchy from the last time. “I think we might need some of those onions you mentioned.”

“Your family are out in the forest. They won’t be back for a while, and when they are we’ll hear them. Read your own books, Gayle. That’s my advice.” Mary gave Gayle’s shoulder a squeeze. “You’ve talked a lot about your girls, and about your career, but nothing about yourself. Your personal life. Your needs.”

“My girls and my career were my life.”

“You never fell in love again?”

“I never let myself.” Gayle blew her nose hard. “I’m not saying there weren’t men. There were a few over the years, but never for any length of time. And that was my choice. It took every drop of my energy and willpower to build what I had, and I couldn’t risk it all.” She paused. “That’s what I tell myself. I suppose the truth is I was scared of relationships, too.”

“And who wouldn’t be, after coming through what you came through?”

“I always thought of myself as fearless, but I never moved outside the safe little bubble I’d created for myself.”

“Enough self-blame and regret, Gayle. You probably feel awful after all that crying. You should eat something more. Try my shortbread. My grandmother taught me to make it when I was the same age as your granddaughter. She swore it could make everything better. I used to come by after school with skinned knees and she’d sit me down right here at this table with a glass of milk. It was years before I realized shortbread didn’t really have magical healing properties.”

“That’s a great story.”

Mary put a slice on a plate and gave it to Gayle. “And it’s not too late, you know.”

“For what?”

“For a relationship. Intimacy. Fulfilment.”

“I’ve had a very fulfilling career. I’ve been lucky.” Listless, Gayle broke off a corner off the shortbread. She had no appetite, but she didn’t want to hurt Mary’s feelings. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d been shown such kindness. She didn’t operate in a world where people were kind. In her world you had to fight for a place and then you had to fight to keep it. In the land she inhabited if you showed your weaknesses, especially if you were a woman, they’d be used against you.

“But your career doesn’t laugh with you, understand you and hold you when you’re scared or tired.”

“What I can’t do for myself, I’ve learned to do without.” She ate a piece of shortbread and closed her eyes. It was still slightly warm from the oven, and she tasted sweetness as it crumbled in her mouth. A montage played through her brain—baking with her mother in the kitchen, hands dug deep into soft flour. Arriving home from school and immediately heading to the kitchen for a snack. Was it the food itself that was a comfort, or the memories that came attached like a sugar coating? Did we love food because food meant love? “This is perfect. I’ve never tasted anything better. Except perhaps your porridge. Also the soup you served last night. And the lamb. In fact everything you’ve served us since we arrived here.” Having thought she wasn’t hungry, she now realized she was starving. She broke off another piece of shortbread. “I think your grandmother might have been right about it having healing properties. Have you thought about writing a cookery book?”

Mary laughed. “To teach someone to make shortbread? It’s a staple in thousands of kitchens around here. No one needs my recipe.”

“I disagree.” Gayle glanced at the cakes and pies cooling on the countertop. “What you do here is special.”

“I make ordinary food. These days no one is interested in ordinary food.”

“I disagree. You could call it Tastes from a Highland Kitchen. No, wait...” Gayle paused. It was a relief to feel some of her energy returning. “Tales from a Highland Kitchen. You include personal stories about the recipes, like the one you just told me. Maybe interspersed with photographs of the estate.”

“Who would be interested in that?”

“In good, traditional recipes with human interest and family stories thrown in? A lot of people. Think about it. If you’re keen, I can make a call to my publisher.”