Patchwork Paradise(13)

I lifted my head. Simon looked slightly mulish while Martine looked scared. “What happens if I say no?”

“We go to court.” Simon’s voice hardened. “We don’t want to take that route, but we will if we have to, and it will cost us both a lot of money, Oliver. So think about that carefully.”

“If all this had happened a month later, the house would’ve gone to me anyway and you wouldn’t have been able to fight it.”

“But you weren’t married.” Simon’s fist was tight around his beer bottle. “We’re trying to be reasonable.”

“Simon,” Martine said, pale and on the verge of tears.

My heart beat harder, faster, the blood thrumming through my veins. “You want me to leave the house that was ours. That we were going to share for the rest of our lives. And you expect me to be happy with a lump of money?” I shook my head. “It’s my home.”

“Ollie,” Martine implored, her eyes darting between me and her husband. “Please don’t make any hasty decisions. Think about it first.”

I nodded slowly. My eyes felt dry and gritty. I couldn’t even tell anymore if that meant I was about to cry or if I’d completely run out of tears. I whispered, “What do you think Sam would say if he knew about this?”

Martine began to sob quietly, and Simon gave me an angry look. “Maybe you should go.” Simon stood. “And think about this, before either of us says anything we’ll come to regret.”

I opened my mouth to snarl something mean, but I felt the ghost of a handprint on my shoulder, the whisper of a breath against my ear. Easy now. I rose to my feet. Without saying another word, I left.

I got in my car, drove a hundred yards, and pulled over. I stared into nothing. This was a side of Simon I’d never seen. Back when Grandma had left the house to Sam, he’d dealt with most of the fallout. I knew at the time it’d been happening, but it hadn’t seemed all that urgent. Not to me, at least. We’d both been young and on the verge of starting our adult lives together. Back then I didn’t care what house we lived in. Now, thinking of Sam facing his parents like this made my stomach turn.

With shaking fingers I dialed Cleo’s number. I told her the whole story and finally began to cry with anger.

“I don’t even want it!” I yelled. “I don’t want the house or the money. I want Samuel. I want my Sam.” And it hit me, truly hit me, maybe for the very first time with full force, that I’d never, ever see him again. That his body had been burned, his ashes collected and spread on the wind in the backyard of his parents’ house. He was gone. Completely, utterly, gone.

I heard Cleo cry on the other end of the line. “I know,” she croaked. “I know, honey. But don’t give up on the house. You do want it. You love that place.”

I felt terrible after I calmed down. Both in body and in mind. These were his parents, and I’d expected to share my grief with them. Instead I dragged it around all by myself.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, and Cleo sobbed in my ear.

“Don’t be. They’re being *s. You loved him so much. It should be a relief to them to know he was loved like this. That he had someone like you in his life. Instead they’re ruining his memory.”

“Maybe I should just let it go,” I mumbled, suddenly exhausted. “The house is too big for me. They’re right. Maybe it’s not meant to be mine.”

“Well,” Cleo said firmly. “Samuel disagreed.”





“I’m coming!” I yelled the next morning, as if Thomas could hear me through the house, onto the street, and into the car he was honking from. I hastily poured coffee into a travel mug, nearly tripped over my bag, almost forgot to turn off the coffee machine, had to go back for my keys, and finally pulled the heavy front door shut behind me.

Thomas had managed to squeeze his Peugeot into a spot the size of a handkerchief. I hurried over, tossed my bag in the trunk, and claimed the passenger seat when I saw it was empty.

“Hey!” I said, then noticed the backseat was empty too. I met Thomas’s steady gaze. “Where are Imran and Cleo?”

“They’re driving separately,” Thomas said, and he winced slightly. “Cleo said they had a lot to talk about.”

“Oh.” I settled in my seat and pulled the safety belt across my chest. “Well, that’s good, right? I mean, maybe they’ll have argued themselves out and made up again by the time we get to the Ardennes.”

“Or they’ll kill each other on the way there.”

“They won’t.” I hesitated. “Will they?”

Thomas gave me a crooked smile. A flop of his thick brown hair fell over his left eye, and he pushed it away. “No, probably not. Listen, Cleo told me what happened with Sam’s parents yesterday. I’m really sorry.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Are you okay?”

I shrugged. “It stinks. But I’m not rolling over without a fight.” I looked back at our—my—white front door, and my resolve tightened. “This is my home.”

“Yes, it is,” Thomas said. “And if there is any way I can help, you let me know.” I nodded but said nothing, so he let it go. “You have the address? I can put it in my phone.”