LITMIR.BIZ

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Meningitis, cot death… After so many years of waiting, so much heartache.

      ‘Cancel everything, Anna. Get me on the next available flight to London,’ he said, dialling his brother’s number.

      Someone whose voice sounded familiar, but wasn’t Michael, wasn’t Phoebe, wasn’t Grace, answered the phone.

      ‘It’s Josh Kingsley,’ he said.

      There was a momentary hiatus and then she was there—Grace, her familiar voice saying his name.

      ‘Josh…’

      It was all it took to stir up feelings that he’d done his level best to suppress. But this last year he hadn’t been able to get her out of his head….

      ‘Josh, I’ve been trying to get hold of you….’

      ‘I know. I rang your number. Heard your message,’ he said, ignoring her question. ‘What’s happened? Who died?’

      He heard her take a long shuddering breath.

      ‘Grace!’

      ‘There was an accident. Michael, Phoebe… They were both killed.’

      For a moment he was too stunned to speak. His brother was dead. ‘When? How?’

      ‘Last Sunday morning. I’ve been calling, leaving messages. When you didn’t get back to me I thought… I thought…’

      ‘No!’ The word was wrenched from him. He knew what she’d thought and why, but it didn’t hurt any less to know that she could believe him so heartless.

      But then she already believed that.

      She had been so happy that she was having a baby for her sister, couldn’t understand why he’d been so desperate to stop her. And he hadn’t been able to tell her.

      ‘What happened?’ he asked.

      ‘The police said that the car skidded on a slick of mud. It went through a fence and then it rolled. It happened early in the morning and no one found them…’

      ‘The baby, Grace,’ he pressed urgently. ‘Posie…’

      ‘What? No! She wasn’t with them. She was here with me. Michael and Phoebe were away for the weekend. It was their wedding anniversary but they left the hotel early. They couldn’t wait to get back….’

      Long before she’d stumbled to a halt, he’d clamped his hand over his mouth to hold in the cry of pain.

      ‘Josh?’

      ‘It’s okay. I’m okay,’ he managed. ‘How are you coping?’

      ‘One breath at a time,’ she said. ‘One minute. One hour…’

      He wanted to tell her how sorry he was, but in a situation like this words were meaningless. And in any case she would know exactly how he was feeling. They were faced with the same loss. Or very nearly the same.

      Grace wouldn’t have to live with his guilt….

      Instead, he kept to the practical. He should have been there to deal with this, make the necessary arrangements, but it had been over a week already.

      ‘Who’s with you? What arrangements have been made? When is the…’ He couldn’t bring himself to say the word.

      ‘We buried them on Friday, Josh. Your father insisted on going ahead and, when you didn’t call back, no one could reach you…’ He heard her swallow, fight down tears, then she furiously said,

      ‘Where were you?’

      ‘Grace…’

      He looked up as his PA returned. ‘There’s a car waiting to take you to the airport. You have to leave now,’ she said, handing him a replacement BlackBerry.

      ‘Grace, I’m leaving now for the airport.’ Then, ‘Keep breathing until I get there.’

      Grace let Elspeth take the phone from her as she leaned weakly against the wall.

      ‘Maybe you could get some sleep now,’ she said gently, handing her the pills the doctor had left when he’d called after hearing the news. ‘You’ve left plenty of milk in the fridge for Posie. I’ll manage if you want to take a rest.’

      ‘I know.’ She put the pills in her pocket, knowing she wouldn’t take them. She didn’t want to go to sleep because when she woke she knew there would be a moment when she’d think it was just another day.

      Then she’d remember and have to live through the loss all over again.

      But she didn’t say any of that. Instead, she hugged her and said, ‘Thank you.’

      ‘We’re here, Mr Kingsley.’

      Josh glanced up at the façade of the tall Georgian town house that Michael had bought when he had married Phoebe McAllister. It was a proper family home with a basement and an attic and three floors in between. Endless rooms that they’d planned to fill with children.

      Instead, they’d got him and Grace. A seventeen-year-old youth whose parents had split up and who, wrapped up in their own concerns with new partners, didn’t want a moody cuckoo in the nest. And a fourteen-year-old girl for whom the only alternative was to be taken into the care of the local authority.

      Exactly what every newly-wed couple needed.

      They’d taken on each other’s damaged siblings without a murmur. Had given him his own space in the basement, had decorated a room especially for Grace. Her first ever room of her own.

      She’d been such a pathetic little scrap. A skinny rake of a kid, all straight lines when other girls her age had been testing out the power of their emerging attraction on impressionable youths. Only her eyes, a sparkling green and gold mix that could flash or melt with her mood, warned that she had hidden depths.

      Like her nose and mouth, they’d been too big for her face. And, until she’d learned to control them, they’d betrayed her every thought.

      Eyes like that should carry a health warning.

      ‘Is there anything I can do, Mr Kingsley?’

      Josh realised that the chauffeur—a regular who his PA had arranged to pick him up from the airport—was regarding him with concern.

      He managed a smile. ‘You can tell me what day it is, Jack. And whether it’s seven o’clock in the morning or seven o’clock at night.’

      ‘It was Tuesday when I got up this morning. And it’s the evening. But I’m sure you knew that.’

      ‘Just testing,’ he said, managing a smile.

      He’d counted every one of the last twenty-four hours as he’d travelled halfway round the world, coming to terms with the loss of his brother. And of Phoebe, who’d been the nearest thing to a big sister he’d ever had. By turns motherly, bossy, supportive. Everything that he’d needed.

      Knowing that he would have to live with a world of regrets for the hard words he’d said. Words that could never be taken back. For holding on to his righteous anger, a cover for something darker that he could never admit to…,

      But the hair shirt would have to wait. Grace needed him. The baby would need them both.

      He climbed from the car. Grace’s brightly painted ‘Baubles and Beads’ van was parked in its usual place but the space where he expected to see his brother’s car was occupied by a small red hatchback that underlined, in the most shocking way, the reality of the situation.

      Realising that Jack was waiting until he was inside, he pulled himself together, walked up the steps to the front door as he had done times without number to a house that had always felt as if it were opening its arms to him. Today, though, even in the spring sunshine, with tubs of bright yellow tulips on either side of the front door, it seemed subdued, in mourning.

      The

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