LITMIR.BIZ

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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

       CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

       CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

       CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

       CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

       CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

       ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

       Extract

       About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

       Suzanne

      THERE ARE GOOD anniversaries, and bad anniversaries. This was a bad one and Suzanne chose to mark the moment with a nightmare.

      As usual, she was buried, her body immobile and trapped under a weight as heavy as concrete. There was snow in her mouth, in her nose, in her ears. The force and pressure of it crushed her. How deep was she? Which way was up? Would anyone be looking for her?

      She tried to scream, but there was nothing, nothing…

      “Suzanne…”

      Someone was calling her name. She couldn’t respond. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Her chest was being squeezed.

      “Suzanne!”

      She heard the voice through darkness and panic.

      “You’re dreaming.”

      She felt something touch her shoulder, and the movement catapulted her out of her frozen tomb and back to reality. She sat up, her hand to her throat, gulping in air.

      “It’s all right,” the voice said. “Everything is all right.”

      “I had…a dream. The dream.” And it was so real she expected to find herself surrounded by ice crystals, not crumpled bedding.

      “I know.” The voice belonged to Stewart, and his hand was on her back, rubbing gently. “You were screaming.”

      And now she noticed that his face was white and lines of anxiety bracketed his mouth.

      They had a routine for this but hadn’t had to use it in a while.

      “It was so vivid. I was there.”

      Stewart flicked on the light. A soft glow spread across the bedroom, illuminating dark corners and pushing aside the last wisps of the nightmare. “You’re safe. Look around you.”

      Suzanne looked, her imagination still trapped under the weight of snow.

      But there was no snow. No avalanche. Just her warm, cozy bedroom in Glensay Lodge, where the remains of a fire danced in the hearth and the darkness of the endless winter night shone black through a gap in the curtains. She’d made the curtains herself from a sumptuous tartan fabric she’d found on her first visit to Scotland. Stewart’s mother had claimed it was their clan tartan, but all Suzanne cared about was that those curtains kept the cold out on chilly nights and made the room cozy. She’d also made the quilt that was draped across the bottom of the bed.

      On the table near the window was a bottle of single malt whiskey from the local distillery, and next to it sat Stewart’s empty glass.

      There was her favorite chair, the cushions plumped and soft. Her book, a novel that hadn’t really caught her attention, lay open next to her knitting. A new order of wool had arrived the day before and she’d been thrilled by the colors. Deep purples and blues lay against softer hues of heather and rich cream, ready to brighten the palette of white and gray that lay beyond her windows. The wool reminded her of the wild Scottish heather that grew in the glen in early and late summer. Thinking of it cheered her. When the weather warmed, she liked to walk early in the morning and see the heather as the sun burned through the mist.

      And there was Stewart. Stewart, with his kind eyes and infinite patience. Stewart, who had been by her side for more than three decades.

      She was in the Scottish Highlands, tens of thousands of miles from the icy flanks of Mount Rainier. Still, the dream hung over her like a chilling fog, infecting her thoughts.

      “I haven’t had that dream in over a year.” Her forehead was damp with sweat and her nightdress clung to her. She took the glass of water that Stewart offered.

      Her throat was parched and the water soothed and cooled, but her hand was shaking so much she sloshed some of it over the duvet. “How can a person still have nightmares after twenty-five years?” She wanted to forget, but her body wouldn’t let her.

      Stewart took the glass from her and put it on the nightstand. Then he took her in his arms. “It’s almost Christmas, and this is always a stressful time of year.”

      She leaned her head on his shoulder, comforted by human warmth. Not snow and ice, but flesh and blood.

       Alive.

      “I love this time of year because the girls are home.” She slid her arm round his waist, wishing she could stop shaking. “Last year I didn’t have the dream once.”

      “It was probably that call from Hannah that triggered it.”

      “It was a good phone call. She’s coming home for the holidays. That’s the best news. Not something to trigger a nightmare.” But enough to trigger thoughts and memories.

      She suspected poor Hannah would be having her own thoughts and memories.

      Stewart was right that this time of year was never easy.

      “It’s been a couple of years since Hannah, Beth and Posy were here together.”

      “And I’m excited.” Anticipation lifted her mood. “It will be all the more special because Hannah couldn’t make it last year.”

      “Which increases the expectation.” Stewart sounded tired. “Don’t put pressure on her, Suzanne. It’s tough on her, and you end up hurt.”

      “I won’t be hurt.” They both knew it was a lie. Every time Hannah distanced herself from her family, it hurt. “I want her to be happy, that’s all.”

      “The only person who can make Hannah happy is Hannah.”

      “That doesn’t stop me wanting to help. I’m her mother.” She caught his eye. “I am her mother.”

      “I know. And if you want my opinion, she’s damn lucky to have you.”

      Lucky? There had been nothing lucky about the girls’ early life. At the beginning Suzanne had been terrified that Hannah’s life would be ruined by the events of her childhood, but then she’d realized she had a responsibility not to let that happen.

      She’d done everything she could to compensate and influence the future. She wanted nothing but good for her daughters and the burden of it was huge. It weighed her down, and there were days when it almost crushed her. And she’d made him carry the burden, too.

       Survivor’s guilt.

      “I worry I haven’t done enough. Or that I haven’t done it right.”

      “I’m sure every parent thinks that from time to time.”

      Suzanne slid her legs out of bed, relieved to be able to stand up. Walk. Breathe. Watch the sun rise. She rolled her shoulders and discovered they ached. She’d turned fifty-eight the summer before and

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