The Sister Surprise Abigail Mann (most difficult books to read TXT) 📖

for being a bit old-school in their ways. Anyway, I thought the eggs were like some kind of goodwill gesture to keep the cows healthy, you know? I always found them on the back step. If it was Kian, he never rang the doorbell, so hopefully that explains my confusion. Somewhat.’ Ross pulls his face into an awkward grimace.

I laugh and pull my sleeves over my hands, clasping them inside my fists. It’s an annoying habit from when I was a teenager, but I can’t seem to shake it.

‘If you want to help me get through this lot one evening, I wouldn’t complain,’ he says, glancing down at the eggs. ‘But I’ll warn you now, it’s omelettes and soufflé.’ Ross smiles into the corner of his mouth and pushes a curly lock of hair from his face.

‘Yeah, sure,’ I say, taken aback, firstly by his direct invitation and secondly by my willingness to accept it. In London, it takes two months and a string of WhatsApp messages to organise a coffee date, and even then, people usually flake out the night before. But this isn’t a date, is it? It’s dinner with the local priest, Kilroch’s officially chaste consultant for all issues moral and religious.

‘Good luck with Jacqui!’ he says, holding up a hand as he shunts the door closed.

***

Back in the car, I flick down the sun visor to assess my appearance and squint at my scuffed reflection. Oh, it’s bad. Really bad. I look like I’ve just fled a war zone. My fringe is stuck to my forehead, my hair is matted and mushroom-like from tucking it inside my scarf for extra warmth, and my cheeks are so pink I look like I’ve head-butted a blusher palette.

Jacqui happens to have put the biggest egg order in, so it’s in my interest to make sure I get her on side, as I can’t be the only person in the village etched onto her black list. I walk from the Jeep to the post office-cum-tearoom, my steps slow and considered. My shuffle down the high street coincides with the departure of a man with deep-set wrinkles, who holds the door open for me. As I step inside, he calls over my shoulder.

‘She’s here, Jacqui!’ With that, he nods in my direction, his bottom lip pushed up like he’s using it to scaffold the rest of his face.

A hush descends over the tearoom as Jacqui comes out of the kitchen at the back, a Cath Kidston apron tied around her waist. We face each other. A woman with candy floss hair says something to her companion from behind her hand, eyes fixed on me. My stomach is an oil-slick of anxiety. In the corner, a small toddler drops half a cream-smeared scone on the floor and starts crying, his head dropped backwards, mouth agape in horror. Jacqui dries her hands on a tea towel, whips it over her shoulder, and jerks her head backwards, gesturing that she wants me to follow her.

This is ridiculous. I’m Lorrie Atmore’s daughter. I haven’t been trained in the rules of navigating PTA mums and bossy divorcées for nothing. For years I’ve lurked by collapsible tables lined with tray bakes, watching Mum navigate groups of women with the deftness and determination of a small-town Michelle Obama. I need to step out. No one knows me here. No one knows that I’ve ever been any different. It’s time to channel my inner Lorrie.

‘Jacqui! I can see why your tearoom is heaving, I can’t walk past someone in Kilroch without them raving about your buttercream.’

Jacqui frowns and points to the clock behind my head, one hand on her hip.

‘I close in half an hour. What good are these to me now?’

Ah, this might be harder than I thought.

‘Sorry, Jacqui. I was doing a loop and, well, to tell you the truth, it’s turned into a big meet and greet. Everyone here is so welcoming.’ I do my best to smile as I talk, which feels unnatural but necessary in these delicate times. ‘Ross, up at the rectory? He asked me to bring these back down to you, with his thanks, of course. I think he’ll be losing teeth at the rate he’s eating your cakes.’ I’m small-talking. This is small talk, right? It feels strained enough to be small talk.

‘Losing teeth? I don’t tell him how quickly to eat them, lovie.’

‘No, of course not, I meant it like—’

I pause. She’s thrown me. There’s a limit on how many times you can compliment a cake you haven’t eaten. I’m not bloody Mary Berry.

Jacqui takes the tins off me and leans against the kitchen counter.

‘When Kian delivers the eggs, he comes to me first.’

‘He must have forgotten to mention that.’

‘I had four lemon drizzles, two coffee and walnuts, and a fruit loaf to make today. The loaf was for the boys down at the harbour before they went out to do the crab pots tomorrow morning.’

I don’t want to say sorry, but I should for the sake of peace talks. What does she expect me to do, tune into the shipping forecast?

‘Sorry about that, Jacqui.’

‘Nothing much to be done about it now.’ Jacqui turns away from me and unstacks three trays of eggs across the counter. She counts them with her index finger, her mouth silently forming numbers, up one row and down another.

‘There are sixty-four,’ I say.

Jacqui raises one hand to silence me. This woman! She makes Nasty Vanessa from the PTA look like Kate bloody Middleton. I involuntarily sigh and shift my body weight from one foot to the other, rolling my head to stretch the muscles down my neck.

‘Have you got somewhere to be?’ she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

‘No. This is the most important part of my day.’ An angry claw scratches at my temples.

Jacqui blinks, her mouth a rosebud. She turns her back to me and starts counting again, moving from one egg to the other with a precise, measured tap on the