The End is Where We Begin Maria Goodin (best classic romance novels .TXT) 📖

“You mean, you don’t want him to have contact with me right now.”

“No,” I say through clenched teeth, “I mean that after twelve years of not having you in his life he’s struggling to contemplate the adjustment. I’ve told him that he can call you or email you whenever he wants, and that if he wants to see you I’ll make that happen. But he’s made his choice. For now.”

She sighs heavily. “Okay, well, I’m guessing he has social media accounts, so maybe I can just message him or… I don’t know… Is there an email address—”

“Hellie,” I say, trying to stay calm, “please. Please think of him, for once in your life. He doesn’t want to make contact with you, and he doesn’t want you making contact with him. Not right now. Maybe in a year, two years, he’ll feel differently. But please, for God’s sake, please do what any decent mother would do and put what he needs before what you want.”

There’s a long pause.

“Okay,” she says, sounding defeated, “okay, well, will you just let him know that I’m here when he wants to make contact and that I’m thinking of him?”

“Yes,” I tell her, relieved that, for now at least, this episode seems to be drawing to a close. “I’ll do that.”

I’m sitting at the kitchen table typing up invoices on my laptop when I hear the front door open and shut.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, wondering whether it’s all about to kick off again. I should have told Josh earlier about my dad – his beloved grandad – not being related to us in the way we always thought, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it, not when he’s been so stressed out. But the longer I left it, the more fearful I became that when he found out he’d feel betrayed again and accuse me of keeping things from him.

In the end, Laura offered to tell him, and I was too tired to argue.

I can’t imagine how the conversation went, and I don’t even dare to turn around when I hear them enter the kitchen behind me.

Josh comes over and silently places a Starbucks coffee and a paper bag on the table in front of me, and then disappears from my view again.

I hear him shuffling behind me, then feel his arms wrapping around my shoulders.

“I didn’t know you were having to deal with all that,” he says, sorrowfully, laying his chin on my shoulder. “It sucks.”

Laura sits down at the kitchen table.

“Like Josh and I were saying in the café,” she tells me, firmly, “we’re family, we stick together, and that’s all that matters.”

I offer her a grateful smile.

“That better not be lemon and poppy seed,” I say, nodding to the paper bag.

“Told you!” chimes Josh.

“Oh my God!” cries Laura, slapping her hands over her eyes. “Who in their right mind doesn’t like lemon and poppy seed?”

“Chocolate!” Josh and I both shout at the same time. “Always get chocolate!”

I sit at a table outside, the last of the summer sunshine warming my neck, sipping an Americano and gazing at the mural that surrounds the terrace.

It’s brilliant, a gentle kaleidoscope of colours that reflects everything that’s good about the canal: the reflection of the sky on the water’s glassy surface, the vibrant colours of the houseboats, the wildlife, the old bridges… On the towpath, she’s painted joggers, cyclists, families taking a stroll, dogs on leads. From left to right, the seasons change in sequence, taking the viewer from a crisp winter’s day, through to the bright greens of spring, the warm, yellow days of summer, then, finally, the reds and browns of autumn. The perspective is subtly and skilfully wrong. The houseboats slope cartoonishly, the canal meanders exaggeratedly, the ducks are oversized and the characters look soft and childish, as if they’re made of play dough.

It’s better than anyone imagined it might be.

Libby’s gone. I don’t know how I feel about that, just like I don’t know how I feel about anything anymore, but I think it’s probably for the best. Was it a mistake to go looking for her? I don’t think so. I got to make my peace, find out she was okay. And hopefully my apology meant something. At least whatever I’m left dealing with now is all mine.

I close my eyes against the light. My head hurts and my stomach is fluttering nervously.

“Hello stranger,” a voice says behind me.

I stand up, slowly, full of trepidation.

“Tom,” I say, holding out my hand, unable to believe this is really him, “it’s good to see you.”

He places his tea on the table and takes my hand in both of his.

We look at each other with some disbelief.

“Christ, when did you get so bloody good-looking?” he asks.

I glance at his soft belly. “When did you get so bloody fat?”

He tips his head back and laughs loudly before slapping me on the shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s what the contentment of married life and a sedentary job do to you, I’m afraid,” he grins, sitting himself down. “Although you lonely, single labourers wouldn’t know about that.”

I smile, amazed at how we can fall back into this pattern so easily after more than fifteen years apart.

“I can’t believe you’re married,” I say, “to someone who’s actually met you.”

“Ouch!”

Out of the four of us, Tom was the only one who was adamant he’d never settle down. He used to tell us it would be a travesty to womanhood if he tied himself down to one person. Now, he brings up a photo on his phone.

“Her name’s Kim. Well, that’s her English name. Her Chinese name’s too hard for us moronic Westerners to pronounce, so she doesn’t make us try. She’s training to be a cardiologist,” he says proudly.

“Wow,” I say, looking at the picture. “Good on you. Congratulations.”

“Yeah, we started training together before I decided my true calling was fixing people’s minds and not their bodies.”

I shake