A Mother Like Mine (A Hartley-by-the-Sea Novel) - Softcover

CHAPTER ONE

Abby

“Are you all right?”

The Cumbrian greeting that could have offcomers stiffening defensively made Abby Rhodes smile. The man who’d asked, another parent with a child in the Reception class at Hartley-by-the-Sea Primary, was waiting stony-faced for the expected answer: “all right,” or areet, as a Cumbrian would say, and Abby was a born-and-bred Cumbrian even if she’d only been back in the Lake District for not quite two years.

“Areet,” she said firmly, because standing in the school yard with the sun shining down, she knew she was. She hadn’t always been, and even a few months ago she might have given a different answer, or at least her “areet” would have wavered a little. But not now. Now she was starting to finally feel as if she’d made a place for herself and her son.

The farmer nodded in apparent satisfaction and looked away, the conversation clearly over. Abby leaned against the stone wall of the school yard and gazed out at the village spread below her in a living map, the terraced houses and the whitewashed cottages giving way to a patchwork of rolling sheep pasture and fields of bright yellow rapeseed that led to the sea, a hazy gray-blue on the horizon.

It was a warm day in mid-June, a day of mild breezes and benevolent sunshine that could almost make Abby forget the freezing temperatures and slanting rain of just a few weeks ago. Everyone had been remarking about the weather; reaching sixty degrees in Hartley-by-the-Sea was considered a newsworthy event and definitely classified as a heat wave. On the way to school that morning, Abby had seen Eleanor Carwell in only half of her usual twinset, emphatically waving a fan in front of her face as she took her daily walk to the post office shop. “Isn’t it red-hot?” she’d exclaimed, and Abby had, of course, agreed.

Now from her vantage point at the top of the village, she could just glimpse the tan strip of beach, visible since the tide was out, and the low, ramshackle building on one end of the concrete promenade that was the beach café as well as her home.

It had been nearly two years since she’d limped back to her grandmother in Hartley-by-the-Sea, drained and still grieving, not just for Ben but for everything she’d lost, clutching her three-year-old son, Noah, and needing a job as well as a place to stay. Two years that had seen her start to revitalize the shabby café by the beach, make a few friends, and begin to feel a wary, fragile happiness that could be blown away on the next sea breeze—God knew it had been before. But she was starting to think that maybe this time it wouldn’t be.

Are you all right?

Yes, she really was.

“Mummy!”

Abby refocused her gaze on her son, who was barreling towards her from the front doors of the school’s Infants’ entrance, a blur of dark hair and pumping limbs. He tackled her straight on, skinny arms wrapping around her middle as his head burrowed into her stomach.

“Oof.” Abby rolled her eyes good-naturedly at a few of the other parents who were smiling in sympathy at her son’s exuberance. “Well, hello, Noah.”

He tilted his head up to grin at her, silky hair sliding away from his eyes, his gap-toothed grin—he’d lost his first tooth a few weeks ago—like a fist squeezing her heart. She ruffled his hair, noticing how he jerked away, her baby already a little boy, starting to grow away from her. It made panic clutch at her insides even though she knew it was normal and necessary.

“Can we go to the beach? Please? Please?” he asked, his words tumbling over themselves. “It’s so nice out—”

Abby managed one last ruffle of his hair before he was darting away, moving on his tiptoes, ever in motion. “I suppose we can.”

She smiled at a few of the other mums whom she’d gotten to know over the last year; most of them were a decade older than she was, but Meghan Campbell was the same age as well as another single mum, and she gave Abby a cheeky grin as she led her own son, Nathan, by the hand down the steep lane that led to the high street.

“We’re going to the beach,” Abby called to her. “If you and Nathan want to come along.”

“Why not?” Meghan called back. “Can’t waste this weather, can we, Nath?” She turned to Abby. “You know this means it will pour rain the whole six weeks of the summer holiday, don’t you?”

“Of course. This is Cumbria. We can’t have that much good weather.”

They kept up the banter all the way down the high street to the turning on the beach road; unable to resist the straight stretch of pavement with sheep pasture rolling away on either side, Nathan and Noah took off, and Meghan and Abby both watched with rueful affection.

“On a day like today,” Meghan said as she tilted her face up to the sky, “I almost don’t mind living here.”

“Oh, Meghan. You like living here, don’t you?”

Meghan lowered her head with a gusty sigh. “Since I haven’t lived anywhere else, I suppose I can’t really say.” She glanced at Abby. “What about you, Miss Liverpool?”

Abby laughed wryly and shook her head. She’d once lived in Liverpool, yes, but it felt like a million years ago now, as did the trappings of that life: an unfinished degree in veterinary science, a fiancé, a future. She’d been planning to apprentice at a vet’s in the city; she’d seen herself and Ben living in a chic city center flat, pursuing their careers, living their carefree lives. So much had changed since those heady days, but right now she couldn’t begrudge the loss of any of it. She had her son; she had her grandmother; she had a business she enjoyed.

“I’m all right here,” she said, and they walked on.

They’d just reached the beach car park, the boys sprinting towards the playground on the field above the promenade along the sea, a few bright kites circling in the air above them.

“Slow down,” Abby called, and then came to a halt herself when she saw her grandmother waving from the beach café’s doorway, one hand clutched to her side, her face red with effort.

“Oh no,” she muttered, and Meghan glanced at her.

“What’s up?”

“Gran . . .” Abby nodded towards Mary. “Noah—,” she called, but Meghan stopped her.

“Go on. Whatever it is, it will be better for you if Noah isn’t underfoot. I’ll watch them at the park for a bit.”

“Would you—,” she began in relief, only for Meghan to wave her away.

“Easier for me if Nath has a friend there,” she assured her with a grin. “Really, I’m doing myself a favor. I’ll drop him back in an hour or so.”

Abby called her thanks as she started hurrying towards the café. Her grandmother had had a heart attack two years ago, which had, at least in part, prompted Abby’s return. There’d been no one else to help Mary Rhodes run the place, and Abby had needed somewhere to go. Since then, she’d been gently taking over the management of the café; Mary wasn’t one to let go of anything easily, and the beach café had been in her family since the 1940s.

“Gran,” she called as she reached the cracked concrete steps. “What’s wrong—”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Mary wheezed. “Just wanted to catch you before anyone else did.”

“Okay. But you look like you need to sit down.” Abby tried to speak mildly; Mary resisted any suggestion that she wasn’t completely recovered from her heart attack.

“I’m fine,” Mary answered, her words erupting in a cough before she fanned her face and took a few gulps of fresh sea air. “It’s just you know how gossip spreads in this village.” Mary’s face was red and shiny even as she managed a wry smile. “Worse than measles.”

“I didn’t realize there was anything to gossip about.” Abby took her grandmother’s arm and attempted to gently steer her back inside, but Mary Rhodes wasn’t having it. She shook her head, staying Abby with one hand.

“Abby, wait.”

“It’s no good standing about in the heat, Gran.”

“I won’t melt in what passes for a Cumbrian summer,” Mary retorted. “Even if I’m doing a good impression of it.” She took a well-pressed handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt and dabbed her forehead. “Abby, love, look. I know it will be a shock, but . . .” Mary paused, the hesitation so unlike her grandmother, who always had a quick comeback or a sharp word coupled with a ready smile, who had done her best to struggle back after a heart attack and bypass surgery. She took a deep breath, her ample chest expanding like a bellows. “Your mother’s inside.”

The words didn’t immediately compute. Abby simply stared and Mary added, her voice choking a little, “It’s true. Laura . . . my girl’s finally come home.”

Abby registered the look of tentative hope on Mary’s face and didn’t know how to feel. When had her mother last visited? Six years, at least. Abby had been pregnant with Noah. It had, as far as she could remember, been as awkward and tense as all the other sporadic visits. And yet my girl. Her grandmother seemed to be marking this visit more than any other. Mary had never seemed that maternal; like mother, like daughter, Abby supposed, although Mary had acted more or less as a mum to her since she was two, when Laura had left for good, her spurts of sentimental affection broken up by impatient cuffs and sharp words.

But Laura, back here, now? Abby simply stared, trying to probe how she felt about it, the way you would a sore tooth, anticipating that sudden lightning streak of pain if you touched a certain spot.

She felt nothing. She couldn’t tell if it was a true emptiness of feeling or merely a thin veneer of numbness, and she didn’t want to examine the lack of emotion too deeply. In any case, how could she expect to feel something for a woman who had barely been part of her life? Laura had left when Abby had been only a toddler, hightailing out of Hartley-by-the-Sea for a hostess job in a nightclub in Manchester. She’d visited on rare occasions, once a year at most, and then, when Abby was twenty-one, pregnant and alone, Laura had moved to New York. At that point Abby had been too tired and jaded, everything about her life already too broken, to care.

“What is she doing here?” Abby asked, her voice coming out flat.

“She wants to see you—”

As if. “And give you another heart attack?” Abby finished. “Let’s get you inside, Gran.”

It was easier to concentrate on settling Mary than thinking about her mother. “I’m not an invalid, you know,” Mary grumbled, but she didn’t resist as Abby led her inside and to a chair at one of the café’s rather rickety tables. She sat down with a heavy sigh and then looked up at Abby.

“You will go talk to her? I know it’s been a long time, Abby, but it could be different now and I’m not getting any younger, you know. I’d like to see something good come of all this.”

So her grandmother wanted to orchestrate some reconciliation? She’d always had a soft spot for sentiment, and yet the idea was laughable. Offensive, even, because when had Laura made any effort at all? A few presents, the occasional awkward visit, were as far as she’d ever gone to forging a relationship. Her mother was, and always had been, a deliberate stranger. Abby bustled about, neither meeting her grandmother’s eye nor giving her an answer. Mary wasn’t fooled.

“Abby.”

“I will, Gran. Talk to her, I mean.” She let out a weary breath. “I will.” Abby glanced around the café, taking comfort from its worn familiarity. Fairy lights strung over the door, and paintings by local artists adorning the walls. The community notice board she’d put up when she’d first arrived was full of advertisements and flyers for local events; admittedly most of them were a couple of weeks or even months old, but Abby liked seeing people scan the board as they waited for their teas and coffees, noting a toddler morning or a weekend ceilidh.

Right now the café was empty save for a few pensioners at a table in the corner, lingering over scones and tea, and a handful of people at the ice cream counter. Sophie, a young woman Abby had hired for sunny afternoons such as this one, stood behind it, doling out the scoops. Her mother, thankfully, was nowhere to be seen, although perhaps Abby wouldn’t recognize Laura Rhodes if she saw her.

“Abby.”

The voice she recognized. Low, melodious, attractive. Laura Rhodes had always worked at seeming attractive, always been confident that she was. Abby had recognized that even as a little girl, watching her mother spritz perfume and smile carefully at the mirror, her eyes narrowed as she assessed for lines, wrinkles. Cracks in the perfection. Once Abby had asked if she could try one of her mother’s lipsticks. Her mother’s smile had faded, her gaze still on her own reflection, and she’d murmured, “Let’s not have you start all that.”

Now Abby turned around and faced her mother. Laura stood in the doorway that led back to the flat adjoining the café, and Abby first saw the clothes: stiletto heels, a pencil skirt, a silk blouse, all looking expensive. Hardly the kind of outfit you’d wear in Hartley-by-the-Sea. Reluctantly she allowed her gaze to move up to her mother’s face.

Laura wasn’t smiling; she rarely did, since it caused wrinkles. Just one of the pearls of wisdom Abby had picked up from her mother during one of her infrequent visits. Laura’s dark hair, the same color as Abby’s but expertly highlighted with blond and lighter blond streaks, was pulled up in some fancy style and diamond studs glinted on her ears. She’d certainly gone for the classy look. Last time, if Abby remembered correctly, she’d had more of a sexy thing going on, leather trousers and a camisole top that had shown her toned, tanned thirty-seven-year-old body to perfection. Abby, thirteen weeks pregnant and throwing up every half hour, had felt dumpy and ugly and fat.

“Well?” Laura lifted her eyebrows, her mouth curving in the smallest of smiles, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. “I know it’s been a long time, but—”

“What do you want me to say?” Abby’s voice came out sounding angry. And she wasn’t angry. She didn’t care enough to feel anything but indifference. Or at least that’s how she wanted to feel. How she’d trained herself to feel over all the empty years. The last thing she wanted to do now was throw some hissy fit, but then her mother had often provoked this feeling inside her, helpless frustration and hurt that she wasn’t important enough to stick around for.

“Abby,” Mary protested quietly, reaching out to put a hand on her wrist. “It’s your mother.”

Abby almost snapped that Laura didn’t deserve that title. If anyone did, it was Mary, who had raised her from toddlerhood and opened welcoming arms two years ago, when she’d returned with Noah. Now she looked down at her grandmother’s still-red face, her mouth turned down at the corners, sympathy softening her eyes. “Please,” she said quietly, and Abby knew that for Mary’s sake alone she wouldn’t cause a scene.

Besides, any kind of altercation would be all over the village in minutes, and the next time Abby walked up the high street, the comments would come: So your old Mum’s back, eh? Not so old, though, really. What do you think to that? She always was a looker.

No thanks.

She too...