Prologue
Clare
Was destroying evidence always a crime?
Clare scrunched the letter into her pocket and walked across
the damp grass to the lake. It had been raining all week and the ground was
soft under her boots. The wind blew her hair across her face and she swept it
back, needing to see clearly.
She wasn’t built for moral dilemmas, and yet here she
was, required to choose between the two things she valued most. Loyalty and
honesty.
Where the grass met the narrow shingle beach, she stopped.
Across the water, nestling among the tall reeds on the western shore of the
lake, was the boathouse. Behind it was dense woodland, offering an enviable
degree of privacy. As a child, she had played there with her best friend,
Becca, dodging uneven planks and cobwebs as they’d transformed themselves into
pirates. They’d launched canoes, and splashed around in the freezing water,
shrieking in delicious terror as their limbs were roped by tangled weeds.
Her own child had played there, too, although she’d been
less relaxed than her parents. Perhaps because she understood what degree of
adventure was possible here, she’d insisted on life belts and supervision at
all times.
She’d lived in London and Paris for a while, but this little
corner of England with its lakes and mountains was the only place that had ever
felt like home.
After her father died, she and Todd had moved here to be
close to her mother. It had been Todd’s idea to convert the boathouse into a
luxury property. An architect, he saw potential in the most dilapidated
buildings, but in this case his vision had been inspired. Splintered planks and
broken windows had been replaced by stone, cedar and acres of glass. The
upturned crates that had provided rough seating were long gone. Now, when Clare
had time to sit down, she relaxed into deep sofas, cocooned by linen and
luxury. But the true luxury was the position. The peaceful waterfront location
attracted the most discerning of travelers, people seeking to escape the stress
of the modern world and sink instead into the sybaritic pleasures of life on
the lake, where their nearest neighbors were ducks and dragonflies. There were
plenty of people willing to pay good money for that degree of seclusion. Clare
and Todd rented out the boathouse for enough weeks of the year to guarantee
themselves a healthy income.
The boathouse was visible from only one corner of her garden
and occasionally Clare would glance across and see guests seated on the deck,
sipping their champagne while watching the coots and cormorants sheltering in
the reed beds. At night the only sounds were the whisper of the wind, the hoot
of an owl and the occasional splash as a bird skimmed the surface of the water
in search of sustenance.
Privacy was assured because this section of the lake was
only accessible from Lake Lodge, and the entrance to the main house was easily
missed from the road unless you knew where to turn. Hidden from view and mostly
concealed by an overgrowth azaleas and rhododendrons were large iron gates, and
immediately behind those gates was the Gatehouse where her mother now lived.
From there a long, graveled driveway wound its way to the house.
Clare’s mother had moved into the Gatehouse after Clare’s
father had died, insisting that Clare and Todd move into the bigger property.
Almost on impulse, they’d sold their small London apartment and moved back to a
place where the pace of life moved slowly. Like others, they came to breathe
the air, walk the mountains and sail on the many lakes.
Her friendship with Becca had grown and matured here.
Maybe it would have ended here, but now she’d never know because Becca was
gone.
The boathouse held no evidence of their final conversation,
and she was glad of that.
But now she had written evidence, sent the day before Becca
had died.
I wish I’d never told you.
Clare wished that, too.
Her eyes stung. Grief. Frustration. She wished they hadn’t
had that last talk, because now it was the only one she could remember. Their
decades of friendship had somehow shrunk down to that last stressful hour.
She’d been so angry with her friend, her loyalties stretched to snapping
point.
She hadn’t known that summer would be their last together.
If she had, would she have tried harder to bridge the gulf that had opened up
between them? Maybe not. She’d been angry, but now that anger was shaded with
guilt, because death often brought guilt along as baggage.
Did loyalty still matter when the person was dead? Did
honesty matter when all it would produce was pain?
“Clare!” Her mother’s voice drifted across the garden. “What
are you doing out here in the rain? Come indoors.”
Clare raised a hand, but she didn’t turn.
She had a decision to make, and she’d always done her best
thinking by the water. She considered herself an ethical and moral person. At
school she’d been teased for always doing the “right thing,” which had made it
all the more extraordinary that her best friend had been a girl who made a
point of always doing the wrong thing.
And now Becca had left her with this.
She was so lost in thought she wasn’t aware of her mother
until she felt her hand on her shoulder.
“You don’t have to go, you know.” Clare stared at the lake.
Its surface was dark and stippled by rain. In the summer it was idyllic, but
with angry clouds crowding the sky and small waves snapping at the shore, the
sense of menace matched her mood.
“She was my best friend.”
“People grow apart. It’s a fact of life. You’re not
the person at forty that you were at fourteen. Sometimes one has to accept
that.”
Had her mother sensed the tension between the two friends on
that last visit? She’d walked down from the Gatehouse to see if she could help
on that last day when Becca and Jack were busily packing the car and herding
kids and luggage.
Clare had hoped the chaos would conceal the fragile
atmosphere, but her mother had always been emotionally intuitive. Fortunately,
Jack and Todd had been too busy talking cars and engines to notice anything.
When they’d left, Becca had brought her cheek close to Clare’s. Clare thought
she’d murmured “sorry”, but she wasn’t sure and as Becca never apologized for
anything it seemed unlikely.
“I can’t remember a time when she wasn’t in my life.” She
felt her mother’s hand on her arm.
“And yet the two of you were always so different.”
“I know. Becca was bright, and I was dull.”
“No!” Her mother spoke sharply. “That wasn’t it at
all.”
Perhaps dull was the wrong word. Steady? Reliable?
Boring? “It’s all right. I know who I am. I’m comfortable with who I am.” Until
recently, she’d been able to sleep at night, satisfied with her choices. Until
Becca had presented her with an impossible one.
“You steadied her and she brought out your more adventurous
side. She pushed you out of your comfort zone.”
Why was that always considered a good thing?
In this case it hadn’t been good.
Clare was so far out of her comfort zone she couldn’t have
found her way back with a compass or SatNav. She wanted to cling to something
familiar, which is why she stared at the boathouse. But instead of all the
happy times, all she saw was Becca, her beautiful face smeared with tears as
she unburdened herself.
“I know something happened between you. If you want to talk
about it, I’m a good listener.” Her mother produced an umbrella and slid her
arm into Clare’s, sheltering both of them.
Should she tell her mother? No, that wouldn’t be fair.
She hated being in this position. The last thing she was going to do was put
someone else where she was standing now.
She was an adult, and way past the age where she needed her
mother to untangle her problems and make decisions for her.
“I’m going to the funeral. My flight is booked.”
Her mother adjusted her grip on the umbrella. “I knew you
would, because you’re you, and you always do the right thing. But I wish you
wouldn’t.”
“What if you don’t know what the right thing is?”
“You always do.”
But she didn’t, that was the problem. Not this time. “I’ve
already told them I’m coming.”
Her mother sighed. “It’s not as if Becca will know or
care if you’re there.”
The rain thudded steadily onto the umbrella, the sky
sobbing in sympathy, sending lazy drips down the back of Clare’s coat.
“I’m not going for Becca. I’m Izzy’s godmother. I want
to be there for her.”
“Those poor children. I can’t bear to think about it.
And Jack. Poor Jack.”
Poor Jack.
Clare stared straight ahead. “What do I say?” She knew her
mother wouldn’t give her the answer she needed, because Clare hadn’t asked the
question she really wanted to ask.
“They’ll find a way.” Her mother was brisk. “Life never
sends us more than we can cope with.”
Clare turned to look at her, seeing lines and signs of age
that hadn’t been there before her father had died. “Do you honestly believe
that?”
“No, but I always think it sounds good when people say
it to me. It’s reassuring.”
Clare smiled for the first time in days. On impulse
she hugged her mother, ignoring the damp coat and the relentless drip from the
umbrella. “I love you, Mum.”
“I love you, too.” Her mother squeezed her shoulder,
the same way she had when Clare was a child and facing something difficult. You’ve
got this. “Is Todd going with you?”
“I don’t want him to. He’s still working on that big
project.” In fact Todd had insisted that he’d drop everything to go with her
but she’d refused. This was something that would actually be easier alone.
“I’ll only be gone four days.”
“Will you stay at the house?”
Clare shook her head. Jack had suggested that she stay with
them in Brooklyn, but she’d refused. She’d told him she didn’t want to make
extra work, but the truth was she wasn’t ready to see him yet. Jack, with his
warm nature and quick smile. She remembered the first time Becca had mentioned
him. I’ve met a man.
Becca had met plenty of men, so to begin with Clare
had barely paid attention. She’d expected this relationship to be as
short-lived as the others.
“He’s a good man,” Becca had said and they’d laughed because
up until that point Becca had never been interested in good men. She liked them
bad to the bone. She blamed her upbringing. Said that she wouldn’t know what to
do with a man who treated her well, but apparently with Jack she’d known.
Clare remembered the first time Becca had shown her round
the house in Brooklyn. Look at me, all grown up—four bedrooms, three bathrooms
and a closet for my shoes. I’m almost domesticated.
Almost.
There had been a twinkle in her eyes, that same twinkle that
had helped her laugh her way out of trouble so many times at school.
Clare gripped the letter.
Attending the funeral wasn’t going to be the hardest
part. The hardest part would be pretending that nothing had changed between her
and Becca. Kissing Jack on the cheek, keeping that unwanted nugget of knowledge
tucked away inside her.
Excerpted from Family for Beginners Sarah Morgan ,
Copyright © 2020 by Sarah Morgan. Published by HQN Books.
