A Mother's Love(13)

“Would you like to borrow Jack’s book?”

“Yes, please.”

“All right, but you must look after it. Jack’s things are very precious to me.”

“I will.”

“Good. Go and put on your dressing gown and I’ll make you some pancakes in the kitchen.”

Celeste returned to her bedroom. Robert was getting dressed. “So?” he inquired. “You didn’t turf him out, did you?”

“Of course not. He was talking to his bear again.”

“Good.”

“I suppose it won’t do any harm to let him play in Jack’s bedroom,” Celeste conceded.

“I don’t think Jack would have minded,” said Robert, straightening his tie.

“Jack would have loved a friend like Bruno to play with,” said Celeste. She looked towards the door and frowned again.





7

Bruno disappeared into the garden straight after breakfast. Robert noticed Celeste’s face as she watched him leave. She looked disappointed. She turned and caught him watching her. “He likes your parents,” she said.

“He likes you, too,” he told her. Her expression softened. She looked vulnerable. He put his arm around her waist and kissed her cheek.

“What was that for?” she asked, a weak blush seeping through the pallor.

“Do I need a reason to kiss my wife?”

“Of course not, it’s just that . . .”

“I haven’t kissed you for a long time.” She lowered her eyes. “You’re doing a great job. He probably wants my father to take him to the farm.”

“Yes, it’s a lovely day. Perhaps they’ll be cutting. He said he wanted to go on a combine.”

“I imagine they’ll start at midday when the dew dries off. Why don’t you go, too?”

She shrugged. “Maybe,” she replied.

Bruno didn’t come back for hours. Celeste began to bite her nails with worry. The house was very quiet. She could hear the cooing of a pigeon on the roof and the twittering of birds in the trees at the bottom of the garden. She sat on the terrace, just listening. The sun shone warmly on her face and the breeze was sugar-scented. She wondered what the child was up to all on his own, wandering the estate. There were lots of places where a boy like Bruno might find entertainment. The old stables, the duck pond, the tree house and monkey swing where Robert used to play as a boy. Jack had found endless pleasure here, too. He had found all his father’s old haunts by instinct rather than design, as if the grounds had contrived to show him his father’s special places. He had loved nature and had never been afraid of bees or bugs. She smiled sadly to herself as she recalled the time she had found him sitting on the lawn training bumblebees to walk up his bare arms. He had never been stung, not once. They must have sensed he was fearless. Or perhaps they sensed he was a friend.

After sitting with her memories awhile, she decided to bake a cake for tea. She was sure Bruno would like one. After all, cakes had been Jack’s favorite things. She put on her apron and set about assembling all the ingredients on the table: butter, flour, chocolate, eggs. Jack had loved chocolate. She pulled out a large mixing bowl and a wooden spoon. It felt good to be doing something creative. As she cracked the eggs into the bowl, she contemplated how she was going to decorate it. Besides Legos, Tarquin, and his bear, she wasn’t really sure what Bruno liked. She had known all Jack’s favorite things. Her heart gave a little tremor as she recalled the quilt she had been making him, each square embroidered with the things he loved best. She wondered what she would have done on the final square, had she finished it. She labored beneath the sudden weight of her grief. Oh God, how she wished she had finished it.

Pulling herself together, she put the two round tins in the oven. Bruno would be back soon and it wouldn’t be right for him to see her crying. She decided to decorate the cake with a picture of Tarquin with a bone. That was easy enough for a creative person like Celeste. She mixed the yellow icing for the dog and white for the bone and waited for the cake to bake. Then she wandered onto the terrace and listened out for Bruno’s voice. She heard nothing but the birds and the rattling sound of a tractor in the distance.

When the cake had cooled, she began to ice it. Her concentration took her out of herself and she forgot all about her pain. Her world was reduced to that small surface of cake where she carefully drew the dog with his bone, taking great care with the details, as an artist does with her paints. Her breathing grew slow, her shoulders dropped, her creativity, stifled for so long by sorrow, began to flow freely again. She felt the tentative stirring of pleasure, so subtle it was barely perceptible, like the first thawing of a lake after a long, hard winter.