Sitting with Dad through all his chemo sessions. And when Dad moved to the hospice she was invariably there when he arrived—running late because of work—taking up the slack—his slack—which felt like a slap. Doing so easily, smilingly, all the things he had to grit his teeth to do. Raising Dad up, the skin and bones of him, to help him drink. Blotting his mouth afterwards. Taking his hand. All the touchy-feely stuff that should have come naturally but didn’t. But it did to Quinn. Warmth was her superpower. And at the funeral she’d aimed it right at him, put her hand on his arm...
He pushed the thought away. ‘Kudos on the shelter work.’
She blushed. ‘It’s nothing.’
He felt his brow pleating, a weight shifting inside. It was categorically not nothing. How he spent his downtime was nothing. No doubt Dad had moaned her ears off about it, painting him black. Gambler! Womaniser! So what if it wasn’t quite like that. So what if he’d let Dad think it was for the craic. It still amounted to nothing. Was that what she was thinking now: that he could do better with his time? It wasn’t in her gaze, but who knew?
He looked at Edward. ‘Do you happen to know anything about Dad’s architect?’
‘Yes.’ Edward consulted a note. ‘She’s called Julia Levette. She’s English, living in Lisbon, has a lot of experience with old buildings and the pertinent regulations. I’ve got a number here.’
‘Great.’ He switched his attention back to Quinn. ‘I’ll give Julia a call; see if she can offer us some possible dates.’
‘Good.’ She nodded a smile then turned to Edward, making to move. ‘Are we done now?’
‘No...’ Edward’s lips pursed. ‘Not quite.’
She sank back, and he felt his heart sinking too, beating fast irregular beats as it went. The solicitor was drawing two envelopes out from underneath his papers. And then his eyes flicked up, moving between them as he talked.
‘As I explained to you both earlier, Anthony adjusted his will to incorporate the stipulation about the Lisbon property just a month before he passed. At the same time, he gave me these envelopes: one for you, Quinn, and one for you, Will.’ He slid them over. ‘I don’t know what’s in them, just that Anthony wanted you to have them today.’
High white laid, Dad’s stationery of choice. His name writ large, that resolute line scored underneath. Blue-black ink.
He felt his throat tightening, a vague burning sensation building behind his lids. Dad had used the fountain pen, the one he’d gone halves on with Pete to buy him a million Christmases ago, the one they’d taken ages over choosing so it would be exactly right.
He closed his eyes. Of all the stupid things to stir him up.
CHAPTER TWO
Dearest Quinn,
I write this wondering if I’m doing the right thing, so be assured, if you conclude with your smart head and warm heart that I’m not, then don’t think any more about it. Live free and be happy, because I don’t mean for you to carry the burden of my mistakes.
But, selfishly perhaps, and especially now that you know the contents of my will, I need to air them, put them into context, tell you things I haven’t spoken about before. If I fall short, forgive me. When it comes to matters of a personal nature, I don’t communicate well.
You’ll recall me telling you about my boarding school days, where survival depended on not showing what was going on inside. Sadly, it’s been a hard habit to break! But I must try now so you understand my anguish over Will, my desperate need to make amends for not being the father he deserved.
How to begin? With Pete, I suppose, the son I could never talk about. You must have found it frustrating, but there are things, guilts I cannot reveal, even in a letter—even to you, who always listens so well. For now, suffice it to say that Pete was a lively boy. Charismatic. Sporty. Pete made it easy for me to seem like a good affectionate father, because he won trophies, medals, tangibles I could applaud openly.
Will was—is—so very different. Thoughtful, reserved, sensitive. As a boy he looked up to Pete, adored him, lived a little in his slipstream, like younger brothers do. But Pete adored Will equally, looked after him. I see so clearly now that Pete got me and Judy off the parental hook by assuming the role of Will’s caretaker, freeing us to pursue our own lives and careers.
Truth to tell, Quinn, Pete was the glue in our family, the paper that covered our cracks. When he died, those cracks all gradually reappeared—in mine and Judy’s marriage, in the entire fabric of our lives.
But here’s the thing: after the initial devastation of Pete’s death and those first few terrible weeks, Will mustered a strength I never knew he had. I won’t go into everything here because to think of it breaks my heart. Let’s just say that I think, in his own way, he was trying to fill the void his brother left, trying to make good.
Sadly, as you know, Judy went on to meet someone, too sick of me and my faults to try any longer. She thought that since Will was doing so well at school he should stay there, keep living with me—thought that the combination of Jersey and getting to know her new partner would be too much upheaval for him after everything he’d been through already.
Another painful time, but Will rallied again, asked if he could work for Thacker in his school holidays. And he started helping me with the Morgan, which wasn’t fully restored back then, getting to grips with the engine far better than I ever did.
Don’t get me wrong, we were still feeling Pete’s loss, Judy’s absence, but Will seemed to settle. Sometimes he even seemed happy. You probably don’t remember seeing him like that because you’d just come to us, full of sadness.
But then he went off to university and he changed. I wondered if he was simply adjusting to the big wide world, or if some girl had broken his heart. But he wouldn’t talk, or engage beyond the minimum. You’ll no doubt remember how taciturn he was whenever he came back.
It bothers me, Quinn, that I don’t know what was going on in his head, or in his life back then, bothers me that we never got back the ease we had so briefly. And I don’t understand his gambling and the rest.
Apologies! That’s my cancer brain rambling. You know this already. What you don’t know, and what I’ve only just realised myself, is that it also bothers me that he works for the company. He does a sterling job, but I don’t know, deep down, if it’s what he really wants, or if on some level he’s trying to be some imagined version of Pete. I’m ashamed that I don’t know the man he is inside, grieved that he’s drifted so far away from me that I can’t touch him any more, help him.
Which is where you come in, darling girl. If you no longer wish to take on the Lisbon hotel then I understand, but for Will’s sake, I urge you to see it through. As you know, he thinks it’s a terrible idea and, financially speaking, were it to be run on the lines of the current Thacker model then he would be absolutely right. Too smart by half, my youngest son! But you are also smart, and your idea for the hotel has my hearty blessing.
As you know, I wasn’t thinking about profit when I bought it. I just wanted to rescue it, challenge myself with something different. What different looks like will now be down to you and Will.
Why involve Will at all? I hear you wondering. Well, the one thing to be said for imminent death is that it makes you reflect. And, reflecting on everything, I got to thinking that tying Will to the renovation, with you by his side, might open his eyes up, stretch him in new ways, make him think about what he truly wants from life. He might even absorb some of your wondrous creativity! At the very least, he will hopefully make a dear friend in you, which is my greatest wish. And for you too, to find a true friend in him.
Your father didn’t want you to be alone, Quinn, which is why he asked me to take care of you should anything ever happen to him. I have tried to do my best by you, but I must leave you now, which means that Will is all you have left of me and my family.
I know he will be angry about what I’ve done, but he’s a good man with a good heart full of sadness. All I want for him is to rise, find peace and happiness in whatever form it comes. If I can go towards the light knowing that you’ve got his back, that you will help him find his own true light, then I will rest easy in my heart.
Go well, Quinn.
Your ever-loving guardian,
Anthony
CHAPTER THREE
ROSSIO SQUARE, gently warm in the pale morning sunshine. And the plash-plash of the fountain was soothing, but the sweeping waves of black mosaic tile running side to side seemed to be alive, pulsing around her feet as she walked, messing with her head, which was all she needed when her poor head was already messed to the max!
That letter...
