Prologue
The village of Norsely, England
Thirty-one years ago
Simon opened the door from the garden. The light of day seemed to fade away as he moved into the house. Quiet. It seemed too quiet, but then he had to be quiet when the tours came through. Every now and then his mother would walk through the hallways with a group of people he didn’t know, telling them all about the house, though she always neglected to show them the best parts. She showed the people the grand parlor, but never the football goals their father had set up for him and Clive. She didn’t even show them the smashing new game room with toys and a table where he could play tennis with his brother.
Though Clive was always tired now.
He ran through the halls, his feet pounding against the wood floors as he moved from light to shadow with each window. His brother used to play a game with him. They would try to jump from the patches of light the big windows made just before afternoon turned to dusk. They would leap over the shadows in between and most often one of them would fall and laughter would ensue, and their father would sometimes join them calling them little monkeys and tickling them until they couldn’t breathe.
“Simon?”
He stopped at the sound of his mother’s voice. He turned and she was standing in front of the hall that led to the family rooms. She never took people down that hallway. It was for them, she said. The rest of the house could be for history, but that wing was their home.
“Mummy.” He raced toward her. She’d been gone all day. They’d all been gone. “Where’s Dad and Clive?”
She got to one knee, and he could suddenly see the lines on her face. She always looked pretty, but there were little black streaks around her eyes now and her mouth had a grim turn. “They’re upstairs. Clive is resting, but your father is packing.”
“Where are we going?”
She shook her head. “You’re staying here, love. You start school in a few weeks. I’ll try to come back to help get you settled, but if I can’t, then Nanny Deborah will make sure you get to school.”
“Where are you going?”
“To London. We’re taking your brother there. Clive is very sick, Simon.”
Sick? Clive always seemed sick. He wasn’t sure how going to London would help, but it was all right with him. He just didn’t want to be left behind. “I can go to London, too. I can help.”
She sniffled and then stood up. “I’m sorry. I think it’s best you stay here, love. It will be very boring in London. When school starts you’ll be busy, so busy you won’t have time to worry. That’s what I want for you. Normalcy. You need normalcy.” She squared her shoulders. “We’ll be back in a few weeks so we should see you at the next holiday.”
Holiday? But that was months away.
“But I want to go with you,” he said. He suddenly felt very small. Like he wasn’t really there at all.
His mother shook her head. “It’s decided. You have to be strong. Your father and I want what’s best for you and that isn’t living in some hospital for months at a time. Your brother loves you. He wants you to have a normal life. None of us wants you affected by this.”
By cancer. He’d heard the word. Clive had cancer and cancer was a bad thing. But it was affecting him because he was being left behind.
He nodded though because crying wasn’t the Weston way. Westons stuck together. That was what his father said.
Except he seemed to be the only Weston not sticking together.
His mum kissed his forehead and turned down the hall, her heels clicking as she walked toward the place where his father was likely packing up for the trip.
Simon sat on the bench in front of the big windows and watched as the light faded. It didn’t matter that he was five. He had to be brave. He had to be strong.
Because he suddenly understood that he was alone.
* * * *
North Carolina coast, USA
Seventeen Years Ago
Chelsea ran, her bare feet sinking into the sand. It was hot, but she was used to it. She was a beach baby, as her momma said. She’d lived her whole life close to the ocean.
“Chelsea!”
She turned and saw her sister. Charlotte’s hair whipped behind her as she ran to catch up. She had sneakers in her hand, her feet still wet from splashing through the waves.
“Hi. Were you with your boyfriend?” She used a little singsong voice, absolutely sure to make her sister crazy.
Charlotte’s nose wrinkled up. “Ewww, gross. Bobby is not my boyfriend.”
“He looks like your boyfriend.”
“Does not.”
“Does, too.” Charlotte spent entirely too much time with the pimply faced kid. And his feet smelled.
“He’s just a friend. Trust me. When I get married someday I’m going to marry a man who treats me like a princess.”
Chelsea smiled. This was one of their favorite games. Someday. Someday Charlotte would be a lawyer or doctor or actress, depending on the day. Chelsea knew what she wanted to be. A teacher. She wanted to be just like her mom and teach little kids all about how to read. She wasn’t sure she needed to get married. Her mom didn’t need a man.
Still, sometimes she thought it would be nice. Sometimes she thought Momma was lonely. She caught her every now and then reading a book of poetry and crying.
It’s just because it’s so lovely, dear. The poems remind me how much I love you.
Someday she was going to read those poems.
But now it was just fun to tease her sister. “I don’t think Bobby is a prince.”
They started walking toward the little cottage on the beach that had been their home for as long as Chelsea could remember.
“Someday, I’m going to marry a handsome man who is polite to everyone around him.” She turned around, her arms out as she made a full circle before starting to walk again. “And everyone will love him. He’ll be the sweetest guy in the world.”
Charlotte would find that man. Her sister was the sweetest girl in the world, and she deserved the best guy possible. A man who would love her and treat her gently.
If she ever got married, Chelsea wanted someone smart and kind and who would never, ever hurt her.
“Whose car is that?” Charlotte stopped, her hand going up over her eyes, shielding them from the sun.
Chelsea looked up and there was a big black SUV parked next to their clunky station wagon. A man stood at the front, his face turned toward their little cottage. She caught the glint of metal at his waist, but she wasn’t sure what the sun was catching. His belt maybe.