Written in the Stars (30 page)

‘Not long. Just under a month. Father Joe said Dad wouldn’t tell him exactly what had happened, but he said he was incredibly low. He felt he was being punished but he couldn’t explain what he meant by that. Father Joe said all he could see was a weary man who loved his family and was deeply ashamed by the breakdown of his marriage. Dad told him that he didn’t want anyone to know where he was.’

‘Was your dad religious then?’ Kieran asks.

‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘I mean, Loni’s always said he struggled with her Buddhist beliefs but I don’t remember him being a particularly active church-goer. As far as I can recall he always said gardening was his religion.’

‘So did this Father Joe have any idea where your dad went afterwards?’

‘California,’ I reply, dully. I’m still in shock. As is Kieran who gapes at me. ‘Yep. Middle-aged family man who gets kicked out of family home by bonkers Buddhist wife hides away in priest’s house in sleepy Cley-next-the-Sea for a month and then jumps on a plane to Los Angeles . . .’

‘Whoa!’ he exclaims gleefully then resets his expression into one of more appropriate concern. ‘Why?’

‘To fulfil a lifelong dream of becoming a movie star? To join a monastery? I don’t know . . .’ I gaze out of the window, irritated by Kieran’s reaction.

‘So did he leave a forwarding address?’ I nod and turn over the piece of paper Father Joe gave to me. ‘Some place in Orange County.’

‘So what are you going to do next?’

I shrug. ‘Google it, I guess.’

‘We could go,’ Kieran says excitedly, his green eyes shining like a cat’s. ‘We could turn this into an American road trip. Just think, me, you, Route 101. Now
that
would be a leap.’

I laugh nervously. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Kieran shrugs, gazing back at the road. ‘But the offer is there. I could extend my leave from the ships. And you did say you wanted more excitement in your life . . .’

A contemplative silence descends over the van and as the road curls and coils ahead of us I can’t help but wonder, did
I
say I wanted that? Or did Kieran?

Chapter 47

It’s a briskly chilly Saturday morning and I’m lost in my thoughts as I weave through pretty cobbled back streets and through Greenwich market which is already bustling and heady with the scent of spices and incense. I walk down the tiny passageway past the independent shops and out onto Church Street.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, scrolling through the perfunctory birthday messages from my friends on Facebook. I know I have no right to but I can’t help but feel Adam’s absence today. I think longingly of how he’d always take the day off work – a treat in itself – and would wake me up with a special birthday breakfast in bed of pancakes, fruit and coffee and we’d stay there for most of the morning before he took me out for a surprise. Sometimes we’d head out of London in the car to a hotel, or he’d drive me to Kew Gardens, or to a National Trust house for lunch. Adam loved my simple tastes and I loved how relaxed he became when I took him out of the high-powered, money-and-status-obsessed world he’d been brought up in. Out of London, our differences were pruned back and it was then that we seemed most compatible. We laughed about the same thing; talked about the same goals – kids, living in the countryside, working for ourselves. Adam would open up about the things he loved: art, travel and history. He once even admitted that he wished he’d studied History of Art at university, like he’d wanted to, instead of being pushed by George into doing an advertising degree.

I miss him, I realise with a sharp jolt. I miss him a lot.

I walk towards the flower shop, and am surprised to see the ‘Closed’ sign on the door. It’s past 7 a.m. – Sal had told me to have a lie-in this morning but I can’t. I’m always up early, desperate to fill my day with the one thing that is finally right with my life – work. If not in the flower shop, then in Milly’s garden. I’ve realised just how much my happiness depends on me doing the thing I really love. And I want to make sure it is part of my life every single day. It is better for my head and heart than any amount of therapy.

My mobile rings as I peer through the window; all the lights are switched off.

I glance at the caller ID. ‘Hi, Lon—’

‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, my darling beautiful daugh-ter, happy birthday to you. And many mooooore!!!’ she trills. No matter how lonely I feel, Loni is always there.

‘Thanks,’ I say with a smile.

‘So how is my gorgeous girl on her special day? What are you doing, darling? Anything nice? I’m off to do some T’ai Chi on the beach now and I’m even considering a cheeky little skinny dip to get the old toxins out of my skin. I can’t believe you’re thirty-one,’ she gasps. ‘I look too young to have a daughter your age!’

‘And I feel too old to have a mum who looks as young as you!’ I say warmly. ‘I’m fine. I’ve just got to work.’

‘Oh Bea, why don’t you hop on a train and come here after you finish at the flower shop? Let me look after you. We can go for a long walk, have some proper time together.’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, racking my brains for an excuse. ‘I think I just want to be on my own.’ Even as I’m saying these words I know they’re not true. Besides, I’ve had no luck finding out any more about the address. Perhaps this is the perfect opportunity to ask Loni. She knows my birthday always makes me think about my dad.

‘Nonsense!’ Loni says. ‘No daughter of mine is spending her birthday weekend on her own. I had plans but I can definitely rearrange for you . . .’

‘What plans, a retreat?’

‘What? No, just, I’m seeing a . . .
some
. . . friends. But they can wait. I’ll cancel everything to see you, darling. So how about it? Please? Pretty please?’

I laugh, steam-rollered by Loni’s energy and enthusiasm.

‘OK, I’ll get a train tomorrow.’

‘Such a JOY!’ Loni squeals. ‘I’ll tell Cal.’

‘I don’t want any fuss—’ But she’s already rung off.

Yes, she can be overwhelmingly full-on and her crazy life often gets in the way of our relationship but she always makes me smile.

I open the door into darkness. The flower shop smells dank and heady with the scent of pungent autumn flowers. Even without seeing them I can smell gerberas and chrysanths, dahlias, rosehips and seeded eucalyptus as well as the sweet smell of the carved pumpkins in the windows. Suddenly the lights ping on and I find myself surrounded by laughing faces as not just Sal but also Nick, Glenda, Tim and Jeeves all stand singing their little hearts out and holding out a cake with my name spelt in beautifully iced flowers on the top.

I blush as I blow out the candles and clap them all for their singing.

‘And many more!’ finishes Glenda in her best Welsh soprano.

‘I can’t believe you’re all here,’ I say, turning and wagging my finger at a guilty-looking Sal and Tim who have clearly conspired to get everyone together.

‘You can’t be mad at me; I might get upset and go into labour prematurely!’ Sal says, holding her hands up.

‘Please don’t do that,’ Tim pleads, his face a picture of panic, and everyone laughs.

‘Your birthday breakfast is served,’ Nick says with a bow, coming out of the kitchen with a tray of pastries. ‘Now for your gift,’ he says as he rises up again. ‘This is a joint present from all of us.’

It’s a beautiful coffee-table garden design book. One I’ve been wanting for ages.

‘Oh, I love it,’ I say, beaming at everyone.

‘Open the card!’ Sal chants and I tear it open. I laugh as I read the front. ‘Born to garden, forced to work’. Inside it is another card.

‘It’s membership to Kew Gardens!’ I exclaim. ‘This is perfect.’ I smile at Nick and then at them all, genuinely touched by their thoughtfulness. ‘Thank you, everyone!’

I arrive on Loni’s doorstep after lunch the next day. All the way here I’ve been trying to work out how to tell her that I want to find my dad. I thought she’d confront me about it on the day I texted her for his Cley address, but she is so preoccupied these days that if she had wanted to know why, she certainly wasn’t bothered by the time I got back. I’m worried that explaining what I want to do might lead me to tell her that I’m seeing Kieran again. And I’m just not ready to do that.

Besides, Googling the address Father Joe gave me did provide me with some answers. Albeit confusing ones. I discovered it’s a residential home in a city called Garden Grove, north of Orange County. Aside from the name, which I could instantly see would appeal to Dad, it made no sense. He was forty-seven when he left us; old, by Loni’s standards – and in my and Cal’s recollections – but certainly not ready for an old people’s home. Besides, the place didn’t become one until three years after he left us. Before that it was privately owned. Maybe Dad had just gone for a holiday to visit a friend. Maybe he’d moved out there for good. I’m not sure I’ll ever know. I keep mulling over Kieran’s idea to fly out there together as part of ‘Operation Adventure’, to do the crazy Californian road trip. But aside from my financial circumstances (my part-time flower shop wage definitely won’t cover a flight to California – not to mention a couple of weeks off) I’m sure there must be a better way. I know I could ask Loni, but surely if she knew where he was she would have told me? Then there’s the other question that’s been niggling me. Loni still uses Dad’s name and she’s never divorced him. She’s always told Cal and me that she tried for a while to trace him so she could send him the divorce papers. We told her that there are ways to divorce a missing person but she said it didn’t seem that important ‘It’s not like I’m ever going to get married again.’

‘Bea, darling?’ Loni says, looking at me in surprise as she opens the door, as if she’s forgotten she has a daughter at all. Her hair looks wilder than usual, like it’s been given some sort of electric-shock treatment. And she doesn’t appear to be dressed in actual clothes, just a dressing gown that’s she’s obviously hastily pulled on in a hurry over her knickers and a yoga vest.

‘A hello would be nice,’ I say, leaning forward to cover her up. After a beat, she gathers my face in her hands and kisses me enthusiastically.

‘You’re er, early, come in!’ she says, glancing up the stairs before ushering me into her chaotic house. ‘I was just about to do some yoga.’

‘Is that what they call it these days.’ I smile, dropping my bag in the hallway. She’s acting like a teenager caught having sex by her parents.

‘Yes, darling, it is,’ she says, wagging her finger at me. ‘Although admittedly that is the umbrella term and there are lots of different trendy methods like vinyasa and ashtanga and Bikram, so people nowadays often refer to those rather than the overall discipline itself . . .’ Loni’s eyes flicker upstairs again and she shuts the door to her office as we pass and then envelops me in another hug. ‘Oh what a joy it is to see you! Now, what shall we do first? A little mother–daughter meditation and then a long beachy walk? We could take a trip to . . .’ Loni tries to stifle a yawn. ‘Oh dear, sorry, darling. How rude of me!’

‘You look tired, Loni,’ I say anxiously, studying her. Although I wish I looked as good when I’m knackered. Her bright blue eyes are shining and she can’t peel the smile from her face.

‘Me? What? No, I’m fine! Just . . .’ She yawns again.

‘Do you know, Loni,’ I reply, glancing through the kitchen and out to the garden where I can see the leaves of the red Acer brushing against the window, ‘why don’t you go and have a lie-down. To be honest all I want to do is potter around in the garden for a bit.’ This is true. As soon as I got here I felt the familiar pull to the garden. It is where I feel happy, whole. And I know there is so much to do out there still. I’ve neglected it – and Loni – for too long.

‘OK, well, as long as you’re sure.’ I can see that Loni looks relieved. ‘A little nap will be lovely and it means I’ll be completely re-energised to go out for your birthday dinner later. We’ll have a proper girl-on-girl catch-up later.’

I stifle a chuckle. ‘Girl
to
girl, Loni, girl t
o
girl.’ and she bounds upstairs.

Columns of apricot sunlight are streaming across the garden. I feel the crisp autumn air on my face; it pinches my skin pleasingly as if reminding me that I am awake, alive. I have survived. And I am . . . content. Happy, even. As the thought enters my head I feel a wave of surprise. I never thought it was possible to be so happy on my own. Not without Adam and Milly, not without people propping me up. But in the last few months I have completely turned my life around, changed the course of my future and I’ve done it all on my own. And what I’ve learned is that I needed to go back to my roots. Plant myself back in the past, back home here with my family, in the place I love, and with the people I love. Loni, Cal, Lucy, the twins – and Dad? I think of the cottage in Cley and how I’m one step closer to finding him. Do I want to go any further down that path? Or should I stop, turn away now in case it leads to yet more heartache?

I focus on keeping my mind in the present; on what is making me happy in the here and now. My job. My family. This garden.

Kieran. I smile to myself as I grab my tools from my caravan and set to work in a better place – the best place – I’ve been for years.

Chapter 48

‘Well, isn’t this nice, darling? It’s always a joy to have my baby girl by my side!’ Loni says emphatically over the gentle noise of chat and laughter in the King’s Head, the pub in Holt we’ve always come to for family occasions. She smiles as she looks at Cal, Lucy and the twins. ‘I can’t help but be gloriously happy that Bea is here on her birthday. In the bosom of all her family, just like she should be.’

Cal puts his arm round Loni and Lucy and smiles. I look around the warm, timber-beamed pub but can’t help feel like there’s something missing. We didn’t see them often but Adam loved my family. He revelled in the affectionate chaos that was my relationship with Loni and Cal, the arguments and constant teasing yet affectionate banter. He said it was an atmosphere that was so different to that of his own family. He’d find it hilarious when Loni wrote yet another article about her sex life, making me find humour in something that had previously only held embarrassment. He’d point out that she did it to earn a living, that I should be proud that she had a life outside her kids, that she’d been incredibly brave to start again in her early thirties as a single mum. His views – and his presence – had stuck together my torn-up past and stitched over the hole in it where my dad should have been. I’ll always love him for that.