No Place to Hide Page 2

  Because they’d tramped around the grounds the last time they were there, she knew there were potential grassy gardens either side of the house, a cobbled courtyard and three old barns ripe for conversion at the back, plus an overgrown vegetable patch, a fully stocked orchard in much need of attention, and acres of farmland beyond that dipped and flowed, thrust and tumbled into the hazy distance. Who wouldn’t want to bring their children up in such an idyllic West Country setting that wasn’t much more than an hour by train to London, and tucked in behind the thriving village of Chippingly Moor?

  By the time they returned to London on Sunday evening Matt was so convinced the place should be theirs that he’d already left a message on the agent’s answerphone saying he wanted to make an offer.

  “Keep visualizing,” he told Justine. “Keep seeing us in it and somehow it’ll happen.”

  So that was what she’d done throughout the following two weeks, even while giving birth to their son, Ben. It was where she wanted to bring him up, so somehow they had to make the place theirs. Even if it broke the bank now, which it would, it was definitely their forever home, so they simply didn’t care how hard they might have to struggle for the first few years. Why should they when everything about the house felt right. In the spacious kitchen the original flagstone flooring had been restored and replaced, and a shiny black Aga had been tucked snugly into a niche next to the fireplace. There was a vast center island with a salad sink, extra storage, and built-in wine racks, and still plenty of room for a dining table and even a sofa. At the far end of the ground floor was the perfect study-cum-library for Matt, with walls already full of shelving, a small cast-iron hearth in a corner, and a view from the double French doors down over the steep grassy bank in front of the house to the park at the heart of the vale. At the other end was an ideal space for a children’s playroom that opened onto a side yard that they could easily lay to lawn and cover with trampolines, slides, swings, and seesaws. A large sitting room with arched sash windows at the front and back and a huge inglenook fireplace was between the kitchen and study, while a massive oak staircase rose from the entrance hall to a bedroom each for the children, two more for guests, and a master suite for Justine and Matt that was so spacious and luxurious she hardly knew how she was going to fill it.

  They soon learned from the agent that their first offer had been refused. So was the second. Then someone put in a bid that Justine and Matt had no hope of matching.

  Their dream was being crushed by a stranger.

  Could they really let that happen?

  There had to be a way. The house simply had to be theirs, no matter what…

  Present Day—Culver, Indiana

  Justine’s heart fluttered as the sound of a speedboat starting up farther along the shore brought her back to the lake. Nevertheless, it still took a moment for her to fully remember where she was—and why.

  They used to come to Culver for summer vacations as children, she and her younger brother Rob. They’d lived close to New Hope, Pennsylvania, then. Their busy parents, Camilla and Tom, used to hand them over to Camilla’s mother, Grandma May, each June to make the long drive across country to the summer house on Lake Maxinkuckee—or Lake Max, as it was more generally known. Neither Justine nor Rob had any clear memories now of the times they’d spent here; they’d stopped coming around the time Justine was six, Rob four. Their father’s job had taken the family to London, and as far as either Justine or Rob could remember, Grandma May had never come to visit them there, nor had they ever returned to Lake Max.

  Justine wished she could remember her grandma. She felt sure there had been a special bond between them—why else would Lake Max have presented itself so clearly when she’d realized she had to leave England and start again somewhere else, to become somebody else? It had felt as though her grandma was calling to her, telling her she’d be safe here; that she wouldn’t have to worry about anything ever again.

  Grandma May had passed on some thirty years ago, when Justine was around twelve, but that didn’t mean Justine couldn’t feel her spirit lingering today, watching from somewhere close by, understanding her and caring. Imagined or not, it helped her to feel less alone. She wished she could picture the old lady in her mind’s eye, or hear distant echoes of her voice, but she couldn’t. She was sure there used to be photographs of her around their London home, but she had no idea where they were now. Presumably with her mother, Camilla, at Camilla’s elegant town house in Chelsea, or perhaps at her country pile in Hampshire, though they weren’t on display in either of those places. Camilla never talked about her mother. Then again, Camilla rarely talked about anything other than gardening, her passion and claim to fame.

  “Oh, hell, Justine, I don’t know where those pictures are now,” she’d sighed when Justine had asked for them a few months ago. “Why are you even interested?”

  “Because I’ve decided to go and live by the lake.”

  Her mother’s eyes had widened at that, not so much with surprise as something that had seemed like alarm. “You surely don’t mean Lake Maxinkuckee?” she’d protested.

  “Yes, that’s where I mean.”

  Camilla’s stare hardened. “I understand your reasons for leaving,” she’d finally managed, “but why on earth would you go to a place you don’t even know?”

  “Isn’t that the point? To go where no one knows me?” Justine said, repeating what she’d said to Matt when she’d told him of her decision.

  “But why there?”

  “Give me one good reason why not there.”

  Camilla’s fleshy cheeks flushed with confusion. “Because there’s nothing there for you,” she cried. “It’s all gone, years ago, and no good will ever come out of running back to a place you can’t even remember.”

  “I’m not expecting a home to be waiting for me. I realize I’ll have to rent a place at first.”

  “You’ve got the whole world to choose from…”

  “And I’ve made my choice. Exactly why is it a problem, Mother?”

  Camilla drew back, as though offended.

  Justine waited, her eyes holding the challenge.

  Camilla turned away. “I’ve already agreed that you need a fresh start,” she said, “and I’ll support you in any way I can, but please, do yourself a favor and forget about Lake Max.”

  Had her father still been alive, Justine would have sought his advice—or his opinion, anyway—but he’d died suddenly when she was in her late teens. By then her parents had been divorced for at least seven years. Justine and Rob had always remained close to their father, even after he’d moved to Seville with his new Spanish wife.

  Camilla had married again too. In fact, she was now on her fourth husband, Bill.

  The last time Justine and Camilla had spoken was when Justine had rung to say goodbye. “I’ve sent you my new email address,” she’d told her mother. “Please don’t pass it to anyone else.”

  “Of course not,” Camilla promised. “Rob tells me you’ve already rented an apartment in Culver while you look for something more permanent.”

  Her mother sounded so peeved and agitated that Justine said, “Would you rather I stayed here, in England? Perhaps I should move in with you. That would be fun, wouldn’t it, us all under the same roof, sharing your precious garden?”

  “Don’t do this, Justine,” Camilla implored. “You know coming to me wouldn’t be the answer…”

  “It would damage your reputation.”

  “It’s damaged all our reputations.”

  Justine had rung off at that point, not wanting her mother to know she was crying.

  Only Matt had witnessed the tears.

  “Please don’t go,” he’d begged, the day she’d booked the flights to Chicago.

  “We agreed, I have to, for Tallulah’s sake.”

  “But I can’t bear to think of you so far away.”

  “No more contact between us,” she’d reminded him, her heart breaking into a thousand pieces as she c
onnected with the real meaning of the words. “It’s for the best.”

  Though they’d gone round and round in circles that day, as they had on so many other occasions, talking things through in every possible way, seeking advice from Rob and his wife, Maggie, from the police and an army of counselors, that was where it always ended, because as far as they could see it was the only way.

  Justine had to leave. She needed to make a new home for herself and Lula, and since she was American by birth it made sense, at least to her, to return to her roots.

  She could have chosen New Hope, Pennsylvania, but she hadn’t, because she’d felt sure that Culver, Indiana, was where her grandma wanted her to be. Of course, as a ghost, Grandma May would never be able to fill Matt’s place—no one, living or dead, could ever do that—but in a quietly instinctive way Justine knew she’d made the right decision.

  How she ached for Matt now, for everything that had once been theirs, the home, the friends, the dreams, the safety, the countless things they’d taken for granted.

  One day—a few single moments in the day—had brought it all to an end.

  Except that wasn’t how it had happened. It had been coming for a long time, but no one had wanted to see it, and by the time they had it was too late.

  Stop, stop! You need to let go, to forgive yourself and start afresh.

  The flimsy fabric of her dress floated around her knees like ripples in the breeze; her normally pale skin had turned golden in the summer sun. There were lines around her once lively green eyes, bearing the unreadable story of her grief; shadows darkened their rims like specters, palpable evidence of long, difficult nights during which sleep was rarely a friend.

  Yet there were still moments when she could smile and feel her heart lifting at the beauty of nature, at how blessed she was in Tallulah and being able to make her home in this unexpected delight of a small town.

  Lake Maxinkuckee had got its name from its first inhabitants, the Potawatomi Indians. She and Matt had found that little nugget on Wikipedia several years ago when they’d toyed with the idea of visiting the place for a family holiday. Camilla had immediately discouraged it. In fact, she hadn’t seen any point in them returning to the States at all, when there were still so many places in Europe and the rest of the world to discover. Camilla, who’d never lost her American accent in spite of being a committed Anglophile now, was nothing if not expert at tearing up roots. She did it at least once a week, in a literal sense, usually for an audience of thousands who tuned in to her highly rated afternoon TV show. Glamorous, erudite, flirtatious, and undeniably gifted in her field—actually her garden—Camilla Gayley was nothing short of a goddess when it came to horticultural planning and landscape management.

  That was what the press called her, the “Green-Fingered Goddess.”

  She was also something of a socialite, had a column in a national newspaper, and had started an Internet site that received hundreds, possibly thousands of hits a day. She was as active as a teenager on Facebook and Twitter, was forever posting selfies with the many celebrities she entertained at her mini estate, and had, only in the past year, been invited—somewhat hilariously—to pose nude for Playboy.

  Thankfully she’d turned it down. At fifty-eight, she’d decided it wouldn’t be seemly. (Nor was it at sixty-four, her actual age, Justine had thought at the time, though she’d refrained from saying so.)

  Being a guest on Desert Island Discs—which, luckily for Camilla, had aired the week before all hell had broken lose—had, for her, been some sort of high spot in her glittering career. Justine had dutifully listened, cringing at all the name-dropping and self-adulation, while raising an eyebrow at stories she strongly doubted were true. Most outrageous of all was Camilla’s luxury item: a photo album of her grandchildren that her dear son Rob had put together for her fiftieth birthday.

  “Lucky no one asked her their names,” Justine had remarked to Matt as the program ended. She knew the barb was unjustified, for her mother was actually much better with the children than Justine was ready to give her credit for, although it had to be said that she didn’t see them very often.

  “And of course,” she’d run on irritably, “she didn’t stop to think that it was too long ago for Tallulah to be in the album.”

  “Don’t let it get to you,” Matt cautioned. “Lula’s too young to know the difference, and we’ve got plenty of other things to worry about.”

  Why was she thinking about her mother now? Most likely because she was the link to her grandma, an integral part of the connection that couldn’t be made real, or completed, unless Camilla allowed it. Or maybe it was simply because she hadn’t heard from her mother once since she’d arrived.

  “But you told me not to be in touch,” Camilla would protest if Justine got around to calling her.

  It was true, Justine had asked her not to be, but she could send emails to the new account Justine had set up, in her new name.

  When making the change she’d considered going back to her maiden name, but Camilla had retained custody of that.

  “Gayley isn’t exactly common,” she’d pointed out, “and I’m sorry, I don’t mean this to be hurtful, but I’d really rather people forgot that you’re related to me.”

  “Mum, for God’s sake,” Rob had cried in angry protest. “You’re not even married to Dad anymore, so why don’t you change your name to Bill’s and let Justine do what she wants?”

  “Don’t be absurd. Everyone knows me as Camilla Gayley. I can’t just change it when it’s all over our products, program graphics, website—”

  “It’s all right,” Justine had interrupted. “I’ll find something else.”

  In the end it was as though Grandma May had come to the rescue again, offering up her own name for Justine to take. So now Justine and Lula were no longer McQuillans, they were Cantrells.

  Giving up Matt’s name had been devastating. The day her new documents had come through she’d felt so panicked, so truly afraid that had it not been for Lula she was sure she’d have backed out and stayed. She kept thinking of the day she’d become Justine McQuillan. How happy she’d been; how young and in love. She loved Matt as much now as she had back then. More. Much, much more, although that wouldn’t have seemed possible at the start when her feelings had been so strong, and her determination so fierce, that she’d taken matters into her own hands to get them the farmhouse they so desperately wanted.

  Eighteen Years Earlier—London, UK

  Justine was in her mother’s elegant study overlooking the Victorian lampposts and leafy gardens of Chelsea Embankment. Camilla’s severe, though attractive, face was already made up prior to a lunch engagement, her short fair hair combed to within a millimeter of perfection.

  She’d expressed no surprise when her husband, Bill, had showed Justine into the room, nor had she raised an eyebrow when Justine had told her why she was there. She’d simply taken the estate agent’s details, given them a slow look over, and passed them back again.

  “I can see its appeal,” she stated, crossing one silk-stockinged leg over the other, “but you’ll never be able to afford to heat it, never mind buy it.”

  Biting back a cutting retort, Justine said, “We’ve worked it all out, and OK, it’ll be tight at first, we might only be able to live in one part of it, but they’re talking about making Matt an editor at work, and if I can get a business going…”

  “What sort of business?”

  “I want to open a deli.”

  Camilla’s eyebrows rose. “Mm,” she commented shortly, either not taking it seriously or saving her opinion for another time. “Twelve thousand pounds is a lot of money. Are you intending to pay me back?”

  “I asked for a loan, not a gift,” Justine reminded her. “We’ll set up a standing order. It won’t be much at first, but—”

  Camilla’s hand went up. “You can pay it back when you have it. I don’t want it turning up in dribs and drabs. It would be too annoying.”

  Just
ine regarded her steadily.

  “I’ll give you the money,” Camilla continued, “because it’s only fair that you should have the same as Rob, which means the check I write will be for twenty thousand pounds, not twelve.”

  Justine was dumbfounded. “You gave Rob twenty thousand pounds?” she finally gasped.

  “To help him and Maggie buy the house in Brentford. So it wouldn’t reflect well on me if I didn’t do the same for you.”

  Still stunned by the news that her brother had received such an enormous sum and never mentioned it, Justine wasn’t quite sure what to say. “Have they…? Are they paying you back?” she asked.

  “I hope so, though I haven’t seen a penny of it yet and it’s been over two years.”

  Wondering if she’d ever have found out about the loan if she hadn’t asked for one herself, Justine, determined not to be petty about favoritism, managed to say, “I can assure you Matt and I will repay every last cent of whatever you choose to give us, and with interest if you’d like to set a rate.”

  Sighing impatiently, Camilla took out her checkbook, saying, “Shall I make it out to you or Matt?”

  “Either or both. We have a joint account.”

  Camilla’s smile showed what she thought of such foolishness.

  “Can I call Matt now to tell him?” Justine asked as her mother handed the check over.

  Waving her to the phone, Camilla said, “I’ll expect to be invited once in a while.”

  “Of course, as often as you like,” Justine assured her, starting to dial. “And thank you. I really…I mean, it’s hard to find the words…”

  “Then don’t try. I know you’re grateful. In your shoes, I would be too.”