The Lies We Told by Camilla Way (best book recommendations txt) 📕

in the drive. It hadn’t crossed her mind that he would be there today, and she sat staring at it, lost in thought. Mac glanced at her in surprise as he began to open his door. “Aren’t you coming?” he asked.

“Yeah. Sorry.” She undid her seat belt and followed him to the house.

When Oliver opened the door, Clara was astonished at the change in him. It was as though he’d aged a decade since last she’d seen him, and she saw reflected in his face the same careening horror she’d endured herself those past few days: a vertiginous, eternal free fall where you almost longed for the ground to hit you, because that final violent impact must surely be better than this dreadful, endless plummeting.

“Oh, Oliver,” she said as she hugged him, “it’s good to see you.”

Releasing her, Oliver smiled faintly and shook Mac’s hand. “Mac, come in,” he said quietly. “Glad to have you here.”

Silently they followed him through to the kitchen. But as soon as she walked into the room, Clara was struck by its strange, taut atmosphere. She froze inside the door, confusedly taking in the sight of Rose seated at the table, her head bowed, her face in her hands, while Tom stood over her with an expression of such anger on his face that Clara’s first instinct was to rush to stand between them, to shield Rose from her son.

Before she could move, however, Tom turned and, his eyes briefly meeting hers, abruptly moved away, crossing the room to the window, where he stood looking out at the garden.

“Rose?” Clara asked in bewilderment. “Are you all right? What on earth’s happened?”

For a moment, when Rose raised her head and looked at her, Clara hardly recognized Luke’s mother; her expression was so tortured, so desperate, it seemed to contort her face into someone else’s entirely. But seconds later it had passed, the old Rose returning once more. She wiped her eyes, a shaky smile on her lips as she said, “Nothing! Nothing’s happened, darling. Or, you know . . . everything.” She looked at Mac. “Goodness, Mac,” she said weakly. “How lovely it is to see you too.” She didn’t move, though; it was as if she were pinned to her seat, and the four of them stood looking at one another, while Tom remained at the window with his back to them, radiating hostility.

Finally, Clara threw Mac a beseeching look and he grimaced, crossing the room to Tom and putting a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Hello there, pal,” he said. “Long time.”

It was three silent seconds before Tom turned to him and, clearing his throat, said, “Yes. Good to see you, Mac.” They shook hands. “How are you?” he added, at last managing a thin smile. The strange, taut atmosphere lifted a fraction. Rose jumped up, saying briskly, “Well then! Who would like some tea?”

“Let me do that,” Clara begged. “Please, don’t get up.”

But Rose waved her away. “No, no, don’t be silly. I’m fine!” She began bustling about, patting her husband on the arm while she went to fill the kettle. “So,” she said, a little more brightly, “tell me what brings you here!” Suddenly she paused, her hand flying to her mouth as she asked, “Oh! You don’t have any news, do you?”

Clara saw the half hope, half dread in her eyes and said quickly, “No, no news.”

And in that instant Rose seemed so desolate that Clara could hardly bear to look at her. Instead she gazed around the room, which she now noticed was in an uncharacteristic state of disarray. The usually pristine surfaces were covered in piles of junk and dirty plates; the air, which was once full of the scent of fresh flowers or cooking smells, now had a stale, sour whiff. A kind of panic rose in her. No, she wanted to say, please don’t do this, don’t fall apart. You’re Rose and Oliver! You can’t give up on him, not yet. To cover her dismay, she said weakly, nodding at the window, “Garden’s looking lovely, Rose.”

To this she gave a wan smile. “Oh, I’ve not been out there in a while, I’m afraid. Usually by this time, I’d be gearing up for our annual spring garden party, sorting out the invites for the village and so on. . . .” Her smile faltered. “It doesn’t seem so important anymore.”

At this, Tom made a strange, bitter little sound and strode abruptly from the room. The four of them stared after him, until seconds later they heard the front door slam shut. Clara and Mac glanced at each other in amazement.

“So,” Rose said as though nothing had happened. “What brings you here?”

Haltingly, Clara and Mac explained their plan. “We might not find anything, of course,” she told them, “but at least we’d be doing something. . . .”

There was a silence, until Oliver finally nodded and, not meeting their eyes, said quietly, “Well, yes . . . if there’s anything we can do to help . . .”

Clara looked anxiously at Rose, who said, “Whatever you think’s best, darling, of course.” She got up. “I’m very sorry. I hope you don’t mind, but I think I need to go and lie down now.”

They watched her go, Oliver sinking into a chair, staring after her with such a look of helplessness that it made Clara’s heart hurt. She thought about Emily’s e-mail, wishing she could tell them about it, praying that one day soon she’d be able to give them the news they’d waited for so long.

—

Tom was outside when they left the house, leaning against his car and staring out across the fields. A thin veil of drizzle hung in the tepid air, and crows cawed and circled overhead. He turned when he heard them crunching across the wet gravel toward him and, leveling his gaze at Clara, said, “I’m sorry about that.”

She felt a rush of indignation on Rose’s behalf and was relieved when Mac answered for them. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s a difficult time. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. You