The Lost Sister by Kathleen McGurl (i can read book club .TXT) 📕

the sun had come out so they’d gone to play crazy golf on the cliff top, then made their way down to the beach for a picnic, which of course had to start with an ice cream.

Harriet remembered how she’d helped Jerome build a sandcastle. That had usually been John’s role, and it had been at least fifty years since she’d made one herself. But it had been surprisingly enjoyable, the sand at the perfect degree of wetness to stick together. They’d dug a traditional mound with a moat, decorated it with stones and shells, then as the tide began to come in Harriet, remembering something John had done with Davina and Sally, suggested they dug a channel to the sea to let waves come in to fill the moat. She’d been amazed to discover they’d spent hours at it – happy, joyful hours of digging and excavating and laughing as the incoming waves swamped the moat and began to undercut the castle itself.

It was a perfect day – cloudless blue sky, stunning views of the Purbeck hills in one direction, and the western tip of the Isle of Wight in the other. When the sun shone on the white cliffs of Alum Bay it took on the shape of a polar bear, from their viewpoint on the eastern end of Bournemouth’s beach. ‘Can you see the polar bear?’ she’d teased Jerome, and he had spent five minutes scanning the beach, cliffs and horizon before gleefully spotting it.

At last, recognising that Jerome was beginning to tire, she’d packed up the rug, picnic bag and buckets and spades, and taken him home where she’d put on a Disney DVD while she cooked something for tea. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa. She’d found him curled up cuddling a cushion when he didn’t respond to her calls that tea was ready. She’d spent a minute just gazing at him, his sun-lightened hair that was clumpy with dried saltwater, his face with a hundred times more freckles than he’d had that morning, his little bronzed arm curled around the cushion. What was it about children that tugged so at your heartstrings? She loved this child so much; she’d do anything to keep him safe.

It had been a wonderful day. Would her unknown granddaughters have enjoyed that kind of day on the beach? Would she ever get the chance to take them, to jump the waves with them, treat them to ice cream – Autumn at least. She remembered that Davina had said Summer didn’t like ice cream. Would the girls ever play with their little cousin in the sand? She pictured the three of them, heads together, digging a moat around a huge castle while she, Sally and Davina watched, chatting happily. Would that, could that ever happen?

Back home after the cruise, Harriet unpacked and put a load of washing on, then spent a while sorting through the many photos she’d taken on the trip. She picked out the best ones and transferred them to a file on her laptop, ready to show Sally and Charlie at the weekend. There were a few of ships and tugs she’d taken especially for Jerome too.

She realised with a pang of pain that these were the first photos she’d taken since John had died. In the past, they’d have sorted through holiday snaps together, putting together albums of each trip, each photo neatly labelled. How she would love to be able to show him this set of pictures! Once the sorting was complete, she decided to take a walk to the cemetery. She could tell his headstone all about the cruise, at least.

It had been so sudden, John’s death. One day they’d been settling into their new lives as retirees, spending time pottering in the garden, visiting local places of interest or planning weekend breaks away. And the next – he was gone. Harriet woke up one morning beside him, and instantly realised something was horribly, terribly wrong. The lack of warmth from his side of the bed, lack of movement, of the sounds of his breathing; she turned over and propped herself on one elbow, and saw that he was gone. A massive heart attack that probably killed him instantly, the post-mortem later concluded. Harriet blamed herself. Why hadn’t she woken, when the heart attack hit? She’d always thought they would be noisy affairs, accompanied by groaning and thrashing by the victim. How could he have had such a large one and it not have woken her? She might have been able to do something – call the paramedics, resuscitate him, something, anything.

But by the time she’d woken, that bright early-summer morning, he’d been lying dead beside her for several hours. Long enough for his body to have cooled and stiffened. As the initial shock gave way to dawning of the awful truth she felt an astonishing sense of calm – realising these would be her last moments with him. There was no point rushing to call anyone – there was nothing that could be done for him. She should make the most of the time, say goodbye to him properly, spend a few minutes remembering. She leaned over and kissed his forehead, then his lips. ‘Goodbye, my love. Thank you for our life together. I wouldn’t have changed a moment of it. Sleep well.’ She lay down again, her head against his stiffened shoulder and draped her arm across his chest. So many times she had lain like this, held him like so. And this was to be the last time.

She stayed like that for a minute, or was it an hour – time seemed to have stopped. The tears came, silently flowing down her cheeks and onto John’s chest. She thought about the last words he’d said to her the night before, as they put down their books – his Lee Child thriller he’d never now finish – and turned out the lights. ‘Love you, love you, love you – is that enough