Christmas at Butterfly Cove. Sarah Bennett
old bag.’
A sharp elbow dug him in the ribs. ‘That’s Fairy Godmother to you, cheeky bugger.’
‘Oof!’ Luke staggered away clutching his side as though she’d delivered a much harder blow, almost bumping into his brother in the process.
Aaron hooked an arm around his neck, tugging him into a half-hug, half-headlock. ‘You would tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, of course …’ He cut off the instinctive response and swallowed. ‘Actually, I could do with a chat later, if you have time?’
Shifting his hold, Aaron brushed a quick kiss on his cheek. ‘Always got time for you, Spud. You know that.’
Yes. He did.
When the end came, it was surprisingly quick. Nee had finally settled into a routine with her father only to be thrown into the bureaucratic nightmare brought on by Vivian’s death. Even for someone with little in the way of personal assets, the world seemed determined to thwart them at every turn. George battled valiantly with solicitors, banks and all the other institutions who demanded a ridiculous amount of detail before they would accede to close accounts and update their records. Nee said a silent prayer of thanks for his meticulous record-keeping as she did her best to relieve him of as much of it as she could. An air of eerie acceptance had settled over her dad. True, he’d never been the most demonstrative of men, but his preternatural calm worried her more than if he’d broken down in tears.
Arrangements for the funeral had been made with a sympathetic undertaker, and the others would be heading up from Butterfly Cove in the morning for the service at the local crematorium the day after. Much as Nee wanted to be the one to shoulder the responsibility, in her heart it relieved her to know Mia would soon be there with her. Her doughty, capable sister would pick up whatever balls Nee dropped.
She sighed as the tinny, cheery music in her ear flipped back to the original track. She bet Mia wouldn’t have spent so long on hold. ‘Come on, come on,’ she muttered into the phone.
‘Thank you for calling Middleworth’s. My name is Sonia, how may I assist you this morning?’
Stunned that for once her impatience had been rewarded, it took Nee a moment to shake off her wool-gathering. ‘Hello. I was talking to one of your colleagues about cancelling an account?’
Keys clicked, the familiar sound of fingers skittering over a keyboard. ‘I’m sorry to hear you are thinking of leaving us. Can you give me the account number in question?’
Nee ground her teeth. ‘I’ve been through all this once already. Can you transfer me back to …?’ She glanced down at the notepad in front of her. She’d been given the bloody runaround so often over the last few days, she’d taken to writing every single detail down. ‘… Colin.’
‘I’m sorry, he’s on another call. Can you give me the account number in question, please?’
Fighting the urge to scream, she took a deep breath and reeled off the number, again. More clicking, then, ‘Thank you, Mrs Thorpe, I have your details on the screen. Can you please confirm the first line of your address, and the postcode, please?’
Nee stared at the automated clock on the phone. Ten bloody minutes she’d been on the phone and they were back to this again. She clung to the final shreds of her temper and tried to keep her tone even. ‘As I told your colleague, I’m not Mrs Thorpe, I’m her daughter—’
The rep cut across her. ‘I’m sorry, I’m only authorised to speak to the account holder. Data protection, and all that.’
Her fake sympathy snapped something inside Nee. ‘Well, unless you’re a fucking clairvoyant, you’re out of luck because we’re cremating her tomorrow.’ She regretted the words the moment she’d said them. It wasn’t this poor girl’s fault, it was the same damn ‘computer says no’ system every so-called customer services department seemed tied to. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry, that was completely unnecessary of me. My mother died recently, and I’ve already been through all of this once with your colleague. I just want to close her account.’
‘There are no notes on the system regarding your request. I can only go by the information in front of me.’ The defensive tone from the operator made her feel lower than a snake’s belly. ‘Do you have probate on your mother’s estate?’ the woman continued.
Nee sighed. She’d banged her head against the probate brick wall several times already. ‘No, we don’t have it yet. It’s only a store card, for goodness’ sake. You must be able to see from your records that it hasn’t been used in months. I’m just trying to spare my father the upset of receiving any more blank statements like the one that arrived in the post this morning.’
‘I’m sorry, but our procedures require a copy of the probate certificate before we can terminate this account. We cannot act on a phone request, as we have no proof of your identity. I’m sure you understand.’
Because people randomly phoned and cancelled store cards belonging to strangers all the time, no doubt. All at once the fight left her, leaving her bone-tired. ‘Can you at least mark the account so no more statements are sent out?’
The line went quiet for a moment. ‘I’m sorry. Mrs Thorpe didn’t authorise anyone to act on her behalf, but I have requested a copy of the account closure form to be sent out to the address listed. It details the steps to follow.’
It was the best she could hope for, apparently. ‘Okay, thanks. Sorry again for being rude.’
‘It’s fine. Thank you for calling Middleworth’s.’ Nee stared at the phone, not quite knowing whether to laugh or cry, then placed it very gently back into its cradle. It was that, or smash the wretched thing against the wall.
The sharp ring of the front doorbell jarred her and she rose from her perch on the bottom step of the stairs. ‘I’ll get it,’ she called towards the half-open door of her father’s study. Let it not be another bloody casserole.
Vivian’s death had drawn the most unlikely of people out of the woodwork, some driven by a true sense of duty and concern, most jumping at the chance for a bit of rubbernecking into the sideshow of grief playing out behind the neatly trimmed hedges of number thirty-two. Neighbours her father had never met beyond the nod of a head took turns ringing the bell, offering a few words of bland comfort and a plate of something. No doubt the presence of one of the long-missing daughters of the house had set tongues wagging behind the twitching net curtains. Not that Nee could have cared less what they had to say for themselves.
She paused before the door to squint at the blurred outline of a figure through the privacy glass set in the wood, but the frosted ridges made it impossible to discern much. Taking a deep, composing breath, Nee fixed the politest smile she could muster and turned the latch. Bold as brass, and twice as bloody gorgeous, the last person she’d expected to see gave her a lopsided grin. ‘Hello, Mrs Spenser.’
Luke? He looked well; still carrying the summer tan he must have picked up at Butterfly Cove. The sun looked to have added a few paler highlights to his wayward blond curls, but the melting heat in his dark-brown eyes was as familiar as ever. Never one to consider herself the fainting type, Nee had to grip the edge of the doorframe until her knuckles turned white to stop herself from sliding to the floor. ‘You … you’re here?’
‘I heard about your mum,’ he said, as though that explained anything at all.
His breath condensed in the air and she became aware of the November chill leeching in through the open door. Acting on autopilot, she stepped to the side. ‘You’d better come in.’
Catching a hint of the clean, sharp scent of his aftershave as he passed her, she closed her eyes against a sudden rush of memories. Luke, nuzzling the spot just beneath her ear as he whispered some private jest to her.