Yesterday's Sun (3 page)

“It’s all about investing in the future. This is where it all starts for you and Tom. This is where your family will be made.”

Diane gave Holly a hug and didn’t see the cloud of doubt pass over her face. Holly only wished she had the same kind of confidence in herself that the entire Corrigan family seemed to have.

Three days before Tom was due to leave, Holly’s to-do list was complete and the house was officially in order. The builders had already started work on the outbuilding and, although Holly was happy to sit back and let them get on with it, Tom obviously felt some kind of threat to his masculinity, so he took up his own physical challenge by clearing the overgrown garden.

Leaving the men to their labors, Holly stayed indoors to start work on the preliminary sketches for her new commission. Mrs. Bronson was a young wife with a very rich and very much older husband. To celebrate the birth of their first child together, as opposed to the numerous children her husband had fathered from a variety of previous marriages and dalliances, Mrs. Bronson wanted to mark the occasion with a sculpture. It would need to be a substantial piece and would become a permanent and prominent feature in the entrance hall to their mansion.

Naturally, the theme of the sculpture was mother and child. Given the theme, Holly had been reluctant to take on the commission, which would take at least six months to complete, but the money was too good to turn down.

She had set out her sketch pads in the study that morning, full of good intentions but with a distinct lack of inspiration. Money alone wasn’t incentive enough to get her creative juices flowing. She just didn’t have that same depth of feeling she usually had to draw on. She knew nothing about the miraculous bond between mother and child that everyone else seemed to drone on about.

Holly couldn’t recall a single memory of her childhood in which she had felt that kind of bond. In fact, she had spent most of her formative years feeling either alone or afraid. Her mother had been in her teens when she discovered she was pregnant. A hasty marriage and an unwanted child had come as a nasty shock to her and she hadn’t been prepared or willing to give up her freedom.

With a young child to care for, her mother’s social life had been severely restricted, so she often brought the party lifestyle she craved into the house. Holly had vivid memories of a house full of hangers-on, either recovering from the last party or waiting for the next. Her mum was always center of attention, dancing barefoot through the house whether there was music playing or not. She always looked her happiest when she was dancing and everyone was drawn to her, even Holly, like a moth to the flame, eager to share her mother’s excitement. She could remember one time when her mum had picked her up and twirled her around the room to squeals of delight from her daughter, but Holly was never sure whether that had actually happened. She suspected it was merely a false memory of a longed-for dream. The memories Holly could rely on were those in which her mum had stopped dancing and pointed an accusing finger at her daughter before proclaiming to everyone that this was the creature who had ruined her life. The look on her mother’s face was one of pure loathing, and that was the image Holly recalled when she thought of motherhood.

Until Tom, Holly hadn’t even witnessed responsible parenting secondhand. In her early years, she had been isolated from other children, their parents having already labeled Holly as a problem child because of her family life. As a teenager, she had been naturally drawn to the other orphaned fledglings who had been pushed out of the nest too soon.

Her art had been her savior in more ways than one. It had been a form of escapism, a part of her life she could control and succeed in, and, in hindsight, it had also been an effective form of therapy. She had put a lot of anger into her earlier work and it was only after meeting Tom that she found she could express positive emotion in her art, too. The love between a man and a woman she now understood; the love between a mother and a child she didn’t. She was drawing a blank, literally.

Holly had spent two hours going through the motions of sketching images but still hadn’t come up with any ideas that were sufficiently original or thought provoking. She’d sketched out some obvious images of a mother holding her child, a mother nursing her child, a mother kissing her child. Desperate for a new perspective, she’d even sketched out an image of the moment of birth—probably not the kind of statue Mrs. Bronson would want greeting her guests in the entrance to her home.

Holly had a meeting scheduled with Mrs. Bronson in less than a week’s time and she was starting to debate whether or not to cancel the commission altogether. If she went ahead and produced a substandard piece of work, it would damage her reputation, which was still in its embryonic stages. On the other hand, reneging on a deal would be equally damaging to her career.

Putting down her sketch pad, Holly headed into the kitchen. The room was large, with enough space for a dining table at its center. It might have been the outbuilding that had drawn Holly to the property, but it was the kitchen that had sold the place to both her and Tom. The wooden units were painted white, the walls were green, and the terra-cotta floor tiles extended through the back door and across to a small terrace, which led to the immense if slightly untamed garden and the countryside beyond.

Holly peered out the kitchen window, searching for Tom. She couldn’t see him through the tangle of shrubs and trees, but she knew where he was from the sounds of snapping branches and occasional expletives. Ignoring the urge to go and investigate, she started chopping vegetables and set to work making a large pot of soup to try out on Tom and the builders.

“And what do you think you’re up to?”

Holly jumped, narrowly avoiding chopping a finger rather than a carrot. A pair of arms closed around her waist. Tom had spied her from the garden and crept into the house.

“Don’t you know better than to frighten a woman when she’s armed and dangerous?” warned Holly, brandishing her kitchen knife.

“You’re always dangerous. You can cut me to the wick, knife or not.” He leaned down and kissed the back of her neck.

“Don’t go getting sidetracked. I want that garden looking spick-and-span before you disappear off into the sunset.”

“Look, woman!” gasped Tom in amazement, pointing toward the garden. “Can’t you see the transformation already?”

Holly peered toward the garden, putting a hand up to shade her eyes for effect. “No, not at all,” she laughed.

“I’ve practically made a small mountain from all the bracken and deadwood I’ve cleared. I’ve even trimmed your bush.”

“A man renowned for his literary prowess and he still lowers the tone with childish innuendo,” remarked Holly. “And the garden looks like a heap to me.”

“Well, it’ll look better when all the garden waste’s been cleared,” Tom replied sulkily. “I just need someone to use their womanly charms on the builders to see if they’ll help me get rid of it.”

“Well, I’m busy, in case you hadn’t noticed. Go use your own womanly charms on them. I’m sure they’ll be impressed.”

Holly let Tom beg a little longer before giving in. She was secretly happy to have an excuse to check on the building work. The outbuilding was set back and to the side of the house and looked like it had been used as a workshop at some point in the past. It was a one-story brick building about the size of a double garage. Thanks to Billy the foreman, they had made a good start in the last week and had already filled two large Dumpsters gutting the place. Thankfully the roof hadn’t needed to be completely replaced, but skylights were being installed for more natural light. Interior walls had been knocked down and new windows knocked out of the outer walls. Each time Holly checked on their progress, the studio seemed to be getting brighter and brighter.

The studio was a hive of activity and Holly found Billy piling rubble into a wheelbarrow. The foreman was probably nearing retirement but showed no signs of acting his age as he picked up huge blocks of cement with ease. He had round features that did their best to hide the wrinkles on his weathered face and he still had a good head of hair that was likely gray, although the permanent layer of dust that left his hair almost white made it impossible for Holly to tell.

“How’s it going, Billy?” Holly shouted over the din of power tools.

“The electrician is coming over tomorrow, so I’d say we’ll be plastering the walls by early next week and putting the final touches to the job.”

“You’re a miracle worker. You really are.”

Billy beamed a smile at her. “Glad to be of service. You can always count on me,” he told her. “Not like that husband of yours. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. He shouldn’t be leaving you on your own to fend for yourself.”

“Yes, Billy, you have said it before, many times. And like I keep telling you, I can manage perfectly well on my own,” admonished Holly. She was now used to Billy’s old-fashioned views and, rather than take offense, she quite liked being treated as the fairer sex, especially when it meant she could wrap him around her finger.

“If there’s anything you need, you only have to ask,” he assured her, with a kindly twinkle in his eye.

“Well, there is something,” she began. “But it’s that husband of mine who needs the help.”

“We’ve been watching him hack away at that jungle of yours,” Billy said. “Kept us amused all morning, it has.”

“Any chance a couple of your lads could help clear away the debris? There’s a pot of soup on the stove and a ton of crusty bread for your trouble,” pleaded Holly, fluttering her eyelashes for effect.

“Your wish is my command,” agreed Billy. “But while you’re here, you might want to take a look at this. We found it during the clear-out.”

Billy picked up a wooden box from among a heap of building materials stacked up in a corner.

It was the size of a small shoebox, and although it was difficult to tell underneath the layers of dust it seemed to be made of oak, with brass hinges and a simple clasp. There were engravings around its sides, but again the dust obscured the detail.

“Have you opened it?” Holly asked with growing excitement. The box didn’t exactly look like it was going to contain a hoard of jewels, but it was ornate enough to suggest it held something of value.

Billy turned the clasp and lifted the lid. Holly’s excitement dissipated in a puff of ancient dust as she peered at the assortment of mechanical-looking objects within. Split into two sections, the box held some kind of glass ball on one side and a selection of brass cogs and brackets on the other. “What is it?” she asked.

“Haven’t got a clue,” Billy answered. “Consider it a gift, from me to you.” Again, he winked at her.

“Thanks, Billy, you really know how to spoil a girl.”

Holly took the box back into the house with her and put it aside so she could concentrate on getting lunch prepared.

The soup was a success, judging by the speed with which it was devoured by the workers, and with their lunch break over, the builders set to work helping Tom clear the garden. Holly wasn’t in a hurry to return to her sketches so she decided to occupy herself with the mysterious wooden box. Having laid some old newspaper on the kitchen table, she set about gently cleaning the box and its contents with soapy water and an old toothbrush. Technically speaking, the toothbrush hadn’t been old that morning when Tom had used it, but it was now.

The box itself gave nothing away as to its purpose, other than some pretty carvings of the sun, moon, stars, and what looked like clockfaces. The glass ball was the easiest item to clean. It was about two inches in diameter and as Holly wiped away the dust, she could see that it was made of something other than clear glass. The orb had a perfectly smooth surface but, at its core, there was a small, silvery prism that reflected light from its center. It glinted softly in the warm sunlight. Setting it to one side, Holly concentrated her efforts on the cogs. Beneath the dust and grime the brass shone, and that was when she noticed an inscription running around the edge of one of the larger cogs. The inscription was well-worn and unreadable in places, but she could just about make out a few words. “Reflection” was one, “key” another, and she guessed another said “time.”

“Found something else to do to avoid the dreaded Mrs. Bronson?” Tom asked her. He was covered in scratches from his hard labors, but as Holly peeked out of the window at the garden she had to admit it was starting to take shape.

“Billy found it in the outbuilding. I’ve cleaned it up, but I’ve still not got a clue what it is.” Holly showed him the inscription on the cog.

“In time, reflection is the key to traveling,” Tom read.

Holly’s jaw dropped open. “How on earth did you read that? Some of the words have completely worn away.”

Tom beamed with superiority. “I keep telling you. I have hidden depths.”

“Is it a well-known saying? I’ve not heard it before. What does it mean?” she demanded.

“Haven’t the foggiest.” Tom shrugged.

“Tom?” Holly asked, eyeing him with suspicion now.

“You know that stone plinth stuck in the middle of the garden with no apparent use? Well, I found a matching top hidden in the overgrowth. It has the same inscription written on it.”

“Show me,” Holly insisted, leaving the array of freshly polished brass cogs to sparkle on the kitchen table.

The stone slab was facedown in the dirt, half-buried by years of leaf fall. It was a deep-gray color with sparkles of quartz glistening through it. Despite working with a wide range of materials in her sculptures, Holly didn’t recognize the type of stone at all. The slab was perfectly round and, as Tom had described, it had an inscription, currently upside-down, around its outer edge. There was also a large hole in the center that looked like it would match the top of the plinth perfectly.

“Considering it’s been buried beneath all of this mulch, I can’t believe how clean it is,” Tom told her, shaking his head in disbelief.

Holly traced her fingers across its cold, smooth surface. Her fingers tingled as if a faint charge of electricity had flowed up from the stone and she pulled her hand away.