BooksBarbecue
Back Again, Rachel
Chapters (98)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. 82
  86. 83
  87. 84
  88. 85
  89. 86
  90. 87
  91. 88
  92. 89
  93. 90
  94. 91
  95. 92
  96. 93
  97. 94
  98. Acknowledgements

But this Monday, as I hurried along, hoping for a good chair, dread had me in a chokehold. I felt spacey, slightly disconnected from reality—hardly surprising, considering all the turmoil of the weekend—and braced for something bad.

Which I narrowed down to an outburst from Luke.

Sometime during last night’s broken sleep I’d seen that he was angry with me. Despite his mixed messages—the Denver Goodbye showed he was trying to be nice—his anger had kept leaking out.

He had never actually said that he blamed me for Yara’s death—but it was clear that he had. And probably still did.

He was going to accuse me, that was what I was dreading—hearing those terrible words. The irony, though, was that I no longer blamed myself. I hadn’t, not since the meditation weekend where I’d met Quin.

Quin hadn’t known me from a hole in the ground but our strange connection during the LovingKindness exercise had absolved me. It was the greatest gift I’d ever been given.

No matter what Luke still thought, Yara’s death hadn’t been my fault. I had to remember that.

My phone rang, making my brain bounce off the ceiling of my skull. God, I was in bits. But it wasn’t Luke, as I’d expected. Instead, it was Bronte’s husband, brusque and bossy. ‘Our eldest child, Freya, is flying in from San Francisco tomorrow morning. Just for the day. She’s coming in to confront her mother.’

Is she now? Is she indeed?

That wasn’t how it worked—he didn’t get to decide Bronte’s schedule. And had he forgotten there were six other people in Bronte’s group? There could be countless things already tabled for tomorrow.

Coolly, I said, ‘I need to check the agenda, there may not be an opportunity for Freya to—’

‘She’s catching a flight back straight after her session. We’ll be with you at ten a.m. Leaving at eleven.’ And he hung up.

The high-handed fucker!

As it happened, tomorrow morning could be freed up. But I’d get no chance to interview Freya, to brief her. Her written testimonial had been worse than useless—she had nothing but lovely things to say about Bronte. And was there any point in her coming if she wasn’t capable of a tough conversation?

Switching off my phone, I got the best seat in the Abbot’s Quarter and watched my ducklings file in. Trassa was first. God love her, she was carrying so much pain, but she’d had a peaceful weekend.

Dennis, however, seemed buoyant as he swaggered in. Too buoyant, actually. I suspected he was engaged in high-wire cognitive manipulation, convincing himself that, despite all the evidence, he wasn’t an alcoholic. This wasn’t my first rodeo.