This Year, Maybe

by Jenny Gladwell

Genres: Historical Fiction; Holiday books; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

The new heart-warming novel from the Kindle bestselling author of A Gift in December, Jenny Gladwell, about a widowed mother and daughter coming together to pull together the perfect family Christmas.

Sometimes you have to fall apart to become whole again...

Kate is a successful interior designer with two wonderful kids.

Kate is also a recent widow, a grieving daughter and worrying about how to pay the bills.

Her life might look perfect from the outside, but making things look better than they are is just how Kate copes. Her mother, Jean, worries about her - but she has her own problems. A mystery from the past has come back to haunt her, and she decides now is the time to put the pieces together.

When romance makes an appearance in both their lives, can mother and daughter lay the past to rest - and begin again?

(P) 2021 Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

Release date: September 16, 2021

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 416

Sample

Chapter 1

KATE

Kate thrust her hands deep into the pockets of the battered Barbour jacket that had once been Adam’s. Her face was stinging from the cold and rain, and the wind whipped her hair about her face. A good day for a funeral, she thought.

There was a small, huddled group of mourners gathered in the garden. Her children, Max and Emmie, faces serious underneath their rain hoods. Fergus, her neighbour, his wife Natalie, and their son James. They all looked solemn, or maybe just cold.

Kate saw her mother walking towards her across the communal garden; a neat, purposeful figure wearing an old mac and clutching an enormous black umbrella. The wind caught it and dragged Jean along, so that she hopped the last few steps towards Kate.

‘Bloody thing,’ said Jean, wrestling the umbrella into submission. ‘How are you, darling?’

‘Hi, Mum,’ Kate said, ducking to kiss Jean’s wet cheek. She was a full head taller than her mother. As always, Jean smelled of Elizabeth Arden perfume and soap.

‘Appropriate weather for a funeral, at any rate,’ Jean said, waving to the children. ‘We do seem to be making a habit of this, don’t we?’

Kate shivered. To lose your father and husband in the space of two years was no ordinary bad luck. It was a special, uniquely brutal sort of bad luck. And then, yesterday, Emmie had found Hamish the hamster, cold and stiff in his cage.

It wouldn’t be Christmas without a death in the family, Kate thought grimly. Emmie was clutching the damp shoebox with Hamish’s body inside.

‘How are the kids holding up?’ Jean asked.

‘Not too bad,’ said Kate. ‘Considering . . . everything.’

Jean squeezed her arm. ‘They’re tough nuts, both of them. They get that from you. Alice and I are both softies.’

Kate remembered the shock, somewhere in her self-absorbed teens, of realising that her mother was beautiful. Before that, she had always just been Mum. Jean and her sister Alice were both dainty, dark-haired, elfin; all soft curves, small wrists, dimples and rosy cheeks. Kate was tall and blonde, like her father Gerard, and had inherited his thick, dark brows and long limbs.

The only thing she had inherited from her mother was her temper. Jean’s rages, like sudden squalls on a sunny day, were legendary in their family, but they seemed to have petered out with age. ‘I got sick of being so angry all the time,’ Jean had told Kate once. ‘Life is hard enough.’

Fergus stepped forward. He was a tall man with a comforting presence who was paid huge sums of money to give motivational speeches to companies. The funeral had been his idea, so Kate had asked him to officiate. ‘Your funeral,’ she had told him when he groaned. ‘Besides, you know you love making a speech.’

‘If everyone is here now,’ Fergus said, ‘I thought we might begin.’

Kate nodded, stamping her feet. Make it snappy, she thought. This was the sort of cold, driving wet rain which Edinburgh specialised in at this time of year. Only yesterday, the garden had been filled with crisp, clear winter sunshine.

The first day of December. On this day one year ago, Kate had got the Call, her phone buzzing in her jeans pocket as she had cycled through the Meadows.

And the year before that, only a few days later, Jean had rung, telling her that her dad had been rushed into hospital.

Christmas was cursed in this family, Kate thought.

‘We are here,’ Fergus said, in sonorous tones, ‘to lay to rest Hamish the hamster. Max, would you like to say a few words?’

Max pushed his rain-splattered glasses further up his nose. He had volunteered to speak, which had pleased Kate as he had become uncharacteristically shy since starting school.

‘Hamish was not just a hamster,’ he said. ‘He was a member of our family. For a pet, he was quite low maintenance. We didn’t need to walk him or have him groomed. All we really needed to do was love him.’

Kate felt a wave of guilt. Her first emotion on discovering Hamish’s death had been relief that she would never again have to clear out that revolting cage. She had always wanted a dog, but Adam had put his foot down and Hamish was the compromise.

Emmie came forward, carrying the shoebox. Fergus knelt with her as they laid the box into a freshly dug hole in the ground that was a bit larger than Kate had envisioned. She cast a nervous glance behind her, wondering whether any of the neighbours were watching. She had a feeling that some of them wouldn’t be best pleased with the ceremony, particularly not Mr Watson at number 36, for whom the communal garden was a source of pride.

The earth was laid over the box and neatly patted down with Emmie’s little blue spade.

‘All right everyone, let’s go inside and get warm,’ Kate said. ‘I think we should raise a glass in Hamish’s memory.’

Back inside Kate’s flat, everything felt more cheerful. Wet coats were hung on radiators, filling the air with the smell of damp wool, and boots stacked by the door. Jean ruffled her dark curls.

‘Crisps and wine in the kitchen,’ said Kate, shaking out her own wet hair. It had once been honey-blonde but now, with her roots grown out and grey hairs growing in, it was more of a muddy sort of brown.

‘I have to say,’ said Jean, leading her down the hallway, ‘you are getting very good at wakes.’

‘I should be,’ said Kate, ‘I’ve had a lot of practice.’

Sometimes, when Kate woke in the mornings, there would be a moment when she would forget. That was the worst. The at-once horrible and blissful moment in which you forgot your life had changed at all.

Her father, Gerard Whyte, had died at Christmas two years ago, an infection swiftly curtailing his cancer. And then, on the 1st of December last year, her husband Adam Patterson, thirty-nine years old, had run a red light and been killed instantly.

‘I can’t believe it,’ Kate had told the police. ‘He was such a careful driver.’

Because Adam had been careful. He was all five-year plans and budget projections, while Kate was impulse and snap decisions, last-minute holidays and figure-it-out-later. It was the source of most of their arguments, his forethought running up against her impetuosity, but it had also, Kate thought, made them a team.

Adam had encouraged Kate to leave Domus – the interior design house where she had happily spent a decade working with her adored boss, Madeleine Hawes – to set up her own company. Kate had taken the plunge, rented office space for Whyte Designs, hired a small but brilliant team, and gradually built a client list.

Her clean, minimalist style and ability to transform spaces on a shoestring started to get attention. She began to feature on the front of industry magazines; was asked to speak at conferences; got a few big commissions for local celebrities.

Adam had suggested they sell their tiny flat and buy a bigger one: a sprawling, rundown, four-bedroom flat in Marchmont with a barely functioning boiler and faulty wiring. It would be Kate’s dream project; she could use it to showcase her skills, and then they would sell it for a profit.

Kate had felt uneasy about the idea. ‘I’m worried about the kids, living with all that dust,’ she had said, knowing that wasn’t quite the problem but unsure what was. ‘Plus, we can’t afford a four-bed flat in Marchmont, even in this state.’

But Adam had been confident. ‘If it gets really bad, we’ll rent somewhere for a few months,’ he had said. ‘Stop worrying.’

When Adam told you there was nothing to worry about, you believed him.

They had sold their flat, put most of their stuff in storage, moved in. And then a week later, Adam had died, and it turned out that their savings, the stocks and shares and bonds that Kate had never bothered to understand, didn’t actually exist. The problem with being a vague, creative type married to a financial wizard, Kate realised, is that you don’t know to look behind the curtain.

She had let her team go, with a month’s pay and no explanations. It was a dark secret Kate had carried alone this past year. She couldn’t bear the thought of telling Jean or Alice.

And now there they were, her and Max and Emmie, in purgatory. She could neither afford to do the flat up nor sell it. Instead, they waited – in a flat with holes in the walls and dust on the floor, picking their way over cables and brushing their teeth with water the colour of weak tea.

Kate had come to hate the flat: the mess, the bills stacking up, the clouds of dust that would rise up whenever she sat down on the sofa. Once she would have rolled her sleeves up and got stuck in, made the best of the situation, but now she felt paralysed by the immensity of the task.

Now, Kate stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching Fergus doing a magic trick with a napkin and a fork for the kids, Nat rolling her eyes and pouring wine. A funeral for Hamish was exactly the sort of whimsy that Adam would have hated. But Emmie and Max were laughing now, for the first time in days. The miserable flat seemed warmer and cosier, full of people. Fergus always knew best.

He and Nat had started as playground acquaintances but had swiftly become her best friends, particularly in the last few years. They had a knack of checking in without being irritating or invasive.

‘Now you see it,’ said Fergus, holding the napkin steady. He waited a beat, then whipped it away. ‘Now you don’t.’

Emmie shrieked and clapped. ‘Again,’ she said. ‘I want to see how you did it.’

‘It’s magic,’ said Fergus mysteriously. ‘Appearances can be deceptive.’

A lump swelled in Kate’s throat. Suddenly the dusty kitchen – full of her best friends and her children, drinking, talking and laughing – felt claustrophobic. That was the thing about grief: half the time it came out of nowhere and knocked you off your feet.

She slipped unnoticed out of the kitchen and went into the bathroom. There was no lock on the door, but she propped a stool underneath it and sat on the toilet seat, head in hands, breathing through the pain, trying to slow her racing heart. What a mess she had made of things, she thought. Or rather, what a mess she and Adam had made between them.

Another Christmas, looming on the horizon. Like a ticking clock, waiting, with none of the joy and warmth the day should offer.

Her father had died on Christmas Eve. The next day had been a nightmare. Exhausted from a night in the hospital, trying to explain death to the children, that Grandpa wasn’t going to be here anymore. Jean, pale and stoic. Plastering on a smile for hastily wrapped presents and cooking a lunch none of them could eat.

And then last Christmas, only weeks after Adam’s death. All of them still stunned, the children pale and irritable, quick to tantrums and tears. Max sobbing because Kate had bought the wrong Lego set. A mockery of Christmas, tainted forever with grief and confusion.

The children had fallen asleep on the sofa in front of the television and Kate had carried them to bed. ‘Is this Christmas?’ Max had asked sleepily.

She would do things differently this year. She had to.

There was a knock on the door. One of the kids, needing the toilet.

‘Come in,’ called Kate, stretching out her leg and kicking the stool away.

It wasn’t one of the kids; it was Nat, holding two glasses of wine. ‘Are you okay?’ she said, coming in and shutting the door behind her.

‘I’m okay,’ Kate said, straightening up and pushing back her hair. ‘It just hits me sometimes; how strange it is that we’re living our lives without him. This pet funeral is the sort of thing that Adam would have hated. His mum used to flush their goldfish down the toilet.’ She gave a shaky laugh. ‘I’m worried about Christmas. Last year was so shit. I wish Adam was here to talk to about stuff.’

Nat perched on the edge of the bath and handed Kate a glass of wine. ‘Is there anything I can help with?’ she said. ‘You can talk to me about stuff, you know.’

‘I know,’ said Kate. Her fear was becoming the sort of whingeing, clinging friend Nat and Fergus would dread being around. ‘It’s just the usual stuff: Max finding it hard to make friends and Emmie stuck with bloody Lydia.’

On the first day of primary school, a small, determined girl called Lydia had approached Emmie and told her that they were ‘best friends forever’. They’d been stuck with her ever since. She ruled Emmie’s life with an iron fist, dictating everything from what Emmie was allowed to eat at lunch to who she was allowed to speak to during the day. Kate didn’t think the friendship made Emmie happy, and she didn’t think the teacher liked it much either, but there wasn’t much she could do about it except grit her teeth and hope it fizzled out.

‘It’s a lot to deal with on your own,’ said Nat sympathetically.

‘It’s been a year,’ said Kate. ‘I can’t be a helpless widow for ever. I need to—’

There was another knock on the door. Kate sighed. ‘Come in,’ she called, resignedly.

It was Jean, looking flushed and holding a near-empty glass of wine. Her mother had a low tolerance for alcohol. ‘Emmie is looking pale,’ she said, without preamble. ‘Is she getting enough vitamin D? We only see the sun about once a year in this country.’ She sat on the side of the bath alongside Nat and fixed Kate with her candid, grey-eyed stare. ‘Are you all right, sweetheart?’

The tenderness in her voice brought the lump back to Kate’s throat. She could feel the tears starting. ‘I miss Adam,’ wailed Kate, slumping forward into Jean’s lap.

Kate heard Jean murmur to Nat, ‘I’ve got this now, love,’ and then the sound of the door shutting behind her friend.

They sat in silence for a while, while Jean stroked Kate’s hair and Kate wept noiselessly. ‘I’m making your trousers all wet,’ she said at last.

‘That doesn’t matter,’ Jean said soothingly. She leant over and tore off a handful of toilet paper. ‘Here.’

Kate sat up and mopped at her eyes. ‘I just hate this time of year. It’s so . . . relentlessly jolly. School fetes and the PTA and happy families getting their Christmas trees. I’m a mess. I can’t even face school pickup. Fergus gets the kids every afternoon. The last time I got them, the teacher did a double take.’ She took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I hate Christmas.’

‘You can’t hate Christmas,’ said Jean, sounding shocked. ‘It was always our favourite time of year.’

‘I do,’ Kate insisted stubbornly. ‘First Dad, then Adam, and now Hamish. This family has a . . . a Christmas curse.’

‘Enough of that,’ said Jean firmly. ‘You know,’ she said, eyeing Kate speculatively, ‘you could consider coming to grief group with me.’

‘Not that again,’ said Kate. ‘It’s never going to happen. I hate joining things.’

Kate had been pleased when Jean had started going out again after her father’s death, but now the sheer volume of activities, along with the roster of new friends, was making Kate dizzy. There was tennis on a Monday and ceramics on a Tuesday and a patisserie course on a Wednesday. She had started making sourdough and jam and had bought a set of calligraphy pens.

It made Kate wonder how much it was a front for unresolved grief. The flat in which they’d grown up remained exactly the same, as though her father had merely popped out to get milk. His shirts hanging in the wardrobe, his paperwork stacked and neatly filed in his old roll-top desk, his reading glasses and the book he’d been reading open on his bedside table along with his beloved, battered wristwatch. It wasn’t healthy.

Then, last year, Jean had announced she’d been attending a group for the bereaved. ‘Like a book group, but with more crying,’ she had said. ‘You should come along, Kate.’ It sounded like Kate’s idea of hell.

‘They’re a lovely bunch of people,’ Jean said now. ‘I think you might find it helpful. Ada thinks so.’

Ada was the organiser of the grief group and seemed to have a lot of opinions. Kate had never met her, but was deeply mistrustful of her.

Kate shook her head. ‘Couldn’t even if I wanted to. No babysitter,’ she said.

‘Fergus and Nat have said they’ll help,’ said Jean.

Kate narrowed her eyes. ‘You’ve mentioned it to them?’

‘Come on, darling,’ said Jean. ‘You need to . . . buck up a bit. You can’t write off this time of year – think of the children. Give them a Christmas to remember.’

‘You’re one to talk,’ said Kate sullenly. ‘You’re living in a shrine to Dad. How many times have I offered to help you sort through his stuff?’ Jean was silent. ‘Tell you what,’ said Kate, inspiration striking. ‘I’ll make you a deal. You go through Dad’s things and clear them out, and I’ll come to this grief group.’

Jean looked uncertain. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘It’s been two years, Mum. You need to face up to it,’ said Kate firmly. If Jean could dish out tough love, then so could she. She held out her hand to Jean. ‘Do we have a deal?’

‘All right,’ said Jean slowly, putting her hand in Kate’s. Kate noted the contrast between her mother’s elegant oval nails, painted a soft pink, and her own square, bitten ones. ‘Deal.’

 

‘I can’t believe you sold me out,’ Kate said, following Nat, Fergus and James down the hall. The wake was over. She took James’s jacket from the peg and helped him into it. ‘The last thing I want to do is go to this group. Can you imagine? Everyone sitting there, crying . . .’

Nat smiled at her, tugging on her hat. ‘Sorry. Actually, I’m not sorry. You’re awesome. I want you to be happy, or at least a bit happier. This might help.’

Nat was a bit like a terrier, Kate had always thought. If she decided you were worth bothering with, you had a friend for life.

Nat was a lecturer in feminist theory at the university, had a regular column in the Herald, and was always. . .