Free The Lake House by Kate Morton Page B

head when he was still a boy, telling him stories about the fine weather in the west, the glorious gardens, the salt and the sea and the rich folklore. “The time just never came,” he’d told Sadie sadly some weeks after the funeral. “You always presume there’s time ahead, until one day you realise there isn’t.” When Sadie had asked him whether he’d miss London, he’d shrugged and said that of course he would, it was his home, the place he’d been born and grown up, where he’d met his wife and raised his family. “But it’s the past, Sadie, love; I’ll carry that with me wherever I go. Doing something new, though, something that Ruth and I talked about—in some way it feels like I’m giving her a future, too.”
    Sadie was aware, suddenly, of footfalls on the landing, a knock at the door. Quickly, she hid the envelope behind her pillow. “Come in.”
    The door opened and Bertie was there, cake tin in hand.
    She smiled too broadly, her heart racing as if she were guilty of an indiscretion. “Found what you were looking for?”
    â€œThe very thing. I’m going to bake tomorrow, one of my signature pear cakes.” He frowned lightly. “Though it occurs to me I haven’t any pears.”
    â€œI’m no expert, but I’m guessing that could be a problem.”
    â€œI don’t suppose you’d pick some up for me in the village tomorrow morning?”
    â€œWell, I’ll have to check my diary . . .”
    Bertie laughed. “Thanks, Sadie, love.”
    He lingered in such a way that Sadie knew he had more to say. Sure enough: “I found something else while I was up there.” He reached inside the tin and took out a dog-eared book, holding it up so she could see the cover. “Good as new, eh?”
    Sadie recognised it at once. It was like opening the door unexpectedly to an old friend, the sort who’d been along for the ride during an especially difficult and bruising period. She couldn’t believe Bertie and Ruth had kept it. Hard to imagine now, the prominence the book of brainteasers had had in her life back then, when she’d first come to live with them. She’d cloistered herself away in the spare bedroom at her grandparents’ house, the little room above the shop that Ruth had done up specially for her, and she’d worked through the whole thing, page by page, front to back, her commitment verging on the religious.
    â€œGot them all out, didn’t you?” Bertie said. “Every puzzle.”
    Sadie was touched by the pride in his voice. “I did.”
    â€œDidn’t even need to look at the answers.”
    â€œCertainly not.” She eyed the rough edges at the back where she’d torn out the solutions so she wouldn’t, couldn’t, be tempted. It had been very important to her, that. Her answers must be her own, her achievements clean and absolute, above suspicion. She’d been trying to prove something, of course. That she wasn’t stupid or hopeless or “a bad egg’, no matter what her parents might think. That problems, no matter how big, could be solved; that a great wave could crash and the fishermen survive. “Ruth bought it for me.”
    â€œThat she did.”
    It had been the perfect gift at the perfect time, though Sadie suspected she’d been less than grateful. She couldn’t remember what she’d said when her grandmother gave it to her. Probably nothing; she hadn’t been particularly communicative back then. A sixteen-year-old knot of insolence and monosyllabic disdain for everyone and everything, including (especially) these unknown relatives who’d swept in to rescue her. “I wonder how she knew?”
    â€œShe was good like that, kind and clever. She saw people, even when they did their best to hide.” Bertie smiled and they both pretended talk of Ruth hadn’t made his